Isolde woke with a headache and an unbearable craving clawing at her insides. She needed it. Now.
Throwing off the sheets, she stumbled toward the dresser, yanking open drawers and tossing their contents to the floor. Nothing. The closet, the bedside table—still nothing.
Her fingers curled into fists. Where the hell were her drugs?
Panic twisted inside her. The emptiness gnawed at her, unbearable, a void she couldn't escape. She had left them here. Hadn't she?
Her search became more frantic—pillows tossed, blankets shredded from the bed, every corner of the room ransacked. Even her gun was gone.
That realization made her go still.
Cassian.
He had done this.
Her blood ran hot with fury as she stormed through the halls, bare feet silent against the cold marble.
When she reached his room, she didn't bother knocking. She shoved the door open, eyes wild, only to find the bed empty.
The sound of trickling water made her turn.
The bathroom.
She pushed open the door.
Steam curled lazily in the air, the scent of soap thick around her. And there he was—Cassian, sprawled in the bathtub, one arm draped over the rim, watching her through lidded eyes.
Naked.
Nakedness be damned.
Isolde clenched her jaw. "My drugs."
Cassian didn't move, just smirked. "And what about them?"
"My drugs, Cassian. Where are they?"
He lifted a brow. "You take drugs? How the hell am I supposed to know where they are?" He stretched, muscles shifting beneath the soap suds clinging to his chest. "You left me with them?"
Her patience snapped. "My drugs—or you'll see my half-sister."
A sharp glint flickered in his eyes. He sat up slightly, water sloshing.
"That supposed to scare me?"
Isolde's nails bit into her palms. "You don't want to test me right now."
Cassian leaned forward, amusement curving his lips. "Oh, but I do."
Her pulse pounded at her temples. If she could just get anything to smash his head right now, she would.
Exhaling sharply, she changed tactics. "Since I can't have my drugs...fine. I want to cook."
Cassian tilted his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. "You sure you don't want to join me instead?"
He spread his arms along the rim of the bathtub, utterly unbothered by his own nakedness. Water trickled down his chest, soap suds clinging to the sharp lines of muscle.
Her fingers twitched. "My drugs, Cassian."
He exhaled a long, dramatic sigh. "You keep saying that like I'm just going to hand them over." His eyes flicked over her, sharp and knowing. "But I think we both know that's not what you really need right now."
"Don't," she warned.
"Don't what? Tell the truth?"
She gritted her teeth. "I swear, if you don't give me what I need—"
"You'll what?" He arched a brow. "Storm in here again? Try to fight me when we both know you don't have the strength right now?"
Damn him.
He was right, and that made her hate him.
He studied her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. A hesitation—a split second of something that wasn't amusement. But then it was gone, replaced by his ever-present smugness.
"Come here."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
Cassian leaned forward, water sloshing. "Get in, Isolde."
Her stomach twisted. "Why the hell would I do that?"
"Because you're burning up. And if you're not getting your fix, you need something else to stop yourself from going insane."
She should say no.
She should turn around and leave.
But she didn't.
Because the truth—the awful, infuriating truth—was that Cassian was right.
And she was already reaching for his hand.
The water was cool against her burning skin as she stepped in, her soaked pajamas clinging to her like a second skin.
His pajamas.
She had plenty of her own, yet somehow, she always ended up in his. Maybe it was the way his scent lingered on the fabric—faint but undeniable.
He shifted behind her, arms coming around her, his fingers slipping into her damp hair.
She frowned. "What are you doing?"
Cassian hummed low in his throat. "Relax. I can't have a bird's nest in my face."
She huffed but didn't pull away.
For a moment, there was silence. Only the faint trickle of water, the slow drag of his fingers against her scalp.
It was...almost peaceful.
And that was dangerous.
The tension crackled between them, thick and suffocating. Isolde straddled Cassian, her soaked clothes clinging to her skin, outlining every curve.
