He watched her from the tree line, a statue woven from shadow and ancient regret. Cassian observed as Lilith Thorne moved through the sun-dappled garden the next afternoon, her ginger hair a flame against the dull green and grey of Thornwood. She was different from the aunt. Softer. Brighter. A living, breathing vulnerability that made the ancient, dormant thing inside him stir with a hunger that was not entirely for blood.
Cassian was not a groundskeeper. He was the genius loci—the spirit bound to the land. Thornwood was his prison, his sanctuary, and his altar. Centuries ago, a bargain had been struck: his life, such as it was, tied to the estate, his power fed by its cycles of death and growth. The thorns that protected the walls were an extension of his will; the roses bloomed with the memories he consumed. He was neither truly dead nor fully alive, a wraith sustained by the land's magic and the occasional, necessary sacrifice. The old aunt had understood. She had been a keeper of the balance, offering small tributes—a prized dove, a lock of her own hair, the life of a trespassing fox. In return, Cassian made the gardens flourish with an unnatural, breathtaking beauty.
This new one, Lilith… she was a complication. The will's stipulation had been his suggestion, whispered into the solicitor's dreams. He needed a keeper. He had not anticipated her. The raw, grieving light in her hazel eyes called to the human ghost of himself, a ghost he'd thought long buried. Her blood on the thorn had been an electric shock to his system, a flavor more potent and promising than anything in decades.
He remembered the feel of her startled pulse in the air, the warmth radiating from her skin. Using his power to heal her cut had been an impulse, a dangerous one. Touch, even indirect, was a risk. It forged connections. It awakened needs.
"She is too fragile for this place," a voice rasped from the roots of the old oak beside him. The tree's bark shifted, forming a rough semblance of a face. The forest here was old and knew him well.
"She is strong," Cassian replied, though he wasn't sure if he believed it. "She stays. The bond requires a Thorne."
"The bond requires sustenance," the tree spirit grated. "The last offering was meager. The edges of your realm fray. If she fails to understand… if she does not provide… you will fade, and Thornwood will consume her instead."
Cassian's jaw tightened. He knew the stakes. The estate was a living, hungry thing, and he was its heart. Without timely offerings, it would feed on whatever life was closest—starting with its keeper. The old aunt had been diligent. Lilith was ignorant.
He watched her pause by the dried-up fountain, her hand resting on the stone as she gazed at the manor with a look of lonely determination. The protective instinct that flared in him was as alarming as the hunger. He was meant to use her, to guide her into the dark rituals that would sustain them both. He was not meant to care if the darkness frightened her.
Yet, as she turned and her eyes swept across the tree line, pausing for a fraction of a second where he stood hidden, he felt a jolt. Did she sense him?
A plan, cold and calculated, began to form in his mind. He would have to get closer. He would have to be her guide, her confidant. He would have to make her trust him, rely on him. And then, when the time was right, he would show her the true price of Thornwood's beauty. The thought should have filled him with grim purpose. Instead, it left a taste of ashes in his mouth. For the first time in centuries, Cassian, the lord of shadows, was afraid—not of fading, but of the devastating light this mortal woman carried within her, and the desperate, growing need he had to possess it, even if it meant watching it gutter and die in his hands.