The board wanted Riven out.
Not with words—but with whispers, with lingering stares, with unspoken threats. Cassian saw it in every smirk, every condescending glance they cast his lover's way.
Riven had sat beside him at the gala, his hand warm on Cassian's thigh, his laughter too bright to be tolerated by the men who believed love was weakness.
And Cassian?
He didn't just notice.
He remembered.
Every insult. Every attempt to push Riven into the shadows.
So when they returned home that night, Cassian poured a drink, turned to Riven, and said in a low voice, "You'll never sit behind me. You'll always be beside me."
Riven's breath caught. "Even if they want me gone?"
"I'll burn them."
The words lit something in Riven—something wild and raw. He stalked across the room and straddled Cassian's lap, knocking the drink from his hand.
"You keep saying things like that," Riven said, breath hot against Cassian's cheek, "and I'll start believing I matter more than your empire."
Cassian gripped his waist, dragged him closer. "You do."
Then their mouths met—urgent, searing, hungry.
Cassian flipped them onto the couch. Buttons flew. Clothes torn. Riven's shirt ended up in the fireplace. Cassian didn't stop him.
The room glowed with firelight, matching the heat between them.
Cassian spread Riven out over the plush couch—naked, flushed, glorious.
He kissed him like a man claiming territory.
Bit him like he'd lose control.
And when he took him, slow at first, then hard enough to shake the frame beneath them, he whispered all the things he couldn't say in daylight:
You belong to me. I'd kill for you. I'd die for you. I'd burn it all if it meant keeping you safe.
Riven wrapped his legs around him tighter. "Then prove it."
Cassian thrust deeper. "I am."
Their cries echoed off high ceilings, mixing with the crackle of the fire.
Later, when they lay tangled together—sweaty, spent, still burning—Cassian kissed Riven's temple and murmured,
"They'll never touch you. Not while I breathe."