When The Last Ember Falls

Twenty-Eight

Nesta:

"I'll be home late, again," Cassian muttered, sweeping his rough lips against my cheek. In three strides he made it to the front door, releasing a frustrated sigh when he heard me drop the spatula. The Illyrian leathers stretched across his defined muscles as he glanced back, "I'm sorry."

My fingers clenched around the cast-iron handle, I raised my chin, "when will you be ?"

Cassian's lips formed a flat line, his apologetic eyes flashing to mine before shutting the door. He didn't know. He never knew. The sun barely rose above the horizon and he was leaving again.

He claimed there were ongoing issues with his troops, a rebellion on the rise. It was either that excuse or needing to spend more time training the Illyrian women or protecting the small storefronts from rebels. Sometimes I wondered if it was a particular woman that held his attention. Emerie, perhaps.

Pushing my suspicious thoughts away, I dropped the cast-iron in the sink. I knew he at least wasn't avoiding my cooking, I had improved over time. Sometimes I wondered if he was running away from this, us. Maybe it was all too much for him after all.

A pebble hit the kitchen window, distracting me from my downward spiral. I peered up, seeing nothing in the sky but weighted, gray clouds. Another pebble hit the door, maybe a storm was rolling through? It was darker than usual, colder for this time of year.

The door flung open, I jumped as the wood smacked against the wall. Cassian stood on the threshold, his nostrils flaring as his jaw tightened. The red siphons on his hands flickered to life.

"What? What is it?"

He said nothing as he studied the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. Cassian must have realized whatever or whoever he was looking for wasn't here. Drifting closer, his scowl deepened as he pinned me against the cabinets. "I thought I smelled..."

"Eggs?" I answered, glancing to the yellow scrambled bits in the sink then back at the warrior before me. I arched a brow, waiting for him to say it. Who was he looking for? Who did he think was coming for me? Ronan? A certain High Lord? He was more worried of who else might be here than when he would be home next. Typical.

"Nothing," he breathed, tilting his ear towards the bedroom like he heard someone. Cassian lowered his lips to my throat, "my mate," he growled, licking the bruise on my neck from the day before.

Gripping the counter, I replied, "I thought you had to go." My knees began to shake, the urge to stand my ground suddenly disappeared.

"I do," he mumbled, his chapped lips drifted across my flesh as he pressed his bulge into my abdomen. He lifted me up on the counter, pulling me to the very edge. Pushing my nightgown up to my hips, his hands tore my maroon lingerie to pieces.

I gasped as he drove his length inside me. Amren was right, Illyrian men either fight or fuck their pain away. That's exactly what Cassian did. After training all day, he would crawl into bed next to me and make love or war.

Clawing at his scaled leathers, I wanted to shred them off. I wanted to feel his body against mine, I wanted to feel something. Warmth in particular, since it felt like my own fire had been extinguished for some time now.

"The kitchen counter, how overdone," I sneered while pulling on his locks of dark hair so he would look at me. I needed to see his eyes, maybe then I would find the man that still loved me. He was in there, he had to be.

I needed the Illyrian who fought the cauldron for me, who pestered me endlessly. I needed the warrior who killed and still felt regret at the end of the day. Where are you? Where did you go?