Page 137 of Crushed Vow
“I’ll come back after nine months,” I said, my voice shaking. “I promise.”
He nodded slowly. As if it took everything in him to do it. As if surrendering to my freedom meant losing his soul.
“I’ll wait,” he said, barely audible. “Even if I die, I’ll wait for you.”
Cassian rose too slowly. His movements were mechanical, like a marionette cut loose from its strings. He looked down, lifted his trembling hands, and removed his glasses.
Then—without hesitation—he crushed them in his fist.
The lenses cracked with a sickening crunch. Metal bent like paper. Shards pierced his skin, but he didn’t flinch.
Thick blood seeped through his clenched fingers, each drop splattering onto the ground with eerie precision.
I wiped my tears with the back of my sleeve. “When... when am I leaving?”
His lips parted. “Tomorrow.” The word fell out of him like something dying.
He turned—
But walked the wrong way.
His hand extended, reaching for a door that wasn’t there. Instead, he collided with the wall. The impact made him stagger. He winced.
“Cassian...” I whispered.
He didn’t answer. Just kept moving, one hand dragging along the wall like a man groping through darkness. Eventually, he found the door. His fingers brushed the handle, and he opened it slowly.
But he didn’t leave.
He stood there, a silhouette carved from sorrow, bleeding and unmoving—like grief itself had anchored him to the threshold.
“Cassian,” I called again, softer this time
At the sound of his name, he turned his head just enough for me to see the damage.
His eyes squinted, desperate to focus. But his world was a smear of shadows now, shapes bleeding into one another. He couldn’t see me. Not really.
Still... somehow, he looked straight through me.
I took a step forward, my bare feet silent on the cool hardwood. My pulse hammered in my throat, my chest. Every inch of me trembled.
I reached him.
Leaned in.
And let my lips graze his.
A ghost of a kiss. Fragile. Trembling. The last breath before the plunge.
His hands rose slowly, hesitating before curling around my waist. Not tight. Not possessive. Just... holding. As if memorizing the shape of something already lost.
When he kissed me back, it wasn’t with the fire I remembered. It wasn’t rage, or dominance, or desperation.
It was goodbye.
His mouth was soft and reverent, like I was made of ash and he was afraid to scatter me.
Then he pulled back, barely. Our foreheads touched. I felt his breath on my lips.
