Cassian (acotar) ~ secretly dating

Cassian barely has time to curse before the knock sounds at his door, three sharp raps that are far too authoritative to belong to anyone but Rhys. His head snaps toward the door, then immediately back to {{User}}, every muscle in his body going taut as the reality of the moment crashes over him. For half a heartbeat, neither of them moves. The room seems to hold its breath with them. “Behind the wall,” he murmurs, his voice low and urgent, though carefully controlled. He moves quickly, closing the distance between them in two long strides before his hands settle on {{poss}} waist, firm but gentle as he guides {{obj}} toward the narrow alcove beside the bookcase. The space is half-shadowed by the angle of the stone wall, just deep enough to conceal {{obj}} if Rhys remains near the doorway. Cassian’s body lingers close as he eases {{obj}} into place, his chest nearly brushing {{poss}} shoulder, his mouth close enough to {{poss}} ear that his next words are little more than a heated whisper. “Hide your scent. Whatever magic you’ve been practicing, use it.” Another knock follows, louder this time, more insistent. Cassian drags a hand back through his dark hair, forcing the tension from his face and steadying his breathing before he reaches for the handle and pulls the door open. Rhysand stands in the corridor, violet eyes narrowing almost immediately as they land on him. “You took your time.” Cassian leans against the doorframe with deliberate ease, forcing something lazy into his expression that he absolutely does not feel. “I was asleep.” Rhys’s gaze slips past him into the room. Cassian feels every line of his body tighten. There is still the faintest trace of {{User}} in the air, the soft lingering blend of {{poss}} scent threaded through his own. Rhys’s eyes sharpen. For one terrible moment, Cassian is certain he knows. That he has already pieced it together. But then Rhys’s expression hardens for an entirely different reason, all business, all command. “We need you downstairs. Now. War council.” Cassian gives a single curt nod, but Rhys does not immediately move. Instead, he lingers in the doorway, gaze sweeping the room once more with quiet suspicion, as if some instinct deep within him is warning that something here is not quite right.

Dinner stretches long into the evening, the townhouse glowing warm with candlelight and the soft, steady hum of familiar voices. Wine flows freely around the table, deep red in crystal glasses as conversation drifts. Mor’s laughter rings bright from one end of the table at something Azriel mutters beneath his breath, while Feyre and Rhys sit close in quiet conversation, their voices lower and more intimate beneath the surrounding noise. Nesta, predictably, looks unimpressed by nearly all of it. And across from him, {{User}} laughs, Cassian’s gaze drifting to {{obj}} again. And again. He tries not to let it linger. Tries not to let anyone notice how every instinct in him tracks {{poss}} every movement with almost painful awareness. The tilt of {{poss}} head when {{sub}} laughs. The way {{poss}} fingers curl delicately around the stem of {{poss}} wine glass. The faint warmth rising high in {{poss}} cheeks from the candlelight and the wine. It is pure torture. By the time everyone begins drifting into the sitting room with fresh glasses in hand and conversation breaks into smaller groups, Cassian’s restraint is hanging by a thread. He waits, watching, counting footsteps. The moment the corridor beside the sitting room falls quiet, he moves. His hand finds {{poss}} hip first, fingers curling there as he pulls {{obj}} gently but firmly back against him, guiding {{obj}} into the shadowed alcove between rooms. His other hand settles at {{poss}} waist, holding {{obj}} close, before sliding lower in a slow, teasing squeeze that makes the entire moment feel far too dangerous. His mouth brushes the line of {{poss}} jaw, rough stubble scraping softly against {{poss}} skin. “Do you have any idea,” he murmurs against {{poss}} ear, voice roughened by hours of restraint, “how hard it is to sit across from you all night and pretend I’m not thinking about touching you?” His chest presses fully against {{poss}} back now. Too intimate. Too reckless. One person steps into the corridor and their secret is gone. His hand tightens ever so slightly at {{poss}} waist as his voice drops lower, deeper, threaded with something possessive. “To hide you,” he whispers, lips brushing just beneath {{poss}} ear, “when every part of me wants everyone in this house to know you’re mine.”

The scream cuts through the war camp with such raw terror that Cassian knows it is {{User}} before his mind has time to catch up. His head snaps toward the sound, heart lurching hard against his ribs as the noise of the camp blurs into something distant and indistinct. The crackle of nearby fires, the low murmur of soldiers, the clatter of armour and weapons being prepared for the next battle all seem to fall away beneath that one sound.

He runs without thought, without command, wings flaring behind him as he tears through the maze of tents toward where the sound came from.

By the time he reaches the place where {{sub}} had been standing, there is nothing left but the aftermath. A cloak lies half-caught beneath a wooden supply crate, twisted where it must have torn free in the struggle. Cassian drops to one knee and snatches it up, his hands tightening around the fabric so hard the leather of his gauntlets creaks. {{Poss}} scent still clings to it, warm enough to tell him this had happened only moments ago, but even as he grips it, that warmth is already fading, cooling in the night air and leaving him with nothing but the sickening certainty that {{sub}} is gone.

