We sit in silence, her head on my shoulder, my hands tracing the scars on her back through the thin fabric. She's perfect, even with the reminders of what I did to her. Maybe because of them.
"What's your biggest regret?" she finally asks.
I freeze, caught off guard by the question. I could lie, but she deserves the truth.
"What I said before you kissed me," I say, the words scouring my throat raw. "Teaching you to hate me. Making you think I ever blamed you."
She looks at me, hope and hurt warring in her eyes. "You could have just told me."
"You were supposed to save yourself, princess," I say, shaking my head. "Not end up in my bed anyway. I've tried so fucking hard to make you hate me so you didn't end up here."
She laughs, the sound real for once as it echoes around the cabin, squeezing what's left of my heart in a goddamn vise. "It was always going to be you, Asher."
"Yeah," I say, pulling her close, "maybe it was."
Maybe we're both fighting fate, trying like hell to deny reality. But it's the only fucking thing I know how to do because I won't be the thing that kills her. I won't be the one who destroys her completely. And if she ever knows what I really am, that's precisely what will happen.
We stay like that, locked together at thirty thousand feet, neither of us willing to let go, not even when it hurts.
Especiallywhen it hurts.
Chapter Fourteen
Brielle
The private jet lands at Van Nuys just after midnight. I'm so exhausted, I sway on my feet on the way down to the waiting car. The last six hours with Asher have been a blur—pain, pleasure, and brutal honesty all whipped together, until I don't know which way is up. I just want a bed and a week's worth of sleep.
The driver doesn't even blink when Asher hauls me into the back seat of the Escalade. He only glances at the bruises on my throat in the rearview once before deciding that, whatever story my body tells, it's above his pay grade.
I can't even keep my eyes open for most of the drive. By the time I rouse, we're winding through a snarl of gated roads that climb into the hills. I know this zip code; everyone does. It's the one you see in every movie, every magazine spread, every tabloid disaster.
But nothing about the condo at the end of the drive is what I expect. For one thing, it's just glass, light, and a sense of space so big it might be a trick of the night. The building is all straight lines and sharp corners, massive black panes that glitter with reflections of the city below. There are no gates and no visible security, just the quiet certainty that nothing gets in or out unless Asher says so.
He's on me instantly, not with his usual force but with a weird, intense urgency that makes me dizzy. He practically carries me through the entry, which is all cool marble and silver sculptures, and straight into an elevator that whispers us to the top floor.
"We use the apartments on the bottom two floors for our artists," he murmurs. "They offer more privacy than a hotel."
I don't have to ask to know he isn't here often. He rarely leaves New York, not when he can help it.
When the doors open on the top floor, I have a split second to take in the skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows so clear they look fake before he's hurrying me through. The living room itself is a blur. All I see is a slash of white sofa, a low table, and a single painting.
The entire penthouse feels like it's been designed for maximum intimidation, which makes sense. Everything about Asher is calculated for effect.
I brace myself for his usual roughness. Instead, he pauses in the hallway, his hands locked around my upper arms, staring at me like he can't decide whether to devour me or let me collapse.
"You're dead on your feet," he says, which is almost…nice?
I don't know what to do with this gentleness, so I do what I always do. I challenge it. "I'm fine," I snap, shoving at his chest. "Let go."
He doesn't. He just smirks, his mouth softening at the edges. "Don't lie to me," he says. "You're ready to pass out."
"I can handle—"
He scoops me up, bridal style. For a second, I actually think he's going to be cute about it. Then he mutters, "Don't get used to this," and I relax, because there's the asshole I know and loathe.
His bedroom is a wall of glass, the sheets on the bed so white they're basically glowing. He sets me on the bed, and then kneels, already working at the straps of my heels.
"Are you planning to chain me to your bed?" I ask, trying for a joke, but my voice comes out hoarse.
