Chapter 63: Agreement

CASSIAN

I dragged Cyan toward the private room with the same level of ceremony I’d use to haul a bag of trash to the curb. He was still vibrating with that manic, neon energy, his pink hair a blur in my peripheral vision as he chattered away, completely unbothered by the fact that I was nearly dislocating his shoulder.

The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut, isolating us from the boutique and my wide-eyed, traumatized assistant, Cyan exploded.

“Who is he, Cassie?! Oh my God, where did you find him? He’s like a little porcelain doll! Does he break easily? I bet he does. There’s something going on there, isn’t there? I can smell the tension from here, and it smells like repressed Catholic guilt and expensive cologne!”

I leaned back against the door, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn’t even blink. “Mind your damn business, Cyan.”

He let out a gasp that would have been more appropriate for a Victorian lady witnessing a murder. He threw himself onto a velvet chaise longue, draping a hand over his forehead.

“Ugh! You’re always so mean to me! You’re not cute at all! Why do I even like you? I should have let those guys in Block C turn you into a shiv-pin cushion.”

“I don’t care,” I said, my voice flat and detached. I let a ghost of a smirk play on my lips, not because I was happy, but because watching Cyan spiral was one of the few things that still offered a modicum of entertainment. It was familiar. It was predictable.

Cyan settled down, his breathing evening out as he looked me over with a sudden, sharp clarity. The circus act receded, replaced by the man who had survived in a high-security facility by being faster and smarter than everyone else.

“So,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “How have you been, really?”

I looked at my reflection in the polished gold trim of a nearby mirror. My shirt was unbuttoned, my tie was gone, and I looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a week. “What do you think?”

Cyan let out a short, bark-like laugh. “I think it’s hilarious. You? A CEO? Someone with a temper like a gasoline fire? That is so off-brand, Cassie. I mean, you literally ran that prison. You were the king of the yard, and now I’m seeing you in a three-piece suit doing corporate bullshit? It’s almost unbelievable. Who would’ve thought someone like you could become a CEO without burning down the entire building or sending a few board members to the ICU?”

He stood up, pacing the small room with feline grace. “I still remember when they transferred you in. The rumors from your old facility had arrived three days before you did. They said you beat up an entire block of prisoners using nothing but a lead pipe you ripped out of the wall. The guards were terrified. The inmates were even worse.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. That version of me, the one who moved through the world with a lead pipe and a heart full of broken glass, wasn’t dead. He was just wearing a better watch.

“Remember when those guys tried you in the yard?” Cyan continued, his eyes glowing with a nostalgic, twisted light. “Four of them. All twice your size. You didn’t even flinch. You didn’t even look like you were trying. You just… destroyed them. It was like watching a surgeon work with a sledgehammer.”

“That was then,” I said, my voice a low warning. “This is now.”

“Is it?” Cyan tilted his head. “Because I know you’re not just in Spain for ’CEO stuff,’ Cassie. You don’t take vacations, and you certainly don’t do ’site inspections’ unless there’s blood in the water.”

I pushed off the door, stepping into the center of the room. The air between us sharpened. “I’ve heard there are operations here. Connected to the Lorenzo family. My investigator, Reid, traced movements through the ports. And I received a… gift… recently. Antonio Lopez. Delivered by the Morettis.”

Cyan’s playfulness vanished entirely. He nodded, his expression turning grim. He was the first person I ever felt comfortable enough to share my past with and probably the last.

He knew the names. He knew the stakes.

Behind the pink hair and the dildo collections, Cyan King was the son of a family that had its fingers in every dirty pie in Europe.

“So the Lorenzos know you’re out,” Cyan mused. “They know you’re coming for them. They’re going to make a move soon. They can’t let a Wolf roam free in their territory.”

“They’re going to try,” I corrected. “Which is why I need to make mine first. And I need a little help. Your connections at the docks, Cyan. I need to know what’s coming in, and who’s picking it up.”

Cyan’s eyes widened dramatically. He clutched his cheeks, letting out a tiny, high-pitched squeak. “Oh? What did you just say? Did the great Cassian Wolfe just say he needs me?”

I sighed, the sound echoing my mounting irritation. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” he chirped, batting his eyelashes with an innocence that wouldn’t have fooled a blind man. He stepped closer, his movements becoming fluid and predatory in a different way.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against my chest, and then, before I could stop him, he climbed onto my lap as I sat back in a chair, straddling me with practiced ease.

I didn’t push him off. I sat there, completely unbothered, my hands resting on the arms of the chair. I knew Cyan. I knew this was how he functioned, everything was a transaction of touch and power. We had spent months in a concrete box where skin was the only thing that felt real. This wasn’t new territory.

Cyan held my face gently, his thumbs tracing the line of my jaw. He leaned in close, his breath ghosting over my lips. “Say it again, Cassie. Tell me you need my help. Tell me you can’t do this without your favorite little peacock.”

I stayed silent, my expression unreadable. I wasn’t going to feed his ego, and I certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg.

Cyan grinned, a wicked, knowing look in his eyes. He shifted, grinding against me slightly, testing for a reaction. When he didn’t get one, he leaned in and kissed me. It was a slow, deliberate, teasing kiss, one that tasted like expensive lip balm and old history.

I leaned into it for a moment, the familiar heat of him stirring something primal. But then, right in the middle of the friction, a face flashed in my mind.

Wide, frightened green eyes. A trembling lip. The scent of a Spanish bar and a hint of something sweet.

Noah.

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