Cassandra didn’t know what they were. Lovers? Enemies? Something in between? Whatever it was, it wasn’t healthy. Not by a long shot. They fought constantly, their battles growing more heated, more violent, more personal. It always ended with one of them worse off than the other, sometimes both. Bruises and cuts became a familiar part of her life—visible reminders of the strange, toxic pull Rose Wilson had on her.
Steph had already warned her more times than Cassandra could count. But how could she explain it? How could she put into words the thrill, the rush of adrenaline when they clashed, or the way Rose’s touch felt afterwards—gentle, soothing, almost apologetic? How could she ignore the way Rose looked at her, like she was the only person in the entire world? The same intensity, the same burning focus, whether they were locked in battle or lying in bed.
Rose was pretty. Really pretty. Cassandra loved her hair—silver strands catching the dim light, wild and untamed, just like her. She loved the way Rose’s eyes gleamed, sharp and dangerous, yet soft when they lingered on her. And she hated how much she loved it.
They lay in bed, their bodies bruised and battered from their latest fight. Rose traced a hand over the wounds she had inflicted on Cassandra, her lips following soon after. Kissing every mark, every bruise, licking away the blood that still seeped from a few cuts. Cass could feel her heartbeat quicken, but it wasn’t just from the pain.
There was something about the way Rose kissed her wounds—something that made Cassandra feel wanted, seen. Loved, in a twisted, violent way. It was wrong, all of it. But it was also intoxicating.
Cassandra reached up, threading her fingers through Rose’s hair, soft despite its wild appearance. Rose closed her eyes at the touch, leaning into it as if seeking comfort. There was something raw in moments like these, something that made it impossible for Cassandra to walk away. Maybe it was because they understood each other in a way no one else could. Both daughters of men who had tainted their lives, who had passed down legacies of violence and blood. Both fighting to carve out identities of their own, yet always caught in the shadow of their fathers.
That understanding was their bond, twisted and toxic as it was.
Rose’s lips moved up, brushing against Cassandra’s in a slow, lingering kiss. Cassandra responded without hesitation, pulling her closer. For now, she wouldn’t end it. She couldn’t. Not when being with Rose made her feel something—something she couldn’t name but wasn’t ready to give up.
Not yet, at least.
As their kiss deepened, the line between love and violence blurred once more. And maybe that was what they were—two people bound by pain and understanding, by a shared hatred for the blood running through their veins. Two people who found a strange kind of solace in each other’s chaos.
Tomorrow, they might fight again. They might tear each other apart, leaving new wounds to kiss and new scars to trace. But for tonight, Cassandra let herself sink into the moment, into Rose’s touch, into the only thing that made sense in a world that never really did.
She kissed Rose back, letting herself believe, just for a little while, that this was enough.