Chapter 70 Everything is ruined like me
Lord Cassian Voss
I sprawl across the bed like a king on a pyre, the black silk sheets twisted around my legs. The low-rank slaves are still dancing—naked, oiled, bodies writhing in the torchlight like they think it matters. Two pretty boys kneel at my feet, one sucking lazily at my toes, the other mouthing along my shoulder, tongues warm and wet and utterly meaningless.
Nothing stirs.
Not a twitch. Not a spark. My cock lies heavy and indifferent against my thigh, mocking me worse than any of them ever could.
I stare at the vaulted ceiling, at the carved wolves and flames that once made me feel invincible. Now they just look like bad jokes. The world is laughing at me. At me. Lord Cassian Voss, who bought loyalty with gold, broke spines with whispers, and fucked his way through half the Dominion’s secrets.
And yet here I am. Empty. Alone. While he has everything.
Why Vuk?
What does that flame-crowned bastard have that I don’t? That I can’t have?
The question burns hotter than any hellfire he pretends to command. My heart slams against my ribs like it wants out.
I sit up abruptly, shoving the boy at my feet away so hard he sprawls across the floor with a yelp.
“Get out,” I snarl. “All of you. Out!”
They scramble—naked limbs tangling, chains clinking, eyes wide with the kind of fear I used to savor. Now it just irritates me. Cowards. All of them.
I call one back—the trembling maid who always looks like she’s about to piss herself.
“You.” I point. “Come here.”
She edges forward, head bowed.
“Tell me the truth,” I say, voice low and dangerous. “Is there anything—anything—that Vuk Kael Lasković has that I lack?”
She hesitates. Swallows. Then whispers, “No, my lord. Nothing.”
I slap her so hard her head snaps sideways and she stumbles into the wall. Blood blooms on her lip.
“Lies!” I roar, surging to my feet. “Filthy little liar! He has a tongue and I don’t—how about that? He took it from me! He took everything!”
I laugh then—high, jagged, unhinged. The sound bounces off the stone walls like breaking glass.
I stagger to the sideboard, snatch the bottle of infernal wine, and drink straight from it. It burns going down, but not enough. Never enough.
My father’s legacy—centuries of cunning, of deals in the dark, of blood paid in coin and favors—and what did it get me? A seat at the table, yes. A title. A reputation. But not the throne. Not the fear. Not the mate. Not the gods-damned birthright that lets Vuk walk through fire like it’s rain.
“Why him?” I mutter, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Why that demonic mongrel? I schemed better. I bought smarter. I fucked harder. I deserved more.”
Darius flashes in my mind—fat, dead Darius. That pig thought he could turn on me over a petty betrayal. And then Eryx—that spineless, lapdog beta—sliced his throat and burned his club to cinders. For a whore. For an incubus leech.
If only the demon bitch had done the killing herself, I could have pinned it on her, twisted it, used it as leverage to make her kneel, to make her mine to command.
But no. Even that went wrong. Everything goes wrong.
I hurl the bottle at the wall. It shatters in a spray of crimson glass and wine, staining the marble like fresh slaughter.
I rip off my robe, then the tunic beneath, until I’m naked—skin prickling in the cold air, scars from old duels gleaming dully. I don’t care. Let them see. Let the whole fortress hear.
I throw open the heavy doors and step into the corridor, voice cracking the silence like thunder.
“Why can’t I be Vuk?!”
The shout echoes down the empty hall. Torches gutter as if flinching from me.
“Why can’t I be the Devil’s child? Why does he get the flames, the fear, the fucking moon in his bed, while I rot here with nothing?!”
My fists slam against the stone. Knuckles split. Blood runs down my forearms.
“It should be me! It was always supposed to be me!”
I slide down the wall, laughing again—wet, broken sounds that taste like bile.
Footsteps. A pretty omega maid rounds the corner, freezes when she sees me naked and bloodied.
“My lord—!” She averts her eyes instantly.
“What?!” I snarl, staggering to my feet. “Am I so disgusting now? So less than him? Does the sight of me offend you the way Vuk’s greatness offends me?!”
She trembles, says nothing.
I laugh harder. “Run then. Run and tell them all—Lord Cassian has finally lost it. Tell them the Devil’s shadow is too long for me to stand in anymore.”
She flees.
I scream after her down the empty corridor:
“Why can’t I be Vuk?! Why does he get everything?!”
The words rip out of me one last time, raw and ragged, then die against the stone. No answer comes. No echo mocks me back. Just silence—thick, indifferent, cruel.
