Season 1

The "chocolate soufflé" truce lasted exactly twelve hours.

The next morning, I woke up not to the silence of a neglected wing, but to the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of heavy boots outside my door. When I opened it, blinking against the intrusive morning sun, I found two hulking guards stationed there like gargoyles.

"The Duke’s orders, Your Grace," the taller one said, not looking me in the eye. "Safety precautions."

"Safety from what?" I asked. "The dust bunnies?"

"Safety from everything."

My stomach did a nervous little flip. In the novel, Cassian’s obsession with Lilian had been a distant, cold thing—he had stalked her from the shadows, burned down buildings she visited, and sent her anonymous, threatening gifts. It was a destructive, externalized madness.

But this? This was localized.

I headed down to the dining hall, determined to keep the "spoiling" momentum going. If he was getting possessive, I needed to ensure he associated that possession with warmth and comfort, not the iron-fisted control he exerted over his subordinates.

Cassian was already at the head of the table, stripped of his formal coat, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension. He was stabbing a piece of steak with more aggression than necessary.

"Good morning," I said brightly, sliding into the seat directly to his right instead of the miles-long distance at the other end of the table.

He froze. The steak was forgotten. "You’re late."

"I was sleeping. It’s a hobby of mine." I reached over and, without asking, swapped his black coffee for a cup of steaming milk tea I’d brought with me. "Try this. It has lavender. It’s for your nerves."

Cassian stared at the tea, then at me. "My nerves are made of steel, Evelyn."

"Steel snaps under pressure," I countered, buttering a piece of toast for him. "Willow bends. Be a willow for five minutes and eat your toast."

I held the golden-brown slice out to him. It was a ridiculous gesture—a Duchess feeding a man known as the Butcher. The servants in the corners of the room collectively held their breath, likely expecting my hand to be severed.

Cassian’s eyes dropped to my fingers. He didn't take the toast. Instead, he leaned in, his teeth grazing the edge of the bread as he took a bite directly from my hand. His eyes stayed locked on mine the entire time, dark and unreadable.

"Too sweet," he mumbled, though he didn't pull away.

"You’re just not used to things that don't taste like ashes," I said, my heart drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I needed to break the tension. "I heard about the guards at my door. Are we expecting an invasion?"

Cassian swallowed, his gaze dropping to my throat. "You were at the gala. You saw how the Marquis of Vane looked at you."

"The Marquis? He’s sixty and has a gout problem."

"He looked at you," Cassian repeated, his voice dropping to that dangerous, gravelly register. "Everyone looked at you. You weren't a shadow anymore. You were... irritatingly bright."

He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray crumb from the corner of my mouth. The touch wasn't fleeting this time. His thumb lingered, pressing slightly against my lower lip, a claim being staked in real-time.

"I spent years ignoring you because you were a ghost," he whispered. "But ghosts don't give me tea. Ghosts don't tell me I have nice hands. If you’re going to be real, Evelyn, you have to understand the consequences."

"And what are they?" I whispered back, caught in the gravity of him.

"I don't share my belongings," he said, his hand moving to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. "Not with the Marquis, not with the Crown Prince, and certainly not with the world. You wanted me to stop looking at Lady Lilian? Fine. I’ve stopped. But now I have nowhere else to put my eyes."

The air in the room felt thick, charged with a static that made my skin tingle. This wasn't the slow burn of a romance novel; it was the slow crawl of a predator deciding whether to play with his prey or keep it in a gilded cage.

"Then look at me," I challenged, my voice braver than I felt. "But look at me as your wife, Cassian. Not your prisoner."

His lips curved—not a sneer, but something closer to a predatory smirk. "We’ll see if there’s a difference."

He stood abruptly, his hand sliding from my neck, leaving a trail of heat behind. "I have meetings. Stay in the manor. I’ve ordered the gardens cleared so you can walk without... distractions."

As he strode out, his cape billowing behind him, I looked down at my shaking hands. I had succeeded in breaking his obsession with the heroine. But in the process, I had turned the villain’s gaze entirely on myself.

I had three years until his scheduled execution. I wondered, as I took a shaky sip of his discarded tea, if I’d even make it to the end of the month before he decided to lock the doors and throw away the key.

I needed to increase the "kindness" dosage. Or perhaps, I realized with a flush of heat, I was already becoming addicted to the danger.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***