Pain detonates in my side, white-hot and blinding, dropping me to my knees as the world fractures around me. Maverick fires without hesitation, one clean shot. Rinaldi slumps forward, lifeless before he hits the desk.
My legs give out completely.
Maverick catches me before I hit the floor. “You could’ve mentioned the personal vendetta,” he mutters grimly.
Darkness claws at the edges of my vision as he hauls me up, dragging meout.
Pain. Cold. Voices.
I drift in and out, barely tethered to consciousness. Hands press against my ribs. Someone is shouting—Maverick, furious and scared.
Then—
Violet.
Her voice cuts through everything, soft and panicked, and I force my eyes open. She’s there, hands shaking, and stained red with my blood.
“Asher—stay with me.”
I try to speak. My throat burns. Nothing comes.
She presses her forehead to mine, crying.
I hate that more than the pain.
“Vi,” I manage, barely a whisper.
And then the darkness takes me.
Chapter 41
The Choice I Didn’t Make
Violet
The elevator dings, its chime slicing through the silence like a blade. Before I can fully process it, Maverick’s voice shatters the air.
"VIOLET!"
It’s raw. Desperate. Urgent.
My heart lurches as I throw open my door, stepping into the hallway. For a moment, I freeze. The blood. It coats Maverick’s hands, streaks across Asher’s too-pale skin, and drips onto the pristine marble floor like a grotesque piece of abstract art.
Oh, fuck.
My stomach clenches, a wave of nausea rising so fast I almost gag. For one agonizing second, I can’t move. Then adrenaline kicks in.
Maverick is half-carrying, half-dragging him down the hall, while Asher’s head lolls against his shoulder, his shirt soaked with blood, and fabric clinging to his ribs. His usual sharp, and commanding presence is gone, leaving nothing but a lifeless, crumpled version of the man I know.
My feet finally obey, and I surge forward. “What the hell happened?” I demand, but I’m already reaching for Asher before my brain can catch up.
“No time,” Mav grits out. “Help me get him to his bed.”
I push past the horror curling in my gut and hook my arm under Asher’s other side. He’s deadweight between us, his breath ragged and uneven as we haul him into his bedroom and onto the mattress.
Maverick barks orders before I can ask another question. “The Order’s doctor is on the way, but we need to slow the bleeding. Keep pressure on the wound. Clean it as best you can.”
I don’t argue. Not when Asher is this still. Not when his skin is this cold.
