I decide not to push him. I doze instead, my dreams full of flickers that leave me more wrung out than I was to begin with. I don't even remember them. I just know that they were about Asher. I didn't like them.
"Everything looks good," the doctor says at a little after two in the afternoon. "We're going to let you go."
"What about long-term side effects?" Asher growls, pacing like a caged lion. "Shouldn't we do another scan?"
The doctor's expression tightens. "She's stable. If anything changes, call immediately, but for now, she's clear to go home."
The discharge process is a blur. There are instructions, prescriptions, and warnings about stairs and screen time. Asher listens to every word, growling twice as many questions as the doctor answers. It's overkill, but I don't hate it.
He's determined to carry me to the car, but I refuse to be carted through the hospital like a helpless little girl, so I make him settle for pushing me in a wheelchair. He's pissed about it, but he holds my hand the whole time, like if he lets go, I'll vanish.
By the time we get to the parking lot, my head is pounding. The world is too bright, too loud. I squint against the sun, clutching the edge of the blanket around my shoulders.
Asher helps me into the back seat of the Escalade, buckles me in himself, then circles around and climbs in beside me, his thigh pressed to mine, his arm across my shoulders.
He doesn't say anything. He just holds on, like he's never letting go again.
I think I sleep, or maybe I just dissociate the same way I did after my parents died, after the accident, after every ugly, awful thing that ever happened to me. It's what I do when I can't cope—I just pretend that I'm a pebble on a mountain, too insignificant for big things to happen to me. All the bad shit disappears when you pretend you don't matter enough for bad shit to find you.
But every time I blink, Asher is there—his hand on mine, his voice in my ear, his scent filling the car with salt and smoke and something that smells a lot like panic.
By the time we get to his place, it's almost dark. He lifts me out of the car like I'm glass, sets me down in the entryway, and leads me up to the penthouse with a hand braced around my waist. Every step hurts, but I don't let him see.
He takes me straight to his bedroom, and when he tucks me in, he does it like he's afraid I'll slip through the sheets and disappear.
"I'm not dying," I mutter, half-drunk on exhaustion and painkillers.
He sits on the edge of the bed, his face shadowed, his eyes fixed on my bandages. "Don't joke like that."
I try to reach for the water on the nightstand, but my hand trembles so hard I knock over the glass. He catches it, cleans up the mess, and then refills it, holding it to my lips like I'm a child.
"Drink," he says, his tone gentle.
I do, then cough. The pain in my head blooms, then recedes.
He watches me for a long time before sighing. "You ever going to tell me what happened?"
I almost laugh. "I got hit by a car. Pretty sure that's obvious."
"No," he says. "Before that. Miles was there."
I turn my face away, embarrassment burning through the haze. The accident itself is still a little hazy, but unfortunately, Miles isn't. I remember every damn word. "I didn't invite him, if that's what you're asking."
"That's not what I was asking, Brielle. I want to know what happened. Why did you walk out in front of that car?" His jaw ticks, his eyes flat, but his hand is steady on the glass he's still holding. "What did he say to upset you so badly?"
The question is a loaded gun. I don't want to answer it. I do anyway.
"He saw the bruises on my neck," I whisper.
"Ah, I see." He nods like he understands, but I'm not sure he does. How can he understand how it feels to have people treat you like you need protecting from the one person you'd kill to keep?
Miles acted like I'm breakable, like I can't possibly enjoy Asher's hands around my throat or his teeth in my skin, or the filth he whispers into my ear…like I'm not allowed to enjoy how it feels to be owned and dominated and fucked into oblivion. He acted like only broken things welcome pain with pleasure.
Asher won't ever face the same questions or scrutiny, simply because he's male. When people see the bruises I leave on him, they grin. But when it's my skin that's bruised? When it's his fingerprints around my throat? It's wrong then. Or I am. Or we are.
According to the world, women are only allowed to enjoy sex in specific, predefined conditions. If we hang onto our virginity, we're wrong. If we sleep around, we're wrong. If we like it hard, we're wrong. If we don't like certain things or like them too much, we're wrong for that, too. God forbid we be allowed to decide for ourselves what's right for us. Everyone else always thinks they know best.
"Do you?" I ask him.
