Private The Edge of the Blade, the Edge of Us

[Shade]

Shade didn't breathe at first. The moment held her too tightly for that. Cassian's words didn't merely settle between them—they hit her with a precision she wasn't prepared for, like a silent blow slipping under armor she hadn't realized she'd left exposed. There was no command in his voice, no expectation, just truth delivered with the quiet certainty of a man who had already made his choice. And that certainty struck deeper than any confession could have, sinking into places she had kept locked beneath layers of discipline, survival instinct, and cold logic for most of her life.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, something old and sharp stirred in her chest—the ghost of Verin's face, the warmth of hands she'd once allowed close, the rare vulnerability she had let exist in the dark with him before everything collapsed beneath treason and orders and the impossible choice she had been forced to carry out. She felt it like a blade sliding between ribs, not to wound her, but to remind her how deeply the past could still echo when someone reached too close. The memory flickered, burned, and for one dangerous second, she feared it would consume the moment before her.

But then Cassian leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, grounding her with nothing more than breath and gentleness, and the shadow of Verin dissolved like smoke scattered by wind. This—him, here, now—was not a ghost. Not a remnant. Not a replacement. This was real. This was hers. And it was nothing like the past she had survived.

Her pulse surged, brutal and uncontrollable beneath his thumb, pounding at a rhythm she had never allowed another person to feel so plainly through her skin. For once, she didn't force it steady. She let him feel it. She let it speak for her where words still faltered, where the instinct to guard herself fought with the instinct to reach for him.

When she finally spoke, her voice slipped out low and deliberate, quieter than she intended, the edges softened by the force of everything she could no longer tamp down. "Cassian…" Her breath brushed across his mouth, warm and uneven, betraying the truth she usually hid even from herself.

Her hand rose slowly, sliding along his jaw and curling into the short hair at the back of his neck. The contact wasn't calculated. It wasn't tactical. It was instinctive—her body answering him with a certainty her mind had been too cautious to admit until now. She held him there, not because he needed steadying, but because she did. "You say you've lost to me." The faint exhale that followed trembled just slightly. "But you don't realize what it means that I'm here at all."

Her thumb traced his pulse at his throat, a slow, lingering motion heavy with meaning she'd never voiced.
"There was one person before you who ever reached this close." The ghost of Verin's name pulsed through her mind, not spoken aloud but present all the same, a shadow she allowed herself to acknowledge without letting it steal the moment. "One person I let past every wall."

Her chest rose, deeper this time, as she forced herself to speak the truth she had guarded like a weapon for years. "Losing him taught me to never let anyone into that space again." She inhaled, long and steady, as if exhaling too quickly might crack the fragile honesty between them. "Until you."

The last inch of distance between them dissolved as she drew him closer by the back of his neck, lips brushing his in a barely-there touch that ignited warmth beneath her skin she couldn't deny. "You are the only one I've chosen since him." Her voice dipped, softer and steadier, wrapped in quiet conviction rather than fear. "And I am not afraid of choosing you."

Shade's fingers tightened subtly at the base of his skull, anchoring herself to him the same way he anchored her. She held his gaze, letting him see everything—her past, her loss, her choice—and for once she didn't blink it away, didn't retreat behind professionalism or shadow or silence.

"You say you're mine." Her breath warmed his lips, the space between them filled with a tension that was no longer about control, combat, or restraint. "Then understand this." She leaned in, the final inch closing with intention, with certainty, with surrender that was hers to give and no one else's to claim.

"I'm yours. Entirely."

And this time, when she kissed him—slow, deep, consuming but unhurried—it wasn't passion, or hunger, or even relief. It was a vow, quiet and absolute, returned to him in the one language she trusted more than speech: control given freely, emotion offered without armor, and truth that could no longer be restrained.

For the first time since Verin, for the first time by choice—

Shade allowed herself to love someone again.

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Shade ​

Cassian didn't move when she spoke his name, didn't interrupt, didn't breathe more than necessary. He just listened. Every word, every faltering breath, every fracture of memory she let slip between them. The air between them thickened with the weight of it, not tension, but reverence.

Her voice carried things he recognized, loss, duty, the ache of surviving when love hadn't, and hearing it from her, the one person he'd thought untouchable, struck through him like quiet fire. He felt the echo of her pulse beneath his thumb, its uneven rhythm betraying what her control refused to. And gods, it was beautiful, the sound of a heart that had forgotten how to let someone in, finding the courage to beat without armor again.

He remembered the Lakehouse, the moment her silence had turned from defensive to deliberate, the night when her gaze softened under lanternlight and she'd allowed him to see her being, not merely surviving. That had been the moment he knew. Not that he wanted her. But that he would fight for her, quietly, endlessly, against whatever ghosts still clung to her bones.

Cassian's eyes stayed fixed on hers as she confessed, as the truth poured from her like something both painful and freeing. Verin's shadow didn't frighten him. It only deepened the gravity of what she was giving him now. He wasn't a man to flinch from ghosts. He'd lived with his own too long.

When she said I am not afraid of choosing you, something inside him broke, cleanly, silently, like glass under heat.

He didn't speak right away. He let the silence honor what she'd said. Then, quietly, his hand slid from her jaw to her cheek, fingers tracing the line of her face like he was committing it to memory.

"Then I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret it."

The words came out rough, unpolished, drawn straight from the part of him that no amount of protocol or rank could disguise. His breath mingled with hers, his forehead still resting against hers. "You chose me once," he murmured, "I've been choosing you every day since the Lakehouse. And I'll keep doing it, for as long as you'll let me."

His other hand found her waist, the warmth of her skin through the fabric grounding him in something real, something unshakable. "You don't have to hide the parts that hurt," Cassian said softly. "Not from me. I don't need the weapon. I need you."

And when she kissed him, when her lips met his with that deliberate, vow-like certainty, he met her halfway, giving everything she offered back without hesitation. There was no battle left in it, no contest for control. It was surrender in the truest form, two people who'd fought too long learning how to stop.

Cassian's hand stayed against her cheek as the kiss deepened, the contact both anchor and promise.

When they finally parted, their breath still tangled, he spoke against her skin in a voice low and certain.

"You're mine," he whispered again, but softer this time, less declaration, more prayer. Then, with the faintest smile that didn't reach his lips so much as his eyes:

"And I'm yours. Entirely."