Two days had passed since that night—the night that left Jessel haunted by the memory of Castiel's voice brushing against her like smoke, the air between them thick enough to drown in.
The mansion had gone quiet again. But silence in Castiel's world was never peace—it was the breath before a storm.
When the message came for her to meet him in the study, Jessel didn't need to ask why. Castiel never called without reason.
She found him standing by the window, his back turned, hands clasped behind him as the grey morning light bled through the sheer curtains. His reflection in the glass looked like something carved out of ice.
"Close the door," he said.
Jessel obeyed. The soft click echoed louder than she expected.
He didn't turn around when he spoke.
"Do you know why I called you?"
Jessel hesitated, reading the air around him like a predator gauging another. "To guess would be dangerous," she said quietly.
That earned her a faint curve of his lips. He finally turned, and for a moment, the stillness between them thickened. His eyes—dark, precise, unreadable—found hers like a lock clicking into place.
"It's Thalassa," he said, and Jessel straightened.
"What about her?"
"I believe she's in the wrong hands." His tone was calm, but the veins in his neck betrayed the pressure beneath it. "Someone close to her. Someone I can't yet identify. I want you to find out who."
Her heartbeat stumbled. "You think she's being used?"
"I know she's being used," Castiel corrected softly. "I just don't know by whom. She's innocent and… too trusting." He walked closer until she could feel the cold edge of his presence. "You'll stay near her. Watch. Listen. Protect her. And everything you learn—" he paused, eyes locking onto hers, "—you'll tell me, and only me."
Jessel's lips curved, but her voice was steady. "I don't do protection work. You hire me to find truth, not guard it."
Castiel took one more step, until the scent of his cologne—something dark and woody—wrapped around her. "You'll do both," he said. "Because if Thalassa falls into the wrong hands… I'll burn whoever let it happen."
For a heartbeat, she didn't breathe. Then she met his gaze, her voice light with mockery. "And if I fall into those hands?"
His expression didn't change. "Then you'll burn too."
A slow, dangerous smile touched her lips. "Understood."
---
A week slipped by in pieces of rain and restless nights. Jessel shadowed Thalassa with quiet precision—coffee shops, charity events, art galleries. The girl moved like sunlight through glass, innocent enough to make Jessel's chest ache.
It didn't take long for Jessel to find the crack.
His name was Lucas Denatalli. She first saw him at the edge of a crowded gallery, leaning casually against the wall while Thalassa laughed at something he whispered. His smile was charming, but his eyes—cold, calculating—were too familiar.
Jessel had seen that same darkness before, in Castiel's old archives, in the name that haunted his family's downfall—the Denatalli bloodline.
When she returned to the mansion, Castiel was waiting in his study again, half-hidden behind his desk. The firelight painted his face in gold and shadow.
"Well?" he asked, not looking up from the papers in front of him.
Jessel placed a thin file on his desk. "Her boyfriend. Lucas Denatalli."
That made him pause. His gaze lifted slowly, like the calm before thunder. "Denatalli," he repeated, tasting the name.
"His ancestor was your father's rival. Business, politics—everything. Looks like the feud didn't die with them."
Castiel leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. Then his eyes darkened with something close to pride. "You found this in a week."
"I had a reason to work fast." She tilted her head. "Your sister's in love, Castiel. And love makes people stupid."
He rose from his seat and walked around the desk, stopping just in front of her. "And what makes you stupid, Jessel?"
Her lips parted. "You, maybe."
Something flickered in his eyes—amusement or warning, she couldn't tell.
He leaned closer, his voice a low whisper against her ear. "Keep Thalassa safe. If anything happens to her…" His breath brushed her neck. "…you'll wish you hadn't met me."
Jessel smiled faintly, though her pulse betrayed her. "Then I guess I'll have to make sure she stays alive, won't I?"
"See that you do."
She turned to leave, tossing over her shoulder, "Try not to miss me too much."
His laugh followed her out like smoke.
---
The next night, the storm broke.
The clock had barely struck midnight when Jessel received Thalassa's text—short, trembling.
"Need to talk. Come quick."
She didn't hesitate. The roads were slick with rain when she reached Thalassa's apartment in the heart of New York. The front door was ajar. That alone was enough to twist her stomach.
"Thalassa?" she called, stepping inside.
No answer.
Her boots echoed on the marble floor as she walked deeper into the apartment, the lights flickering weakly above. And then she saw her—lying near the corner of the room, motionless, a thin line of blood snaking from her temple across the white tiles.
"God—Thalassa!"
Jessel dropped to her knees, pressing her fingers against the girl's neck. A pulse. Faint, but there. Relief punched through her chest like air after drowning.
She lifted Thalassa into her arms, her own breath ragged. The warmth of blood soaked into her sleeves as she carried her out. Rain lashed against her as she placed the unconscious girl into the backseat of her car and started the engine.
The city blurred past in streaks of wet light.
Then her phone rang.
Unknown number.
Her gut tightened. She answered, keeping one hand on the wheel.
"Who is this?"
A distorted voice came through the static. "Back off, Jessel. Drop the mission."
Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Who are you?"
"You don't understand," the voice hissed. "You dig deeper, you die."
The line went dead.
Jessel stared at the screen, the reflection of her own eyes burning back at her.
For the first time, fear brushed her throat—but so did defiance.