She freezes the second she recognizes me. “Asher?” Her voice is careful, guarded. Fear flashes first, then anger rushes in to cover it like a coat. “What are you doing here?”
I hold her gaze because I don’t trust myself to soften. “Checking on you.”
She scoffs, but it’s thin, breathy. “You don’t know me.”
I should agree. I should remind her—and myself—that this isn’t personal. That I don’t do personal.
Instead, I say nothing.
Her fingers twitch on the chain like she’s weighing danger against exhaustion. She inhales sharply, then unhooks it and steps back, granting me entry as if it costs her something.
She moves fast after that, putting distance between us like space can function as armor.
The apartment is dim, only the kitchen light is on, throwing long shadows across the floor. She stands with her arms crossed, chin lifted in defiance, but her shoulders are rigid, her body tight, as if she’s ready to bolt.
“You’ve been in here for two days,” I say. “You’re not leaving. You’re not answering anyone.”
Her head snaps up. “What?”
Her eyes focus on me. “How do you know that?”
“I know,” I say, letting it land like a warning.
Her eyes flick to the counter where her phone sits face-down, untouched. The movement is instant, unconscious.
She looks back at me, anger burning hotter now. “No. That’s not an answer.” She takes a step toward me instead of away, jaw tight. “How do you know what I’ve been doing in my own apartment?”
Silence stretches.
“You watching me?” she presses. “You having someone watch me?” Her voice cracks at the edges—not fear yet, but the threat of it. “Because those are very different problems, Asher.”
“It’s not safe for you to be alone,” I add, and I hate the way the words sound like concern.
She laughs, sharp and brittle. “Right. Because you’re so worried about my safety.”
I don’t rise to it. I take a step closer instead, and she stiffens, her fingers gripping the edge of the table like it’s an anchor.
The skin under her eyes is bruised with exhaustion. Her hair is pulled back, messy, and impatient.
“Does this have something to do with the dead girl?” she asks, and the question comes out quieter than her posture suggests.
“You think I’m here because of her?”
“Aren’t you?”
I tilt my head, studying her. “I wasn’t her friend.”
Her face flushes, anger sparked and immediate. “Then why are you here? And how do you even know where I live?”
“Because you’re in my world now,” I say, letting the steel back into my voice where it belongs. “A party happened in my territory. Someone died.”
Her expression shifts, the defiance wobbling into something warier. “I didn’t send Zephyra to that party,” she says quickly. “I wasn’t even there.”
“I know,” I say, and it’s the truth—Maverick’s surveillance makes that part clear, even if the rest of the story doesn’t add up yet.
Her eyes flicker. “Then why are you blaming me?”
“I’m not blaming you,” I snap, because it’s too close to a different kind of truth. “I’m trying to figure out how it happened at all.”
