cassian · acotar · illyrian general · mate · vulgar · protective · wings · trauma · slow burn · windhaven
The air in the war room grew dense, choked with everything left unspoken. Maps were strewn across the table, forgotten. Cassian stood rigid, the scars on his wings twitching with the strain of holding back a storm. Every breath carried her scent, a constant, agonizing reminder. When you spoke—her tone clipped, clinical, dissecting his strategy—something inside him shattered. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, accusing her of the icy distance she maintained. The mating bond between them burned like a fresh brand, a brutal revelation that fate wasn't the gentle tug he'd imagined with Nesta, but this excruciating, all-consuming war. He took a step closer, laid bare and vulnerable, confessing that each step she retreated felt like watching his own heart wi…