The city lights flicker past in a blur of gold and shadow, casting long streaks across the windshield as the driver glances at us briefly in the rearview mirror before refocusing on the road. The low hum of the engine fills the silence, steady, and controlled—so unlike the thoughts twisting through my mind like a storm I can’t quiet.
Violet shifts against me, her body curling instinctively into my side, pressing closer as if she can sense the tension rolling off me even in sleep. And I let her, even though I shouldn’t. Even though it terrifies me. She must be exhausted. After everything—raw, unfiltered, and consuming—I don’t know how she hasn’t collapsed from exhaustion. The memory of her, of us, tangles in my mind like barbed wire. The way she looked at me while I was inside her—like I was the only thing in the world, like she saw me in a way no one else ever has. There was no hesitation, or pretense, just raw need, and it shook something loose inside me. I’ve had women look at me before, but not like that. Not like I mattered.
That moment left a mark on me deeper than any wound. It clawed its way into my chest, buried itself somewhere I can't reach, and I don't know how to get rid of it. I feel her exhale, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she drifts, and her body melts into mine with the kind of trust I don’t deserve. Her fingers twitch against my ribs, barely there, a fleeting touch that sends a jolt through me. She exhales, shifting slightly, and murmuring something incoherent before settling again. She’s completely unguarded, completely at ease. Even in sleep, there's a trace of that damn giggle on her lips, like she's still reliving the moment, and still finding it funny. It should piss me off even more, and maybe it does, but the heat of her against me drowns out everything else. The weight of her against me is grounding, her breath warm where it ghosts over my collarbone. Her head rests against my shoulder, fitting there like she belongs, and my fingers flex against the seat, fighting the urge to pull her closer.
The wound on my side throbs, sharp and unrelenting. I should be focusing on the pain, on the blood soaking into my shirt, and on the fact I need to see the doctor before this gets worse. I should move her, put space between us, and remind myself of the rules I swore to live by. My fingers twitch, my body tensing, ready to shift away. But before I can, she sighs softly, her breath warm against my skin, and tension in me cracks. The thought of shifting her away feels worse than the searing pain in my side. More unbearable than the blood soaking through my shirt. And for what? A few more stitches I can survive without for a little longer? I breathe through the pain, jaw locked. I can hold out a little longer.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I know better. Letting her in is reckless, but denying it feels like a lie. The walls I built aren’t just cracking—they’re caving in around me.
My free hand drifts toward her before I can stop it, fingertips grazing the strands of her hair, feeling the silken weight of it against my skin. A small, quiet thing—this moment. And maybe that’s why it hits so fucking hard. Because this… this isn’t me.
This isn’t control.
Control is the armor I’ve spent years forging, the shield that’s protected me from weakness, from loss. It has kept me alive, but right now, it feels like a cage. And yet, every slow breath she takes presses deeper, wearing down the defenses I swore were impenetrable. She shouldn’t fit against me like this, shouldn’t settle into me like she belongs. But she does. And that terrifies me more than anything. I’ve spent years mastering control, turning emotions into weapons or discarding them entirely. And yet, here she is—curled into me, unguarded—and I feel like I’m losing a battle I didn’t even realize I was fighting. She’s asleep in my arms, her breath slow and steady, while her body unconsciously molds closer. A soft hiss escapes her lips, something unintelligible, but it sends a jolt through me anyway. She shifts slightly, her fingers twitching against my ribs before settling again. That trust—so effortless, and so instinctive—presses against the weakest parts of me, and I don’t know if I want to hold onto it or run.
I should push her away, remind myself that love is a weakness. But the thought barely holds weight anymore, nothing more than a frayed thread slipping through my grasp. My father drilled that into me a long time ago. Love is leverage. It’s a liability. It’s a loaded gun waiting for someone to pull the trigger.
But right now, with her tucked against me, safe, and untouched by the world that’s clawed at me for years—I don’t care.
My throat tightens as I press a kiss to the top of her head, barely a breath of contact. The driver keeps his eyes forward, impassive, as if moments like these aren’t meant to be acknowledged.
Just for now. Just a stolen moment. Just long enough to pretend this doesn’t mean more than it should.
The words rise unspoken in my mind, dangerous in their softness. I won’t say them. Not even to myself. Because the moment I do, it’s real.
And if it’s real, I don’t think I could walk away—even if I wanted to.
Chapter 50
Blood is Just Another Word for Love
Violet
Ouch. I wake up in my bed, buried in blankets like a goddamn corpse.My bed… since when is this my bed?My body aches in ways I’m not prepared for. A delicious, terrible reminder that last night happened. That Asher fucking Redmont happened, and I let him. No, I begged him. And judging by the way every muscle in my body is currently protesting, he delivered.
I groan, rolling over onto my stomach, and immediately regret the movement. My thighs are sore, my skin is sensitive, and I’m pretty sure my dignity is lying dead somewhere back at that damn lab.
Oh yeah, the lab.
The sex wasn’t even the worst part. No, that was just the inevitable fallout of what really happened—the absolute, unfiltered rage that exploded when I found out Asher had a team working on Zephyra behind my back.My Zephyra.The betrayal burned, hot and all-consuming, and instead of doing the mature thing—like handling it with a calm, logical discussion—I did what any self-destructive disaster would do. I poked the bear. Called him weak. Dared him to prove me wrong. And, well, he did. With violent, primal, earth-shattering efficiency.
Right there in the lab. Against the counter. Papers flying. Equipment rattling.
And as if that wasn’t enough, we had an audience.
I snort, burying my face into my pillow. If I had known people were watching through the window, I might’ve put on a better show. Asher, though? Oh, he was livid. Absolutelyseething when he found out. Meanwhile, I nearly died laughing.What can I say?I like to watch, and apparently, I like to be watched.
Somewhere between that and the car ride home, things shifted. He got hurt—his stitches tore, and I found myself, against all odds, actually concerned. And for once, he let me see him, not the arrogant and untouchable heir to the Redmont empire, just... him. I touched him, held pressure against his wound, and for a brief moment, we weren’t enemies or whatever twisted thing we are. We were just two broken people sitting in the dark, pretending we didn’t just destroy each other. His breath had gone shallow, mine too, but I still reached for him, pressing my fingers over his wound like I could hold him together. Like he wasn’t the one ripping me apart. He let me. That was the worst part—he let me.
And then... sleep.
I should be ashamed. Maybe I am. But beneath the soreness, beneath the mess, something inside me feels… satisfied. And that’s the real problem.
I groan again, pushing myself up, my body screaming in protest. The clothes I have on are not the same ones I was wearing last night. Someone changed me. That someone is probably Asher, which means he undressed me, which means I have exactly three seconds to push that thought out of my brain before I combust.
I shake it off and grab my phone from the nightstand, but before I can check the time, it vibrates in my hand.
Ella.
