I miss the other one.
I miss the fevered, vulnerable Asher who whispered apologies to his dead sister, guilt lacing every syllable. The one who trembled under my hands, who said my name like it meant something sacred. I close my eyes, the memory sharp enough to hurt, remembering the way he held on to me, and the way he softened without even realizing it.
Now I’m trapped in his penthouse, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed with him, and to let him pull me close and pretend none of this is real.
I hate him for making me want that.
The door swings open behind me.
I don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.
Asher Redmont stands in the doorway like he owns the world—and maybe he does. He’s cleaned up now, far too put together in a fitted black sweater that clings to his broad shoulders. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the edges. It’s almost impossible to believe that two weeks ago he was shot, fevered, and barely conscious.
Now he moves like nothing ever touched him.
It pisses me off.
“Still sulking?” he asks, tilting his head.
I turn slowly, letting my glare do the talking. “Still kidnapping me?”
He sighs like I’m exhausting him. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I snap, throwing up my hands. “Is there alessdramatic way to respond to being held hostage in a penthouse?”
A slow smirk spreads across his face. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. You’ve been given the most luxurious prison known to man. You should be thanking me.”
I scoff. “For what? Making me lose my job? Holding me here like some kind of pet?” I step closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “For forcing me to take care of you while you were sick, letting me see a version of you that was actually human, only to turn around and be this—this—”
“This what?” he growls, leaning down, his breath warm against my cheek.
My stomach clenches. “This asshole,” I snap, stepping back because he’s too close, and my body is already betraying me.
His smirk deepens. “Good. I was worried you were getting too comfortable.”
I growl and turn away, but he grabs my wrist, spinning me back.
“I have something to discuss with you.”
“Oh, goody,” I mutter. “More demands?”
He ignores it. “I want to talk about Zephyra.”
I blink. “What about it?”
His grip tightens just slightly before he releases me. “I need you to make it for The Order.”
I stare at him. “Are you joking? I created that drug. I know exactly how dangerous it is. I’ve seen what it does. I’m not making it again.”
“Yes,” he says calmly. “You are. Because you’re the only one who can fix it. Then you’ll make it for me.”
I laugh sharply. “Your audacity is truly something to behold.”
“Zephyra is profitable,” he says, folding his arms, “but unstable. It lasts too long in the system, which makes it unpredictable. Fix that, and it becomes the most valuable drug on the market.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “Even if I could—which I don’t owe you—I wouldn’t. It’s already a nightmare. People have died because of it, Asher.”
His jaw tightens. “Then fix it so they don’t. It was intentionally tampered with. That threat is gone. Now you make it the right way.”
