Chapter 9: A Man Unmade (Caspian’s Point of View)

I had made a mistake.

A terrible, foolish mistake.

I had come to her.

I had told myself I wouldn't. That I could endure this—whatever this was—if I simply held out long enough.

I was wrong.

I had been wrong for weeks now. Perhaps from the very start.

Because the moment I saw her on that terrace, poised in the moonlight like she had been waiting for me to falter, I knew—

I had already lost.

She knew it, too.

She did not gloat. Did not mock. She did not have to.

Because the moment I breathed that quiet, wretched yes, she had already won.

And then—she turned.

I had seen her countless times before. Had looked upon that face, those eyes, that cruel, knowing mouth—had watched her as any man might admire a thing he could not have.

But tonight, looking at her felt different.

Because it was not admiration anymore.

It was desperation.

And it was wretched.

And it was unbearable.

And I hated her for it.

And I wanted her for it.

More than I had ever wanted anything.

And then—she touched me.

It was nothing. A fleeting graze of her fingers against my throat. A whisper of contact.

And yet—

I nearly buckled.

It was instant. Brutal. A crack through my bones.

What was happening to me?

I could feel the heat of my pulse pounding beneath her fingers, feel the shameful, involuntary way my breath caught—how my body betrayed me without my permission.

She felt it. I knew she felt it.

And she did nothing to stop it.

She simply watched.

Amused. Patient.

Letting me drown in it.

Letting me break myself upon her touch.

I should have pulled away. Should have wrenched myself from her reach and left, before this got worse. Before I made an even greater fool of myself.

But I didn't.

Because she had already taken something from me.

And now—

I could not bring myself to take it back.