Neveris there a problem, neverwhat do you want. He asks about me like it’s a reflex, like I’m a checklist he runs through every time I enter the room. Lately, though, even that feels distant, like he’s saying the right words from far away.
I cross my arms over my chest, fingers digging into my own sides. “I need a favor.”
He watches me carefully. Sweat slides down his throat, catching the light. “All right.”
I should just say it. I should just ask. Instead, my eyes drag over him: the stiffness in his shoulders, the faint tightness around his mouth, the faint shadows under his eyes as if he hasn’t been sleeping.
He’s always close. In the hallway. Outside my door. Two steps behind me at council meetings. But lately it feels like he’sstanding at the other end of a bridge he refuses to cross. As if the more I reach, the more he inches back.
I hate it.
“I haven’t visited Xavier.” The words scrape on their way out. “Not since…”
His gaze shifts, just slightly. Something darkens in it, some flicker of understanding or pain. “You’ve been busy.”
“That’s an excuse.” I swallow. “I don’t want excuses.”
Asher studies me for a long breath. “What do you want?”
“I want to see him,” I say. “But I… I don’t want to go alone.”
His jaw clenches.
That’s the only outward sign he feels anything about what I just asked, but I know him well enough to read the tension in the rest of him. His hands curl into fists, then relax. His chest rises, falls, then tightens again. As if the idea of Xavier’s room is a punch he’s not sure how to block.
“Will you take me?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. No hesitation. Just that steady, quiet certainty that has always been as dangerous as it is reassuring. “I’ll take you.”
Relief looseness something tight in my chest. “Okay.”
He nods toward the rack by the wall. “Give me ten minutes. I need a shower.”
I’m absurdly aware of the sweat on his skin, the way muscles shift as he un-wraps his hands, the way his chest flexes when heroots through his bag for a clean shirt. I look away, as if that will help.
It doesn’t.
Asher leaves the gym without another word. The door swings shut behind him, and with it goes the fragile moment where it felt like our distance had thinned.
I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and head toward the kitchen.
The house is not quiet, but the sounds feel muted—pipes groaning somewhere in the walls, faint TV noise from the den, someone laughing two rooms over.
Talia is at the kitchen table, curled into one of the chairs in Asher’s oversized hoodie, bare legs pulled up, toes digging into the cushion. Her dark hair is twisted up into a messy knot, stray curls falling into her face. There are circles under her eyes, but less hollow than the last time I saw her. A mug sits in front of her, steam curling up.
Asher finally let her come back.
I still think he was wrong to send her away in the first place, even if he convinced himself it was to protect her. I would’ve argued with him, but knowing Asher, he probably wasn’t going to let her come back until every last Viper was dead and buried. I don’t know what changed, but I’m grateful for it. The whole house feels less bleak with her here—less haunted.
“Hey, stranger,” I say, sliding into the chair across from her.
She looks up, and her face changes—softens, brightens. “Val.”
“When did the tyrant let you back?” I nod toward her mug.
She shrugs, lips twitching. “Last night. I told him either he would come get me on his bike or I was hitchhiking back.”
“You are one scary teen girl,” I snort. “I don’t even threaten Asher and I am a trained assassin.”
