Where Soft Light Shines Darkness Fades From Tired Hearts by Evan Holt Crane 276
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Third Person’s POV
Cassian’s grip on his suitcase handle was so tight his knuckles turned white.
After being gone for over two weeks, his Luna didn’t even have the decency to greet him—she was too busy gambling.
Paisley sensed the volatile pheromones thick enough to ignite in the air. She hurried over, trembling as she took the luggage. “Alpha Cassian, I’ll take care of this.”
The men at the table acted as if Cassian didn’t even exist. Their eyes remained glued to their cards–a move that was nothing short of a direct challenge.
Cassian shed his coat, carrying the chill of a long journey as he walked over to Trista.
He glanced over the chips on the table before pinning Attwater with a cold stare. “The bloodline awakening assessment last week–did you hit your target?”
Attwater let out a huff, not even bothering to look up. He shifted closer to Fred, meeting the question with a wall of silence.
“That’s for my parents to worry about. Stop acting like his babysitter,” Trista said, giving Cassian a dismissive shove.
Cassian pulled his gaze back and looked down at her, his face dark with irritation. “Move. I’ll play for you.”
“No!” Trista immediately shielded her cards, looking like a wolf protecting its kill. “My luck just turned. No one touches this hand.”
She had been losing all afternoon, and she finally had a pair of Aces. She wasn’t about to let anyone else take the thrill of the kill.
Isaiah, remembering the last time Cassian cleaned him out on a cruise ship, stood up abruptly. “I’m not playing in a game with him. He plays too dirty.”
Fred tossed his cards into the center. “Playing with Trista is a hobby; playing with you is a suicide mission. You just got back–go take a rest.”
Alistair finally spoke, his voice deep and dangerous. “Actually, I’m quite interested in testing your skills.”
Sensing the gunpowder in the air, Trista grabbed Cassian’s arm and started dragging him toward the bedroom. “Paisley prepared your favorite wild game. Go wash off the travel scent.
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Dinner is almost ready.”
:
Cassian stopped at the door, looking back at the men who had made themselves far too comfortable in his home. He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Was it really made for me?”
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“Of course. It’s your welcome–back meal. They’re just here for the atmosphere,” Trista lied, grinning effortlessly.
Cassian’s face remained black.
He allowed Trista to shove him into the bathroom, but the second the door closed, she sprinted back to the poker table.
Fred glanced at Alistair, his eyes searching. “Alpha Alistair, have you thought about moving your private residence to this building?”
“There are no vacancies left that can handle an Alpha’s intensity,” Isaiah interjected, his tone dripping with a mischievous edge.
“Except for the penthouse. The one they say is cursed. Word is the magnetic field there messes with a wolf’s senses. The last few guys who moved in had mental breakdowns from the ‘whispers.‘ No one can handle that kind of ancient resentment.”
Alistair sat with a cigarette between his lips, his hooded eyes narrowing. A predatory glint flickered in his pupils. He tapped his fingers on the table rhythmically, the sound like a heavy, ancient drum.
“Only the weak believe in curses,” he said, exhaling a slow cloud of smoke.
His voice was low and heavy with pressure. “On this continent, there is no force powerful enough to collide with my bloodline.”
“True,” Fred agreed, his tone shifting to genuine submission. “If you’re the one holding the top floor, you’re the absolute master of this territory. Those low–life rogues wouldn’t even have the balls to step into the lobby.”
Trista didn’t join the small talk. She was deathly serious, mentally calculating the odds of her hand.
Alistair let out a sigh and casually flipped his cards. “Straight flush. I win.”
Trista watched her chips being raked away, deflating like a beaten pup.
When Cassian emerged from the shower, Fred stood up. “Game’s over. Let’s hit the dining
room.”
Trista reached out to push Alistair’s wheelchair, but Cassian strode over and cut her off. “I’ve got
16:59 Fri, Jan 30
it.”
:
His golden pupils flickered as they brushed over her fingertips–a display of suppressed, raw possessiveness.
But Attwater was faster, already steering the wheelchair toward the dining room.
Cassian watched their retreating backs, his brow furrowed into a knot. He turned to Trista. “Since when did Attwater get so close with the Shadowfangs?”
“You’ve been gone for two weeks,” Trista answered distractedly. “They’ve been coming over for poker. They’re friends now.”
Cassian went silent, his eyes unreadable.
He lowered his voice. “Your poker skills have always been trash, yet your addiction is getting worse. How much did you lose?”
“Just some loose chips. Nothing major,” Trista gave a dry laugh.
Cassian looked at her with pure skepticism. “Those three don’t move for less than seven figures. You really think they’re sitting there playing for pocket change?”
“I might not be able to play them, but I can count,” Trista snapped, rolling her eyes at him.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
Cassian saw she was actually getting annoyed. He tried to take her hand, his tone softening a fraction. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just reminding you that in a game like that, the prey usually doesn’t leave with their bones intact.”
Trista sidestepped his touch and walked straight into the dining room.
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