Marrying a Warhound (Cassian) novel Chapter 195

**TITLE: Brute 195**
**Chapter 195**

**CELESTE’S POV**

“A gift?” Celeste echoed, her voice barely masking the rising tide of frustration that began to morph into something sharper, more volatile—anger. Her brows knitted together, and she felt a heat creeping up from her chest. “What do you mean he gave you a gift?”

Atasha’s serene smile only deepened Celeste’s agitation. How could she maintain such a peaceful demeanor in a place that reeked of despair and brutality? That expression belonged to someone who was loved, someone who felt safe and secure—not to a woman ensnared in a harsh northern fortress. Celeste felt the weight of the world’s unfairness pressing against her.

Why was Atasha smiling in a place that every tale had painted as a den of monsters and bloodlust? Shouldn’t she be drowning in misery? Shouldn’t she be pleading for escape? Instead, she sat there, radiating a calmness that felt utterly misplaced, as if she had found a sense of belonging amidst the chaos.

Atasha’s fingers danced lightly along the edge of the table, her gaze flickering down to her hands for a moment before returning to Celeste’s. “Coming to the North gave me a gift,” she stated, her tone annoyingly tranquil.

Before Celeste could voice her confusion, Atasha reached to her side, her movements deliberate as she pulled something from beneath the fold of her gown. A glimmer of steel caught the light, and Celeste’s heart dropped as she realized what it was—a dagger.

Celeste shot up from her seat, the bench scraping loudly against the stone floor. “What are you doing?” she exclaimed, her voice rising in alarm, the words tumbling out before she could rein them in. Her eyes darted between Atasha’s calm face and the menacing blade, desperately hoping she would cast it aside or at least drop it.

But Atasha held firm.

With an unsettling calmness, she turned the dagger in her hand, bringing the sharp edge to her own palm. For a fleeting moment, Celeste thought it might be a bluff, that Atasha would stop just short of harming herself, using the act as a dramatic flourish.

But she didn’t stop.

The blade sliced through Atasha’s skin with a swift, practiced motion. Blood surged forth, crimson and thick, spilling over her palm and dripping onto the floor like a grotesque offering.

Celeste felt her breath hitch in her throat, her heart racing as she leaped to her feet. “Stop that, you idiot! You’re bleeding!” she shouted, panic lacing her voice, the urgency of her words slicing through the air. “What on earth are you thinking, cutting yourself like that?”

The rebuke caught in her throat as she watched in disbelief.

Before her very eyes, the blood flow slowed, the gash in Atasha’s palm pulling together as if some unseen force were stitching the torn flesh from within. The angry line of the wound began to close, tightening and smoothing until only the faintest pink mark remained. Even that faded, leaving behind unbroken skin and a smear of drying blood that had nowhere to go.

Celeste’s heart raced, pounding against her ribs as if trying to escape.

“That….” She pointed, her hand trembling despite her efforts to remain composed. “What is that, Atasha? What did you just do?”

Atasha raised her palm, turning it slowly so Celeste could see the unmarred skin clearly. Her expression remained steady, though a new light flickered in her eyes—a glimmer that had never been there before. “It is the gift I mentioned,” she replied. “A gift from the North.”

Celeste took an involuntary step back, the back of her knees colliding with the bench. “That is not a gift,” she snapped, her voice escalating in disbelief. “That is something a witch can do. That is witchcraft!”

“I am not a witch,” Atasha countered, her voice unwavering. “They have tested me. I passed every examination they demanded. I am no witch, my dear sister. In fact, as we speak, the King’s representative should be on her way home to tell the King that what I have is… a miracle.”

Celeste swallowed hard, the reality of the situation tightening around her throat. “Explain,” she commanded, her tone sharp, for asking politely felt utterly futile after witnessing such an act. “Explain how you can do that if you are not a witch. Explain how you cut your own hand and healed it as if it were nothing.”

Atasha calmly wiped the remaining blood from her palm with a cloth from the table, folding it neatly as though this were an everyday occurrence. “It is a long story,” she said, placing the cloth aside. “We do not have time for all of it.”

Celeste’s fingers clenched around the edge of the bench. “I have all the time in the world,” she replied, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “I traveled days to reach you. I crossed half the continent for you. Do not tell me we lack time.”

Atasha studied her for a long moment, those calm eyes assessing her in a way that made Celeste’s skin prickle with discomfort. Then her lips curved into a smile—not one of mockery, but something far more complex, different from the shy smiles Celeste had always known.

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