BLOOD IN SILK

The first thing Alina noticed next day, when she woke up was the silence.

Not the silence of peace—but the kind that came before something awful.

Her wrists ached. Silk rope. Tight. Not painful, but deliberate. She blinked against the dim light, her eyes adjusting to the cold glow of a hanging bulb overhead. A warehouse, maybe. Cement walls. No windows.

Then she saw him again.

Cassian Vale stood across the room, leaning against a table, arms crossed. Watching her. His dark eyes were unreadable. Like glass that refused to crack.

"You're awake," he said.

Alina's throat was dry, but her voice held sharp edges. "why don't you just kill me?"

"You're quick," he replied, calmly. "Must be all that senator blood."

She sat up slowly, her body stiff, but her stare never left his. "You were supposed to kill me."

Cassian didn't move. "You ask a lot of questions for someone tied to a chair."

"And you play god for someone who takes orders from others."

A flicker crossed his face. Barely there. But Alina saw it.

He walked toward her, his boots echoing on the floor. Each step calculated. Intimidating. But she didn't flinch. Not even when he crouched in front of her, bringing their eyes level.

"You think this is a game?" he asked quietly. "You think I wanted this?"

"No," she hissed. "You wanted me dead."

Cassian stared at her, jaw tense. Then he stood, walked away, paced. Something in him was unraveling—but too slowly to see clearly.

"You said something," he murmured, almost to himself. "That night… before I grabbed you. Something I've heard before."

She frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't know yet," he admitted. "That's the problem."

Alina's heart thudded. "You're not making sense."

He turned suddenly, eyes sharp. "Neither are you. You think you know your father? You don't. You're just a pawn in someone else's game, Alina."

"No," she said through gritted teeth. "I saw what he did. I heard everything. You think I'd be stupid enough to challenge him without proof?"

Cassian studied her. "Then why announce it on the night of your engagement? Were you hoping to die a public martyr?"

"I was hoping the truth would matter."

He laughed bitterly. "The truth?" He walked back to her, leaned in. "The truth got my mother killed. Got my brother buried in a ditch outside Boston. Truth doesn't matter. Power does."

There it was. A glimpse beneath the surface.

"You're scared," she said softly. "You remember something, don't you? About me."

His stare darkened. "Don't push me, Alina."

"Then untie me. Let's see how brave you are when I'm not bound to a chair."

He didn't answer right away. Just stared at her like he was trying to decide if she was a threat or a ghost.

Then, slowly, Cassian pulled a knife from his belt.

Her breath caught—but he didn't raise it. He leaned down and cut the rope from her wrists. The blade was cold, fast, surgical. Then he stepped back.

"You try to run, I will catch you. And next time, I won't hesitate."

She rubbed her wrists, her voice low. "And yet you did."

Cassian didn't respond. He turned and walked away, disappearing through the door and locking it behind him.

The silence returned—but this time, it wasn't empty.

It was full of questions.

And heat.