I reach up to grasp his cheek with my hand, but he tenses, his whole body turning rigid. He climbs off me, then off the bed and out of sight.
“Asher?” I call out, sitting up. I scramble off the bed behind him, but I can’t see anything in the dark.
Where did he go?
“Asher?” I yell again as I step out onto the indoor/outdoor loft.
A light breeze rustles the leaves of the trees and the sound of insects chirping and buzzing fills the air.
“Asher, where are you?”
I make my way toward the stairs, but trip over something in the middle of the floor. I right myself and look down. As I do, a scream tears from my throat.
It’s the woman. The one from the image Flores showed me. She lies sprawled and naked on my balcony. Her dead eyes are somehow still filled with fear and pain. Her mouth is pulled open, as if stuck in a gasp. Her beautiful skin is marred and mangled. Her blood puddles, flowing away from her. It spills down the stairs with a steadydrip, drip, drip.
“No,” I wheeze. “No!”
“I have to keep you safe!” Asher’s voice booms from everywhere and nowhere, all at once.
I jerk awake with another scream.
I pant and sob and my hands shake as they swipe away the tears trailing down my cheeks.
It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.
She’s not here.
But neither is Asher.
My heart plummets in my chest. I thought it was real. Ithought he was here, and everything inside me felt whole again. The echoes of his voice, of his touches, whisper across my skin and my mind—the bliss of it is almost euphoric.
Then the pain at the loss of him carves into me like the edge of a blade.
“Asher,” I whimper, my voice quivering.
How can the pain of losing dream Asher feel as devastating as when I lost the real one weeks ago?
I don’t know, and yet, it does.
I run my hands through my hair. I hug my knees to my chest. I can’t get that dream out of my head. It felt so real—until it turned into a nightmare.
The vision of the dead woman flashes across my mind.
I take a deep, steadying breath, but it does nothing to calm my racing heart. A cacophony of thoughts slam into me, confusing the hell out of me. I miss Asher. I want Asher. I’m mad at Asher. I’m terrified of his enemies and what they’re capable of.
The image of the woman is all I see when I blink.
I climb off the bed and open a window, one on the opposite side of the room as the indoor/outdoor balcony. I take in a long, shuddering breath, and force my thundering heartbeat to quiet as I listen to the soft calls of birds and the hum of insects. This place is beautiful. This place is safe.
And now I understand, at least to a degree, why Asher did what he did.
Part of me is still furious. He let his fear rule him, and he made an insane choice to drug me and haul me across the globe without my consent. The anger I feel from that is valid . . . but if Asher was under that same threat, if my choices became keeping him safe and keeping him from being one of Volkov’s victims—I would hide him away, too. I would do questionable things to keep him safe. I know I would. I can’t lie to myself and say that I wouldn’t.
Because nothing matters more to me than his life.
And I know he feels the same about me.
“You okay?”Flores asks me over a late breakfast the next morning. Her eyes are slightly concerned as they take in my appearance.