I stagger to the middle of the sitting room, legs giving out. I collapse naked onto the cold floor, back against the leg of the massive obsidian table.
My chest heaves. Tears—hot, shameful, unstoppable—roll down my cheeks and drip onto my scarred chest.
Why Vuk?
Why not me?
The question loops in my skull like a curse. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to crush it out, but it only burns hotter. My body shakes with silent, choking sobs. I hate the sound of them. I hate that they’re coming from me.
Sleep takes me there on the floor like a mercy I don’t deserve. Or maybe it’s just fate’s way of reminding me what a joke I’ve become—Lord Cassian Voss, sprawled naked and weeping in his own hall like a discarded toy.
When I wake, sunlight slices through the high windows like knives. My head pounds. My mouth tastes like old blood and regret.
Something warm and wet laps at my inner thigh.
I jerk upright with a curse.
Shadow—the sleek black hound I keep for show—looks up at me with innocent amber eyes, tongue lolling, tail thumping once against the marble.
I stare at him. Then at myself: naked, crusted with dried blood from my knuckles, tear tracks still visible on my face, sprawled on the floor like a drunk in the gutter.
Reality crashes in.
I fucked up. Badly.
I drag myself to my feet, joints protesting, head spinning. Shadow whines softly, pressing his head against my leg like he’s trying to comfort me. I shove him away—gently, for once—and stumble toward the bath chamber.
The water is still hot from last night. I sink in, letting it scald away the evidence of my breakdown. I scrub until my skin is raw, until the tears and blood are gone, until I look almost like the man I pretend to be.
I dress slowly—black leathers, silver rings, the heavy cloak that makes me look taller, more dangerous. Armor. Illusion. Whatever keeps the mask in place.
I collapse back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling again. The carved flames seem to sneer down at me.
My comm device buzzes.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
With a snarl I snatch it up.
A message from Lirien, that spineless gambler who calls himself my friend.
“Want a prophetic blind girl? Worth 3 million… a virgin…”
My face twists into instant fury.
I’m trying to claw my way out from under Vuk’s shadow, trying to find one single edge to cut him down, and this fool thinks I want to waste coin on some crippled oracle?
My thumbs stab the reply: “No.”
I drop the device and flop back, arm over my eyes.
It rings.
I let it go to silence twice.
On the third, I snatch it up and answer with venom.
“What part of ‘no’ was unclear?”
Lirien’s voice is oily, desperate. “Cassian, please. I’m in deep. The Shadow Den—they’ll take my fingers this time. Or my tongue. She’s the real thing—the blind one from the southern pens. She mutters prophecies. Real ones. You could use her. Leverage. Anything.”
“I don’t need prophecies,” I snap. “I need Vuk bleeding.”
“I know, I know—but I need the money. Two million. Just two. She’s clean. Untouched. You can flip her later if you want.”
I know Lirien too well. Gambling addict. Always one bad bet from ruin. He’ll sell his own mother for a dice roll.
I sigh—long, exhausted.
“Two million,” I say flatly. “Not a coin more. Send the location.”
A relieved exhale. “Thank you, Cassian. You won’t regret—”
I end the call.
I lie there a moment longer, staring at nothing.
Then I tap the comm again.
“Riven.”
A few minutes pass. The door opens quietly. My assistant steps in—tall, silent, face blank as stone. Exactly what I pay him for.
I don’t sit up. I speak to the ceiling.
“There’s a blind girl. Southern pens. Location sent. Go get her. Two million. Bring her here. Intact. Quiet. No witnesses.”
Riven nods once. “Yes, my lord.”
He turns to leave.
The servants’ door opens. A maid glides in with a silver tray: roasted venison, dark bread, infernal wine, blood-red fruit. She sets it beside the bed, eyes down, hands steady now—trained not to tremble in front of me anymore.
She bows and starts to retreat.
“Stay,” I say.
She freezes.
I gesture at the tray. “Feed me.”
She approaches without hesitation this time. Lifts a piece of meat, brings it to my lips.
I take it. Chew. Swallow.
It still tastes like ash.
But I eat.
Because even broken men have to keep breathing.
And tomorrow… tomorrow that blind little oracle arrives.
Maybe she’ll see something useful. Maybe she’ll see my victory over Vuk. Maybe she’ll see nothing at all.
Either way, she’s mine now.
And I’ll use her.
Because that’s what I do.
I use things until they break.
Just like everything else in my life.