Unlike when they were children, she thinks Cassel on his knees is a wonderful sight. The difference is that this time he's choosing to be there, not being ordered. His head is tilted back, baring his neck, and she runs her fingers over the sensitive skin there. He's watching her, trusting her, and shivers lightly at the feel of her silk gloves catching on his stubble. She likes how it feels too, the soft scratching sensation the thin fabric can't disguise. His eyes are half closed, and she thinks his knees are going to get sore soon, and she could be merciful, but as they've both discovered, he's a glutton for punishment. He's happy to hurt when she asks him too, ignoring the constant unspoken offer of relief that she extends.

Some nights, when he comes to her, he has a wicked look in his eyes. It's almost anger, but he looks at her and she doesn't even have to ask, he just drops to his knees and she gives him all the pain he won't ask for. He has a few more piercings from those nights, mostly in his ears, one in his eyebrow, and one that's since healed in his lip. He said he didn't like how that one looked, but she can see the smallest scar there when the light catches his face just right.

Other nights, he's already in pain. He's not physically hurt, not usually, because no one with half a brain would hurt him if they knew who he was, but he gets sad and lonely and thinks too much about the past and the hurts he's already endured. Those nights she just holds him, either with him on his knees because he still sometimes just needs to be smaller than he is, or in the bed that she calls theirs in her head and hers out loud. Those nights she works him, giving him the sweetest calmest dreams, sometimes no dreams at all. It's worth the nightmares she gets in return and she always wakes from them to him being so affectionate it surprises her. She shouldn't be surprise her anymore, because she knows he cares more than he can say, but it does. Soft kisses, warm touches, sometimes the brush of his bare hands over her back.

He's still scared sometimes, not wanting to hurt her, not wanting to transform her ever again, but he's getting better with it. He trusts her completely, letting her touch wherever she wants on him with gloves or without, but he doesn't trust himself. She knows that sometimes he still dreams of that fake memory, of killing her and being happy about it, but he won't say that. He can get cold, distant, mean even. But she knows it's just his mood swings, it's just natural for him. She can be mean too, can be just as cruel, and he lets her. She thinks he likes it, some part of him feeling like he deserves it.

Right now, he's watching her expectantly, waiting, as she brushes her fingers through his hair. She holds out her hand, just a few inches from his mouth, and he leans forward enough to bite down on the fabric of her glove. His hands are behind his back, where she told him to keep them, and he lets her glove fall from his mouth as soon as it's off. He closes his eyes when she trails her fingers over his brow, down his nose, along his jaw. He trusts her not to work him, not without his permission. She knows he's expecting pain, expecting scratches or maybe a new piercing, maybe on his other ear this time, but she just steps closer and pulls him closer until his face is pressed into her belly and she's running her fingers over the soft little hairs at the base of his neck, one hand gloved, one not. She hears his little noise of surprise, barely even a gasp, and smiles softly because she loves being able to surprise him, loves knowing that even with as much as he knows about cons and reading people, she can still pull one over on him. He loves it too, she knows, loves that he never knows what to expect with her.

"I forgot to thank you for breakfast this morning," she says softly, feeling him slowly relaxing into her. She taps his arms a little, letting him know he can drop them now, and feels his hands on her a moment later. The settle on her thighs, not doing any more than holding on to her, like he needs to know she's solid, she's there. She's there. His gloves are warm. He's switched out his usual leather ones for the ones she gave him. They're cotton, because he said the silk felt too weird on his own hands, but they're softer than the leather. He doesn't say anything, either because he doesn't know what to say or because he's not quite in the right mental place to speak yet. She'll let him stay like this as long as he needs.

"It was good. And so thoughtful. As much as I liked the food though, I missed seeing you."

"Had work to do."

"What kind of work?" He doesn't have to answer, doesn't have to say anything at all. It could be school, because she knows he's taking extra classes that he doesn't need but uses to fill the empty holes in his days. It could be conning people, because he's admitted to her that he doesn't know how to work an actual job, all he knows is the con and it works for him. He could mean working, and that she would be…concerned about. Not because she's worries he wasn't careful or because she particularly cares if he needed to work someone, but because it means he went through the blowback alone and she hates when he does that.

"Nothing much. Just time sensitive," he says. It's not a real answer, but she'll take it if it's all he can give. She tugs lightly on his hair, eliciting a small whimper from him, and smiles softly as he leans further against her.

"Did you at least have fun with it?" He nods, looking up to give her his crooked grin. She loves that grin, because it's his real one. His fake one is too normal, but everyone assumes it's the opposite. He loves to be contrary though, so it works for him.

