Chapter Ninety-Five
Raine
I jerk awake, heart pounding. Convinced I’ll find the bed next to me empty. But the steady, reassuring sound of Asher’s breathing banishes the last vestiges of the nightmare. Slowly, an inch at a time, I slide my hand across his chest until it comes to a stop over his heart.
I count his breaths. Ten of them. Then the beats under my palm. Twenty of those. Enough to prove he’s still here. I’m still here. We’re together.
It’ll be light in a couple of hours. But for now, the apartment is still except for the soft cascade of notes falling from the sound bar in the living room. The measured cadence fills the gap between too quiet and too much.
We’re alone. Ensconced in this safe house that should still be safe, with members of Inara’s team keeping watch from the street.
Asher fell asleep halfway through a bowl of Doc’s pasta e fagioli. But ten minutes later, he surfaced long enough to remove his IV while I was making a cup of chamomile. I came back to find him fumbling for a way to stop the bleeding.
The look on his face reminded me so much of how I felt the first few days after he pulled me out of the black site. I didn’t press him for an explanation. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.
His skin is warm under my palm. A couple of hours ago, we managed to get him out of what was left of his clothes and into pajama pants—small dignities, but they matter. I crawled into bed without removing anything but my shoes, and fell asleep to the sound of his steady breathing.
I should stay. Close my eyes again and try to rest. But there’s a note in the safe with my name on it, and now that he’s back with me, I’m ready to read it.
I ease out of bed, retrieve the letter, and take it into the living room.
Now that I’m no longer curled up against a warm, half naked body, the chill sends goosebumps running down my arms. My hoodie is draped over the back of the couch, and I pull it on before I spread the piece of paper out on the coffee table.
The bold strokes of his handwriting are their own form of comfort. He’s not a man who rushes. Or makes mistakes. He prepares.
You were right.
I smile in the glow of the lamp on the end table, tracing the last few letters of the word.
I have never wanted to stay anywhere as much as I want to stay with you.
My next swallow is harder. Maybe I’m not ready for this.
You built a life that assumed you’d always leave. I built one that assumed I didn’t deserve to stay.
“You deserve it, Asher. You deserve all of it,” I whisper to the empty room.
If I don’t make it back to you—
The first tear falls, hitting my thumb.
We’ll be together long enough that our scars fade into stories rather than warnings.
The words blur. Our scars. He’s been thinking in terms of “us” almost from the beginning. He knew. Long before I understood what we were building…he knew.
You’re the only choice I’ve ever made that didn’t require a calculation.
I stop pretending I can hold it together.
The tears come quietly. I can still remember a time when I hadn’t cried in years.
Now, I can’t seem to stop. I clutch the letter to my chest, turn my gaze to the window, to the city that sleeps all around us, and breathe through the spike—four in, hold, six out.
Counting doesn’t help this time, and after a while, I stop trying.
I don’t know how long I sit like that before I sense him.
He’s barely upright, one hand on the door frame, swaying on his feet, and looking at me like he did when he saw me across that lobby. Like he can’t quite believe I’m real.
My own legs aren’t completely steady as I round the couch. “You should be in bed.”
“Probably,” he rasps.
Doc said his voice might come and go over the next few days. Residual trauma. Nerves coming back online, complaining, and going on strike again.
I curl my arm around his waist, avoiding the thick square of gauze at his side. “The couch, then. For now.”
Asher leans on me, as much for connection as support, I think.
We settle—carefully, slowly—and I drag a blanket around his shoulders before he pulls me close. For several minutes, we don’t speak. It’s enough to be together.
But eventually, he nods at the note on the coffee table. “You found it.” His voice isn’t much more than a whisper with rough edges.
“You knew I would.”
He nods. He’s breathing easier than he was a few hours ago. So am I. “Still true. Always true.” The words come out carefully, rationed in case he loses them again.
“I know.” Tipping my head against his shoulder, I wait exactly two seconds. “Is this okay?”
“More than. Need…you.” He pulls me closer, flinches, then sighs.
I almost tell him to let go, that I can’t stand hurting him. And then I remember the first time I asked him to touch me. How my back had been covered in bruises, but I’d needed his hand between my shoulder blades, despite the pain.
“We’re still here.” I trail my fingers over his chest, the steady beat of his heart strong under my palm.
We’re not the same people we were two months ago.
Or two weeks ago. Or even two days ago. Parts of us are broken.
Some might never fully heal. But we’re here.
We’re choosing each other, fully aware of what it costs and what we get in return.
His lips press to my temple. A fresh tear rolls down my cheek.
“Build it with me.” His voice frays on the last word, almost disappearing entirely. But I can still hear him. I’ll always hear him.
I turn to look at him. At the man who followed my lead into the worst thing either of us has survived.
“I will. All of it. The paint colors and the desk by the window and the business cards and ridiculous coffee mugs and maybe even an address that doesn’t require half a dozen shell companies to keep it hidden.”
He chuckles, catches his breath sharply, and presses his free hand to his side. “We should keep…one shell company. For…emergencies.”
My own laugh is small, but genuine, a reaction I wasn’t sure I was still capable of.
I close my eyes, my thoughts settling as his hand finds my hip, thumb tracing slow circles over the strip of skin between my t-shirt and leggings. For now, I let myself simply exist. In this apartment. On this couch. With him.
Something crinkles in the pocket of my hoodie, and Asher goes completely still. I’d forgotten all about taking this from his hand when I gave him the flash bang. I pull out the folded paper, worn soft at the folds, the edges stained with dried blood, and offer it to him.
“What is it?”
“Hope,” he whispers. “Open it.”
It takes me a moment to understand what I’m seeing. To recognize the words I typed more than twenty-four hours ago as my own. “How did you get this?”
“Voss. Thought he could…break me. Told me…you weren’t coming.” His voice is stronger now. As if seeing this gave him back something he lost in that place. “‘Follow my lead.’”
The lump in my throat swells, and I cradle the note carefully. It deserves that for getting Asher through some of the worst hours of his life.
“I didn’t know if you’d see it. But you came up with that line about Junior Varsity Football and I had to try.”
He tips my chin up gently, his eyes full of the promises and plans we made on this couch the night before he was taken. “You saved me, Raine.”
“We saved each other.” I snuggle closer, and under the scent of blood and sweat and antiseptic, he’s still Asher. Still the man who heard me say three words and decided I was worth fighting for.