I stand there watching him sleep, this man who just promised to forgive me for anything, who said we'd figure it out together, and wonder what he'll say when he finds out what I might have done.
Wonder if "anything" includes killing his brother.
Wonder if I'll still be standing here tomorrow, or if I'll be running again.
Always running.
I close the door softly behind me and lean against it in the hallway, pressing my palms to my eyes.
Days, he said. Not weeks.
Which means I have maybe seventy-two hours before I have to tell them the truth.
7
ASHER
I leanagainst the peeling wallpaper outside Xavier’s room, the weight of the compound’s slow rot pressing into my spine. The air in this hallway is thick, tasting of cheap floor wax and the metallic tang of an approaching storm.
Johnson is a vulture. I can still smell the bottom-shelf bourbon on him from this morning—the way he laughed when I mentioned Xavier’s recovery. It wasn't a real laugh; it was a jagged, predatory sound. He’s already doing the math, calculating how to carve up the remains of this kingdom while the king learns to walk again. And George? George is the real problem. He’s the silent infection, holding midnight meetings in the garage with Marcus’s old crew. No authorization. No respect. He isn't just mourning; he’s measuring the throne for a new occupant.
Then there’s Valentina.
Half the members want her back. They saw her lead for those three weeks—fair, lethal, and unshakeable. They respected her more than they ever did Xavier. But she vanished the second he woke up, leaving us to bleed out. The other half see Xavier’sabsence as the final seal on our coffin. And Zay... Zay is a live wire, shoving a gun down Tommy’s throat over twenty fucking dollars because his soul is fraying at the edges. Fear has a half-life, and we are reaching critical mass.
The legitimate businesses are a wreck. Bobby is skimming the auto shop books, the bar lost its license because someone "forgot" to renew it—as if clean money doesn't matter when you’re staring down a war. Protection rackets are falling apart; the streets are laughing at us. I’m working twenty-hour days, living on caffeine and nicotine, holding the line through sheer stubbornness.
But I’m not panicking. Panic makes you sloppy. The real problem isn't the club. The real problem is the woman behind that door.
I hear the handle turn. It’s a slow, agonizingly silent rotation that screams of a woman who has learned to move like a shadow in a house of monsters.
Valentina eases out of Xavier’s room. The dim hallway light, flickering like a dying pulse, cuts sharp shadows across her face. She looks like a porcelain doll glued back together with trembling hands. Dark circles under her eyes, weight gone from her frame, lips bitten raw. She looks like hell, but a beautiful, haunting kind of hell.
She turns, and I am right there. A shadow stepping out of the gloom.
She jumps. A sharp, jagged gasp catches in her throat. Her hand flies to her chest, her heart hammering so hard I can almost see the fabric of her shirt vibrating. Her eyes are wide, pupilsblown with a split second of pure, unadulterated terror before she recognizes me.
"Jesus, Asher," she breathes, her voice a brittle mask. "You scared the shit out of me."
"Sorry," I say. My voice is low, vibrating in the narrow space between us. I’m not sorry. I’m a hunter, and I’ve finally cornered the most beautiful, broken thing in the house.
She tries to laugh, but it’s a dry, hollow sound. "You should wear a bell... give a warning before you materialize out of nowhere."
I don’t move. I’m cataloging every twitch. The way her hands tremor before she crosses her arms. The way her eyes won't lock onto mine. I can smell her now: the clinical scent of Xavier’s soap mixed with something deeply, intoxicatinglyher—floral, sweet, and the sharp, metallic tang of cold sweat.
"Noted," I say, my voice dropping a provocatively low octave.
She shifts her weight, glancing back at Xavier’s door. Looking for an exit. "Was there something you needed? Xavier just fell asleep and I should probably?—"
"We need to talk."
"About?" She crosses her arms tighter, a physical barricade.
“About how you've been haunting this hallway for the last few days. About how you're hiding in here with a man you couldn't stand two months ago.” I push off the wall. I take a step forward, closing the distance until the heat of her body bleeds into mine. The air between us is charged, static popping in the silence. "Which is interesting. You’re playing the devoted nurse while the club burns down around us. Is that what we're calling it? Taking care of him?"
She flinches. It's a tiny movement, but I see it. "He needs help, Asher. You and Zay are busy."
"Something happened at the Vipers," I say, ignoring her deflection. I take another step. Now I’m in her space, so close I can see the gold flecks in her irises. "Something that broke you. You jump when doors slam. You shake when you think no one is looking. Zay says you wake up screaming."