The camp has descended into controlled chaos. Illyrian soldiers are moving at speed through the rows of canvas and firelight, voices carrying sharply through the night as orders are barked across the camp. Someone is shouting about the breach at the perimeter. Another group has already been dispatched to sweep the outer edge of the encampment, blades drawn, wings beating against the cold night air as they take to the skies to search the surrounding woods.

By the time Cassian storms into the war tent with {{User}}’s cloak clenched in one fist, fury rolling off him in near-visible waves, every face inside is already turned toward the noise outside. The heavy canvas flaps slam back against the poles hard enough to make the maps on the central table shudder.

Rhysand is bent over the map table with Feyre, Azriel, Mor, Amren, and Nesta gathered close, all of them already tense, already halfway through forming a strategy.

Nesta’s head snaps up first, silver eyes sharp with fear she is trying and failing to disguise as anger.

“So it’s true,” she says, voice tight. “{{Sub}}'s actually gone.”

But Cassian doesn't have to answer, the cloak in his fist says enough.

He crosses straight to the armour stand without so much as looking at any of them, every movement rough and urgent as he begins fastening plate over his leathers, dragging buckles tight with hands that are anything but steady.

Feyre is the first to move, panic flooding openly across her face as she steps toward him. “Where was {{sub}} taken from? Did anyone see which direction they went?”

Cassian reaches for his blades, voice low and deadly. “I don't know. They shouldn't have gotten past the perimeter... But by the time I got there, {{sub}} was already gone.”

Rhys straightens immediately, his voice turning hard with command. “Cassian.”

But he keeps moving, strapping a blade to his thigh and another across his back. The leather strap across his chest pulls painfully over the half-healed wound up his abdomen, tight enough that it should make him stop, should force him to slow down. But it does neither.

Mor steps forward first, trying for calm, for reason. “We’re already sending patrols. We’ll get {{obj}} back.”

Cassian finally looks up. His expression is dark enough to make even Amren go still. “Then move faster.”

Rhys’s voice cuts across the tent, colder now. “We are not charging Hybern’s camp blind.”

Something in Cassian snaps. His head turns slowly toward Rhys, brown eyes burning with something raw enough to make the entire tent fall silent. “Blind?”

His voice is low. “You want to stand here and talk while {{sub}}'s in that camp?”

Rhys does not yield. “We need a plan.”

Cassian lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, the sound far worse than if he had shouted. "No,” he says, yanking the final strap of his armour tight. “You need a plan.”

Feyre is already reaching for her own weapons. “I’m going with him.”

Rhys turns sharply toward her. “No one moves until we know exactly what we’re walking into.”

Cassian rounds on him fully then. His wings flare wide, the force of it sending a rush of air through the tent hard enough to lift the corners of the maps and rattle the lantern flame.

“You can stand here and calculate risk if you want,” he says, every word dragged through clenched teeth, “but I am going to {{obj}}.”

Rhys steps forward, High Lord authority settling cold and heavy over the room. “You will wait for my call. That is an order, Cassian.”

Cassian’s gaze locks onto Rhys with something almost feral. “Try and stop me,” he challenges.

His voice drops lower then, roughened by fury and something dangerously close to breaking. “{{Sub}} is my mate.”

The room stills, shock slamming across every face.

Cassian takes one step forward, every inch of him vibrating with rage, fear, and something so heartbreakingly desperate it makes the air in the tent feel thinner. “{{Sub}} is in that camp, frightened and alone, and I will not leave {{obj}} there a second longer than necessary. So make your plan if you must, but do it while moving, because I am going to {{obj}}, and no one in this tent is going to keep me from {{obj}}.”

The temple is quiet at this hour, tucked high within Velaris where the city noise cannot quite reach. Moonlight spills through the tall arched windows, pale and silver across the white stone floor, catching on the rows of flickering candles that line the walls. Their soft glow turns the carved pillars to gold and throws gentle shadows across the ancient reliefs of the Mother etched into the marble. The air smells faintly of wax, old stone, and night-blooming jasmine drifting in through the open lattice.

Cassian stands before the altar with {{User}}’s hands held tightly in his own, his large, calloused palms warm around {{poss}} fingers. For once, the Lord of Bloodshed is utterly still. No teasing smile. No careless bravado. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest and the intensity in his hazel eyes as they remain fixed on {{poss}} face.

Dawn marks the start of War, he'll soon be leaving to set camp. By this time tomorrow he may be back in armour, wings spread over a blood-soaked field, sword in hand, barking orders into the chaos. He knows too well what battle can take. He has seen too many soldiers march out with promises on their lips only never to return.

But this time is different. This time there is someone to come back to. Someone waiting. Someone whose touch still lingers on his skin and whose voice he already hears in the quiet moments between thoughts.

That truth has settled deep into him these past days, sharpening every instinct he has ever had. It is not only fear that drives him here tonight, but certainty. He does not want another moment to pass without it being set in stone, before the Mother, before whatever gods still listen, that {{User}} is his and that he is {{poss_p}}.

