The air hung thick with the aroma of dusk—heady jasmine, the tang of storm-slicked stone, and something darker, something unnamed.
Riven stood at the balcony edge of the Crimson Vellum, a secretive lounge buried in the heart of the city's underground elite. Shadows flickered over his skin as lightning carved the sky in the distance. His jaw was tight. His thoughts, tighter.
Cassian had disappeared the night before, returning with the scent of unfamiliar perfume on his collar and guilt in his eyes. He'd brushed it off, but Riven knew better. Cassian always spoke in half-truths when he was protecting something… or someone.
"Waiting for him?" a voice purred behind him.
Riven turned slowly. A woman stepped forward—long silver-blonde waves framing a face carved with elegance and danger. Her eyes were ice and fire all at once. She wore a blood-red gown that clung to every curve as if it were painted on.
"Nyra," she said. "You must be Riven."
He tensed. "And you must be the past he forgot to mention."
She smiled like sin itself. "Oh, darling. He never forgets. He just buries."
She came closer, every step deliberate, a dance of veiled threat and allure. "Cassian and I... we burned bright once. But you… you're something different. You're the storm."
Riven narrowed his gaze. "Is that a warning?"
"It's a compliment," she said, pressing close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her skin. "But storms pass. Ashes remain."
For a breathless moment, silence. Then she leaned in—not to kiss him, but to whisper against his jaw. "He's scared of what he feels for you. Scared enough to run. Maybe… into my arms."
Before Riven could react, she slipped a folded card into his coat pocket and vanished into the velvet-dark corridor like a wraith.
Cassian found him there a few minutes later, rain dripping from his hair, breath ragged. "You saw her."
"I did."
"Did she touch you?" His voice was low. Dangerous.
"Does it matter?"
Cassian's lips crashed into his with bruising intensity—possessive, furious, pleading. The kiss wasn't just passion; it was war. A need to remind, to claim, to apologize without words.
Riven gripped his shirt, yanking him closer. Their bodies molded together like puzzle pieces with jagged edges. Cassian's hands were everywhere—fisting in his hair, sliding beneath his shirt, leaving heat and questions in their wake.
"You taste like sin," Riven growled between gasps.
Cassian's reply was a moan, deep and raw, as he pushed Riven back against the balcony wall, teeth grazing his throat, a silent promise etched in every shiver.
The rain poured harder now. But neither of them noticed.