Water dripped down her arms, rolling off her bare shoulders as she kept her hands braced against his chest.
Cassian leaned back, watching her with dark amusement, his green eyes glinting like a predator biding its time.
His wet hands skimmed down her sides, slow and teasing, fingers barely grazing her skin yet leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
Her breath hitched.
She should move. Should pull away. Should not be indulging this when there was still so much between them—unspoken, dangerous.
But Cassian wasn't looking away. He was watching her. Studying. Calculating.
And then—
His lips curled.
"Something wrong, sweetheart?" His voice was velvet and smoke, rich with amusement and something darker beneath.
Isolde's grip on his chest tightened.
Wrong? Everything was wrong. The way he touched her. The way she let him.
The way her body responded, hunger pooling low in her stomach, replacing the craving she had stormed in here for.
His fingers trailed lower, brushing the slick fabric clinging to her waist. "You're awfully quiet now," he murmured.
Her pulse pounded at her temples. "Shut up, Cassian."
His smirk deepened. "Make me."
Her nails dug into his shoulders. She could do it—lean down, claim his mouth, silence that infuriating voice with something far more dangerous.
Instead, she exhaled sharply, releasing him before she did something reckless.
She pulled her soaked pajama top over her head and tossed it aside, watching as his expression flickered—just for a moment.
His gaze dragged over her bare skin, pupils dilating ever so slightly.
"Just a little job not to get breast cancer," she muttered, arching a brow.
Cassian chuckled, his hands skimming the water before rising to trace the curve of her ribs.
"This is consensual, isn't it?" His voice was thick with amusement, but something in it had changed—just a fraction.
Her fingers curled. Nails biting into her palms.
"But nice tits there, wifey," he added lazily, smirking.
That was it.
With a slow, wicked smile, Isolde pressed both hands against his shoulders—
And shoved him under the water.
Cassian's laughter turned into a muffled sound beneath the surface as she held him there, watching the ripples spread.
Let him choke on it.
Let him know that if he wanted to play, she would play too.
But neither of them would leave this unscathed.
Isolde's grip tightened, her fingers digging into Cassian's shoulders as she pushed him deeper beneath the water.
His initial struggle was playful, cocky—like he thought she was still teasing. But as the seconds dragged on, that amusement faded.
His hands shot up, gripping her wrists, but she didn't relent.
Bubbles rose to the surface. His body thrashed beneath her.
Still, she didn't let go.
A sick, twisted part of her relished the sight—his cocky, ever-smirking face contorted in panic, those sharp green eyes wide with something close to fear.
He deserved this.
For taking her drugs. For playing with her. For thinking he could control her.
Her pulse pounded at her temples. Heat coiled inside her, a dark thrill licking at her veins.
Then—his body jerked.
The fight left him. His hands, once clawing at her, went slack. The ripples slowed.
Cassian went still.
Only then did she let go.
His body floated up, head lolling to the side, lips parted slightly. His chest didn't rise.
For a split second, something cold gripped her stomach.
She leaned forward, fingers pressing against his neck. A pulse—faint but there.
She exhaled sharply, pushing herself out of the tub.
Snatching the towel off the rack, she wrapped it around herself and strode to the door. Without sparing a glance back at the unconscious man in the bathtub, she called the doctor.
"Come to the house," she said, voice smooth despite the lingering adrenaline. "Cassian had an accident."
She hung up before the doctor could ask questions.
Then, she turned to his suitcase.
Cassian was careful—always—but not careful enough. She found the key tucked inside his jacket pocket and flipped open the suitcase with ease.
Stacks of crisp bills greeted her.
A slow smirk curved her lips.
She plucked a few stacks, stuffing them into the pocket of her still-damp pajama pants before grabbing the car keys from the nightstand.
By the time the doctor arrived, Isolde was already backing Cassian's sleek black car out of the driveway, her mind set on one thing.
Her fix.