Steel. Final.
Then—just a flicker. Something shifts.
I keep my hand where it is. Steady. “Outside a sterile lab, Asher. Real conditions. A celebration gives us cover. You choose the people. You control the room.”
He pulls back just enough to look me dead in the eyes. He exhales slowly, like the decision’s already been made. “A party gives us numbers,” he says. “And chaos. The kind we can’t replicate in a lab.”
My throat tightens. I don’t look away.
“We run it,” he continues, like he’s finishing a thought he’s been carrying longer than I have. “Every second planned. No surprises, Violet.”
I nod. Fear still coils low in my gut—but there’s something else there too. Something warmer. Unsettling.
He didn’t bend.
He claimed it.
“Good,” I say, softer than I mean to. I don’t meet his eyes again. Not yet. Because if I do, he might see the part of the plan I haven’t said out loud.
Chapter 52
Controlled Environment
Asher
Violet steps out of the bedroom, and I forget how to breathe.
The dress is scarlet silk—cut tight, unapologetic, and clinging to her like it was made with intent. Short enough to make every step dangerous. Tight enough that my eyes catch immediately on the curve of her ass before I can stop myself.
Fuck.
I picked it knowing she’d hesitate. Knowing she’d stand in front of the mirror and pretend she didn’t care while second-guessing every inch of herself. Knowing she’d joke instead of asking if she looked good. Knowing she’d wear it anyway, because defiance is her armor.
And now she’s standing there, weight shifting subtly from one foot to the other, and fingers smoothing the fabric over her hips like she’s trying to convince herself she belongs in it.
That’s what gets me. Not the silk.
Her.
The way she holds herself like she’s braced for judgment. The way she lifts her chin just a little too high, daring the room to disagree with her confidence before it has the chance.
Like she’s waiting to be told she’s too much or not enough.
Something hot and vicious coils low in my gut. Possession without permission. Hunger without patience. The kind of desire that makes my hands itch—not to touchyet, but toclaim, to strip her bare, and prove every insecurity wrong with my mouth and my teeth.
Predator instinct. Old. Ruthless.
Mine.
She clears her throat, flashes a smile that’s all teeth, sass, and carefully curated indifference. “You’re going to get me arrested.”
My eyes drag over her again, slower this time. The sway of her hips. The bare line of her thigh. The soft tension in her shoulders.
“For what?” I ask, voice steady even though my pulse has gone feral.
She huffs a laugh, pretending ease. “Indecent exposure. There should be laws about walking into public looking like this.”
She’s fishing. Not for praise—she’d never admit that. For confirmation.
