He chose me.
Out of everyone, out of everything, he chose me. Left a man he loved to die so that I could live. Carried me through a warzone. Sat beside my bed for two days, waiting to see if I would wake up.
The old me would have run from this. Would have shoved him away, stayed hardened, convinced myself that his devotion was a weakness I could exploit rather than a gift I could cherish. The old me was a coward dressed in a monster's skin, so afraid of being hurt that he hurt everyone first.
But Asher has already seen the worst of me. He's seen me broken and bloody and cruel. He's watched me try to push him away with insults and violence and indifference. And he's still here.
Love.
I shift closer, pressing my face into the curve of his neck. The movement pulls at my stitches, sends a dull throb through my side, but I don't care. I need the contact. Need to feel him warm and alive and real against me.
His arm tightens around me, even in sleep. Like he knows I need the anchor. Like he's holding on as much as I am.
My brothers are out there somewhere. Jagger is probably already plotting the next move, analyzing intel, building contingencies. Jace is sharpening his knives and brooding. Jonah is making inappropriate jokes and secretly worrying about all of us. Elliot is watching over Thiago and pretending he's not exhausted.
They're family. The family the Silent tried to break and couldn't. Family they gave to the Foundry to destroy and rebuild in a demon’s image. They failed and something about that gives me hope.
And now, somehow, there's Asher too. Fitting into the spaces between us like he was always meant to be there.
Tomorrow, we'll have to face the fallout. The failed mission. The children we didn't save. The grief that's waiting.
Tomorrow, the real work begins.
But tonight, just for tonight, I let myself have this.
Asher Madden.
The man who saw me at my worst and chose to stay.
The man I'm starting to think I might love.
The word doesn't scare me as much as it should. Maybe that's progress. Or maybe it's just blood loss making me stupid.
Either way, I'm not running. Not this time.
I close my eyes and let the darkness take me.
This time, I don't dream at all.
Chapter Eight: Asher
Thesafehouseisquieter now that the doctor has left, citing that Jinx is in good hands. We came back to the farmhouse as soon as he was cleared. It’s the safest place for us… for now.
It’s not the comfortable quiet of people at rest. The heavy quiet of failure. Of grief for those of us who knew Dom.
Four days since Geneva. Four days since I left him in that ditch. Four days of waking up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, the echo of his last words still ringing in my ears.
Go. Save your boy. Live the life I never got to have.
Jinx is asleep beside me. He sleeps a lot now, his body demanding rest even when his stubborn mind fights against it. The wound in his side is healing, the stitches holding, but he's pale and tired and moves like every step costs him.
He's alive, though. That's what matters, and the fact he didn’t want me to leave his side, so we moved into his room together.
I slip out of bed without waking him and head downstairs. The farmhouse is dark except for a light in the kitchen. Marlee, probably. She hasn't been sleeping either.
She's at the table when I enter, a bottle of whiskey in front of her, a glass half-empty in her hand. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. Marlee doesn't cry. She burns.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asks without looking up.
