Her doorknob rattles behind me.
I take the stairs faster than I should, hand sliding along the banister to keep myself from tumbling. The air feels thin, the house suddenly too big and too small at once.
I don’t look back.
I don’t want to see her face in that doorway. I don’t want to know if she’s still holding the phone. I don’t want to watch her eyes widen if she realizes I heard anything.
Because if Talia is talking to one of the Viper boys, if she is even remotely tied to him, if she is the reason information keeps slipping from our walls to his ears…
Then the mole isn’t just close.
She’s family.
And I am not ready to believe that yet.
14
VALENTINA
The past twodays have turned me into Asher’s shadow—not because I’m afraid, but because I’m trying to read him without breaking him.
Every time I think I’m ready to tell him what I heard outside Talia’s door, the words dissolve on my tongue. Not from guilt. Not from cowardice. But because saying it out loud feels like snapping a wire in a system already stretched to its limit. I don’t know if Asher would shatter or if he’d burn the whole city down before I finished the sentence.
So I stay close.
I watch.
I listen.
I wait for the right moment—if it ever comes.
Right now, we’re in the gym.
The door is propped open, letting a draft brush across the padded floor. The space smells faintly of rubber and chalk and something metallic that lives permanently in the air of roomslike this. The walls are lined with mirrors, racks of weights, the huge punching bag swaying on its chain like it’s breathing.
Asher stands with his back to me, fists wrapped, shoulders bare, body tense under the overhead lights. He’s been here for almost an hour and hasn’t said a word. His punches land with lethal precision—sharp, controlled, each one sinking into the bag with a solidity that vibrates through the floor.
I’m on the stair machine across the room.
I’m not working out nearly as intensely as he is, but the steps burn in a way I welcome: my thighs tightening, calves trembling, core engaging, the deep ache under the fresh tattoo on my lower right back pulsing in time with my breath. Every movement tugs at the ink—roses and sigil—reminding me of the needle, the metal, Zay’s steady hands bracing my hips.
But even the sting of a healing tattoo can’t compete with the sight of Asher moving.
His body is a study in controlled violence. The twist of his torso on a hook. The flex of his triceps as he resets his stance. The faint sheen of sweat highlighting the lines of his ribs. There’s brutality in him, but it’s caged, trained, something he keeps wrapped in discipline tighter than the bandages on his hands.
I watch him the way someone watches lightning: knowing it’s dangerous, knowing it’s beautiful, and unable to look away.
He senses it.
His punches falter—just slightly, just enough to sayyou’re staring at me—and then he lets the bag swing forward. He catches it with one broad, veined hand and turns his head.
His eyes meet mine.
The contact snaps through me like a live wire.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he says, voice low and rough.
It’s not cold.
