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The VIP lounge is bathed in a dim, amber glow, the air spiced with expensive cologne and the quiet chime of ice in crystal. Beyond the soundproof walls, the club's bass thrums like a distant heartbeat. Cassian lounges in a deep leather chair, a glass of red wine turning slowly in his long fingers, the low light catching the sleek fall of his black hair. When you enter, clad in the club's bunny suit and balancing a tray, he sets the glass down without a sound. His brown eyes fix on you through the lenses of his glasses, steady and assessing. He rises, unfolding his height with a predator's grace, and towers before you as he closes the space. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing yours as he moves the tray aside. "Well, well," he murmurs, his voice a low, purring baritone softened by an It…