"Good. Were you okay afterwards?" It's a subtle way of checking, of seeing if he had blowback, of seeing a little what kind of work he was doing.

"Yeah, I was okay," he tells her, closing his eyes again and leaning his head against her forearm. She knows that means either he didn't work anyone or anything, or he handled the blowback alone.

"Are you going to tell me any more?"

"If you want to know," he offers, shrugging. She knows that's his way of giving her a way out, offering her ignorance.

"Cassel. You're mine," she reminds him, gripping his hair tighter, enough that he opens his eyes at looks at her as his mouth parts. She can see his pupils expanding, going darker the harder she tugs. "I shouldn't have to ask." But she will anyway, if that's what he wants. Sometimes he doesn't like talking because he knows he's going to come off as mean or cold. She doesn't mind when he does, but she knows sometimes he doesn't like it. It's more with Daneca and Sam, because he knows she'll understand, but he still tries to catch himself.

"I worked," he says, a little breathless now but nothing overly noticeable. "Changing animals. There's a shelter, and if they don't get adopted, they get…" He doesn't have to continue. She knows part of it is lingering guilt, trying to right wrongs he's done, most that he doesn't even remember, and she can't help but admire that this hardened criminal, this conman who has been working people without magic for almost as long as he's been alive, has such a big heart under all his defenses and barriers. Underneath his icy front, he's always had a fiery heart, she knows.

"That was nice of you," she says, letting go of his hair and stroking the soft strands again. "You didn't ruin your reputation though, did you?" Most people who recognize him now don't jump to his family, they jump to her. He's not the youngest Sharpe brother, he's Lila's partner, her right hand, her second in command. He bears no scars, because she likes him unmarred save for the small mark only the two of them know about.

The black paw print stained into the skin over his ribs. It had hurt, but he had focused on her, only on her, until it was done, and melted later that night when she held him close and called him hers.

She had always known he felt like an outsider in his own family, had always known he had just wanted to belong with them. Now he's got a mark, proof, that he belongs to her, that he has somewhere he is always going to be part of. She's caught him a couple of times, paused in getting dressed, tracing a finger over it or just looking at it. His leg twitches, and she knows that means he's ready to get up. It means his knees have stopped hurting and are just numb. She steps back a little, letting him use her hands to keep himself oriented as he stands, and doesn't wait for him to be ready before she pushes him down onto the bed. He expects this and doesn't complain, but he also doesn't let go and she falls on top of him. It makes her laugh, and him smile, because it's tender and it's sweet and they don't usually let themselves get too tender or sweet. But they allow this, because things are good and quiet and they're not needed until the next evening.

"Maybe tomorrow you could make breakfast again, but this time you could stay here and eat with me?" He still doesn't eat much breakfast, and drinks way too much coffee, but she's found that she kind of likes being able to guess how much coffee he's had by the taste of his kisses. She's gotten pretty good at guessing.

"I don't know. I might have to work some more," he lies. Because she knows he wouldn't have come home if there was more to be done in one day. His eyes are closing again though, and she smiles.

"Well then I guess I won't be here when you come back," she lies. She wouldn't do that to him. Aside from how she feels, which she isn't likely to admit, he's the most loyal person she knows. Even in her family, among those who answer to her and follow her every command, he's the most loyal. She's loved him, trusted him, and been completely honest with him. That's all he asks, and he's earned every ounce of trust she gives.

"I guess I'll make dinner and eat it alone then," he says. She snorts. "As if. You'll go out with Sam and Daneca. By the time you get home, you'll be too tired to cook."

"Well now I'll have to do it just to spite you." She laughs, because that's true enough.

"And if I promise to be home?"

"Then I promise to be here too."

"I know better than to accept your promises, Cassel Sharpe."

"I always knew you were smart." She smacks his arm, not hard, but enough to make a slapping noise.

"I will make you wake up on the roof again."

"I love you." His eyes snap open, and he looks just as surprised by the words as she is.

"Softie." He relaxes at the insult. She waits a while, listening to his breathing slowing down, his heart rate evening out until a soft noise that might be an attempt at snoring escapes him. She smiles softly, pressing a feather-light kiss to his lips. He sighs in his sleep, but doesn't wake up.

"Love you too, loser," she says, because she can, because he's her loser, and she's his and she's always loved him. She doesn't think she can admit that to him, not that he would believe it if she said it. He would likely psych himself out, thinking it was just his mother's working coming back, but it's not. She knows now how that curse felt, and this isn't it.

Still, she won't tell him, not with words. He's better with reading people than trusting their words anyway.