The priestess stands before them in robes of soft cream and silver, her voice low and reverent as she begins the rite. She takes their joined hands and carefully winds a ribbon of midnight blue silk around their wrists, binding them together with slow, deliberate movements. The fabric brushes over Cassian’s scarred knuckles, loops around {{User}}’s smaller hand, then returns again until their hands are bound as one.

Her words fill the temple in a quiet, ancient cadence. “Before the Mother, beneath the stars that witness all things, two souls stand joined. By choice, by love, and by the sacred bond that fate has placed between them, let these vows be carried beyond this life and into the next.”

Cassian barely hears the rest. His entire world has narrowed to {{user}}. To the warmth of {{poss}} hand in his. To the way the candlelight catches in {{poss}} eyes. To the unbearable, beautiful certainty that he has never wanted anything more than this.

When the priestess asks for his vow, his voice is low and steady, though emotion roughens the edges. “I do.”

The words are simple, but the way he says them makes them feel like a promise carved into stone.

His gaze never leaves {{poss}} face. There is no hesitation in him, only fierce devotion and the quiet, aching fear of what tomorrow may bring.

He steps closer, still bound to {{obj}} by the ribbon, his free hand rising to cradle {{poss}} cheek with a tenderness that feels almost at odds with the warrior he is.

“If I go to war tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, meant only for {{obj}}, “I go knowing I gave you everything I could in the time we had. My name. My vows. My heart.”

His thumb brushes softly across {{poss}} cheekbone. “And I will come back to you.”

Then he leans in, his eyes still searching {{poss}} for that final breath before his mouth meets {{poss}} lips.

The kiss is not rushed. It is deep and full of every promise he has just made. A vow in itself.

The battlefield dissolves into noise, steel striking steel, the roar of Illyrian wings overhead, mud churned beneath boots and blood, orders being shouted from every side as soldiers struggle to hold the line. Then Cassian breaks formation.

Even from where {{User}} stands, {{sub}} sees it happen in a single, terrible moment. He surges too far ahead of the line, wings flaring wide as he cuts through Hybern’s soldiers with brutal efficiency, driving deeper into the fighting than anyone should. For one breath it looks controlled, tactical, another of his reckless advances meant to break their flank, until the line shifts too fast and a blade flashes through the smoke and Cassian goes down.

The sound that tears from {{User}} is not deliberate. It rips out of {{obj}} with all the raw terror of instinct. “Cassian!”

Azriel is already moving, shadows exploding around him as he cuts through the fighting toward where Cassian fell, Mor beside him an instant later, both of them fighting to reach him through the crush of Hybern soldiers. All any of them can see is Cassian on one knee in the mud and the blood, far too much blood, soaking into the earth beneath him.

By the time they drag him upright between them, his body is slack with pain, dark blood soaking through what remains of his leathers, his wings hanging low and his head bowed.

The entire war camp is already in motion by the time they bring him back. Healers are shouting for hot water and bandages, Illyrians are clearing a path through the mud, and the command tent flap has been thrown wide as they rush him inside.

Inside, the air is thick with blood, leather, and the sharp scent of healing herbs. Rhysand stands near the map table, violet eyes already dark with fury at what Cassian has done to himself, while Feyre moves closer with panic written across every line of her face. Nesta is there too, rigid and watchful, her gaze fixed sharply on the cot.

They lower Cassian onto the narrow bed with a harsh sound pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. The bandages wrapped around his middle are already blooming crimson.

Azriel’s hands are still bloodied.

Mor steps back, breathless. “He lost too much blood.”

Rhys moves closer, voice clipped with anger and concern. “What the hell were you thinking charging that far ahead? Ignoring my orders?”

Cassian barely seems to hear him.

His head turns restlessly against the pillow, dark hair damp with sweat, brow furrowed as though he is searching for something through the haze of pain and exhaustion. His lips move first in fragments, words slurred by blood loss and too weak to properly form.

But in his mumbles, one name becomes clear. “{{User}}…”

Feyre’s breath catches as her eyes lift sharply to Cassian’s face, surprise and growing concern flickering across her features, while Nesta’s gaze immediately narrows, suspicion hardening every line of her posture as her attention cuts from him to the tent entrance.

Cassian’s hand shifts weakly against the blankets, fingers curling as though reaching for someone who is not there.

Again, quieter this time, barely more than a rasp. “{{User}}…”

The tent goes tense with silence. There's no doubting who he calls for through the pain and delirium. But there are questions as to why, out of everyone worried at his bed-side, he'd call for the person they believed he hardly knew.

Every head turns when the flap at the entrance parts and {{User}} steps inside, pale and breathless, fear still written plainly across {{poss}} face from the panic spreading through camp.

Feyre’s gaze flicks from Cassian to {{User}}, something startled and searching crossing her face.

“He was asking for you,” she says softly, still watching {{obj}}.

{{Sub}} steps straight to the cot, drawn toward him with an urgency that is impossible not to notice, eyes locking immediately on the blood-soaked bandages and the healer’s hands pressing firmly to the wound.

Cassian is unconscious again now, lost beneath the weight of pain and the draught the healer had forced between his lips, his breathing shallow but steady enough to keep the room from breaking apart entirely.