Watching.
Smirking.
Waiting.
Valentina’s breath catches. Her spine goes rigid with fear.
I pull her behind me, my hand wrapping around her wrist, possessive and protective and ready to break bones.
Because now I know exactly what this means.
Exactly how bad this is.
Exactly how deep we’re in.
“Fuck.”
12
VALENTINA
I have not beento see Xavier since he was shot.
The thought drops into my head when I wake, heavy as a stone, and refuses to move. It follows me from bed to bathroom to the hallway where the walls feel too close, to the railing where I stand and stare down at the foyer like the right angle of the banister might hold me together.
I tell myself it’s because I’ve been busy. Because the council won’t stop breathing down my neck, because Johnson needs to be kept in line, because we’re still chasing whispers about moles and Vipers and who wants me dead this week. Because the club can’t function without me—I’ve repeated that like a prayer until I almost believe it.
But the truth is simpler and uglier.
I’m scared.
I’m scared of the way Xavier looks in that bed. I’m scared of the machines and the tubes and the way his chest rises and falls without his permission. I’m scared that if I look at him too long, I’ll have to accept that there’s a version of my life where Xavierwon’t be there. A version of my life where we stop arguing and are real with each other.
I push away from the railing. My feet move on their own, carrying me down the stairs, across the hall, toward the muffled thumps and faint rhythm of music leaking from the gym.
Asher’s sanctuary.
The door is slightly ajar, light spilling through the crack. I pause with my hand on the frame, gathering what’s left of my courage, then push it open.
The air inside feels thicker somehow—warm from exertion, charged with the energy that comes with fighting a thing you can’t name. The mat covers most of the floor, scuffed and scarred from years of impact. Punching bags hang from the ceiling, swaying gently as if they’re still remembering blows.
Asher is at the far end of the room, shirtless, hands wrapped, driving punches into the heavy bag with steady, ruthless force. Each strike lands with a dull, satisfying thud, the chain above the bag rattling, his shoulders flexing under the movement.
He looks… carved. Muscles defined, skin faintly sheened from the workout, lines of tension running through his back, his arms, his neck. There’s a tattoo along his ribs that I haven’t seen before—black script curling into a symbol near his side—and for a moment I forget what I came here to do, caught by the way his body moves, by the way everything about him is contained power.
He doesn’t notice me at first, or pretends not to. He moves around the bag, feet light, breathing even, eyes locked on where his fist will land next. There’s a focus in him that feels almostunreachable, like he’s taken the parts of himself I know and locked them behind a wall.
“Asher,” I say.
He stops.
It’s not dramatic. No gasping, no flinching. Just—stillness. His left fist rests gently against the bag, his chest rising and falling a little harder now that he’s not punching through the air. He turns his head, then his body, eyes narrowing a fraction as if pulling me into focus.
“Val.” His voice is low, roughened by exertion. “You okay?”
He always starts there.
Am I okay.
