Asher’s in Xavier’s office. Of course he is. The door’s cracked, light spilling out into the hallway. I knock once out of habit and step inside without waiting.
He’s behind the desk, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense as he signs off on something. Papers are spread out in careful, terrifying precision. The place feels different with him in it—less like a throne room, more like a war room.
“You look like bad news,” he says without glancing up.
“I bring gifts,” I reply. “Depends how you define bad.”
He looks up then, eyes pale and sharp. “Talk.”
I drop into the chair across from him, slumping more than I should, but I haven’t really slept in fourteen days unless you count hospital dozing.
“Was down at Murphy’s picking up from Eli,” I say. “He’s light, but that’s not the problem. He says the Vipers have been sniffing around. Deeper in the territory. Stocking up. Pushing south.”
Asher’s expression doesn’t change, but the tension in his shoulders ratchets a notch. “He say why?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Because we’re ‘distracted.’ Because Xavier might not ride again. You know. Casual bar talk.”
Asher leans back, fingers steepling in front of his mouth. “We planned on the Vipers posturing,” he murmurs. “Trying to nudge the line. We didn’t plan on them ramping up this fast.”
“We didn’t plan on Xavier getting shot at all,” I remind him.
His eyes flick up, cutting. “No. We didn’t.”
Guilt spikes under my breastbone. I shove it down.
“You think they’re getting inside info?” I ask. “They know he’s still out. That he hasn’t woken up, not really. Hospital staff wouldn’t risk that unless they’re suicidal. That leaves…”
He doesn’t need me to finish.
Our house.
Our people.
Moles.
“I’ll talk to Valentina,” Asher says.
Of course he will.
“She should hear it from me,” I counter, sitting up straighter. “I was there. I heard it.”
He gives me a look. “I didn’t say you wouldn’t be there. I said I’ll bring her in.”
Like she’s the boss and we’re the ones reporting. Because she is. Because we are.
A part of me balks at it every time, loyalties snarling and tangling together—brother, king, queen, leader, lover, God. Another part of me remembers the way she’s handled herself these last two weeks.
The council meetings where she didn’t flinch when men twice her size tried to talk over her. The way she fielded budgets and routes and crew complaints with dry patience and sharp questions. The way she asked for help without submitting, listened without giving up ground.
She’s good.
I hate how proud that makes me. I hate how turned on that makes me. I hate that both are true.
Asher stands, straightening the stack of papers like he’s lining thoughts into neat rows. “Stay,” he says. “I’ll get her.”
He’s halfway to the door when I call after him, “You think the Vipers wait?”
He pauses, hand on the handle, jaw tight. “No.”
