Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
ASHER
Her ass should be fucking illegal.
Tight little thing, swaying in those too-thick snow pants like she doesn’t know what she’s doing to me. Every step she takes is torture. Bouncing. Shifting. Grinding my restraint down to the fucking bone. Shit, maybe I’ll have her hike in front of me the whole damn way just for the view.
It's below zero and I’m not even cold. Not with her looking like that. Not when I know what’s under all those layers. What she tastes like under my tongue. What she sounds like when she falls apart.
She’s mine, and watching her trudge through the snow like this—lips pink, cheeks flushed, breath sharp in the air does something to me. Something primal and fucking permanent.
The snow is deeper today. Heavy, wet stuff that clings to your boots and tugs at your calves with every step. A whole new layer dumped overnight, thick enough to drown the path we took yesterday, swallow the porch, smooth out the world into something fresh and untouched.
Sloan’s ahead of me at first, bundled in a black parka, scarf tucked up to her chin, boots clumsy as she trudges through the snow, trying to match my pace. Her hips sway just enough to make the hike worth it. Every few steps, I catch myself staring—like a fucking deviant.
Then she stops, breath fogging sharp in the cold, one gloved hand braced on her thigh as she catches her breath. “Jesus,” she mutters. “You’re trying to kill me?”
I smirk, stepping past her. “Do you really think I’d go through all this trouble to stalk you, learn about you, and kidnap you, just to kill you in the middle of nowhere? With no witness? Where’s the fun in that?”
She gives me a glare that doesn't stick, then falls in behind me. I sigh, just a little. There goes the view.
Still—she hasn’t complained. Not really. Even though her legs are half the length of mine. Even though I didn’t tell her where we’re going. That alone makes something warm flicker low in my chest. Obedience is one thing. But this? This is… choice. She didn’t have to come with me. She wanted to.
Or maybe she didn’t want to be left behind.
Either way, she’s here.
“We’re tracking deer,” I say over my shoulder. “They’ve been skirting the treeline more often—probably bedding somewhere closer. If we get lucky, we’ll catch their trail before the snow buries it again.”
She doesn’t respond, but I hear her footsteps slow, crunch-crunch-crunch as she pushes forward. Her silence isn’t icy anymore. It’s thoughtful. She watches the trees like she’s trying to memorize every curve of bark, every drift, every branch still clinging to frozen berries.
I like her like this. Alert. Curious. Alive.
We hike further into the woods, past the place where the pines grow thicker and the hush gets deeper, more intimate. The snow eats the sound of our steps, turning everything ghost-quiet. A single crow caws from a distance, then goes still.
For a while, I don’t say anything. Just listen to the rhythm of our breathing.
Her sniffles. The crunch of snow under our boots.
The way the trees creak above us, bare branches reaching like bones toward the white sky.
It’s not as cold now that we’re moving, but the silence wraps around us like a second skin—thick, unbroken, peaceful in a way most people would find eerie.
She finally breaks it.
“You’re… weirdly okay with all this.”
I glance over my shoulder. “All what?”
“The isolation,” she says, trudging along. “The quiet. Being out here alone. It doesn’t bother you.”
I grin to myself. “Should it?”
She shrugs. “Most people go stir-crazy when they’re cut off. You? You act like you were born for it.”
That grin fades, just a little. I slow my pace.
“Maybe I was,” I say quietly.
She frowns, but doesn’t ask.
Not yet.
I let the pause hang, waiting for the trail to flatten before I give in and glance at her again. She’s watching me, curious, but cautious—like she’s trying to decide whether or not she’s allowed to ask more.
So I save her the trouble.
“I spent a lot of time alone when I was locked up,” I say. “Silence doesn’t scare me. It’s familiar, I guess.”
Her brows pinch. “Locked up?”
I don’t stop, nodding once before I look forward again. “Institution. A few of them. First one was when I was eleven.”
She doesn’t speak, but I hear her footfalls slow slightly behind me.
“They said I was a danger to myself,” I go on, voice low. “Then to others. Put me on pills that made my skin crawl and strapped me to beds in rooms where the windows didn’t open. You’d be amazed what kind of paperwork your parents will sign when they’re embarrassed to be seen with you.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Just lets me talk. I don’t do this often. Don’t share. Don’t explain. But something about the way she listens—quiet, focused, and without pity, makes it easier than it should be.
“My parents had an image to protect. Country club smiles. Perfect son. Alex was the golden boy with his varsity everything, straight-A’s, and charm.
And me?” I snort. “I cried too loud when he got a new bike and I didn’t.
I broke a plate when I was angry. Drew pictures with red crayon and called it blood.
Normal kid shit. But in a house like that? They called it a warning sign.”
Her breath clouds the air beside me.
“They didn’t take me to therapy,” I say. “They took me to a priest. When that didn’t work, they packed me up and handed me off to people with white coats and clipboards. Alex stayed home, got a new phone and a family vacation. I got sedated and left in a locked room.”
“Jesus,” she mutters.
I keep walking. The snow squeaks beneath our boots this time.
“That place was hell. You scream, and no one comes. You cry, and they write it down like a symptom. Eventually, you go quiet—not because you’re calm, but because it doesn’t matter. You learn how to sit still. How to stare at nothing. How to disappear inside yourself.”
I pause, just long enough to let that settle.
“They left me in solitary for three months once. No windows. No clocks. Just me. I used to count the cracks in the wall to keep track of time. Carved poems into the plaster with my fingernails. Made up voices just to have someone to talk to.”
Sloan stays quiet, but I can feel her watching me.
“They did visit once, when I was about fourteen,” I add.
“I can still see them now. How they stood behind the glass looking at me like a stranger despite the fact that I’m a spitting image of their precious prodigal son.
An embarrassment. My mom cried. My dad just shook his head, wouldn’t even meet my eyes, and Alex?
He fucking waved like I was behind a fucking aquarium wall and asked if I’d be home for his birthday. Clueless fucking idiot.”
My jaw tightens.
“That’s when I realized love wasn’t enough. I didn’t want something soft. I wanted something permanent. Something undeniable. Something that couldn’t be taken away, or unchosen.”
She exhales slowly. “That’s what this is to you.”
I nod. “You’re not a hostage, Sloan. You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.”
She doesn’t look away. Her expression is unreadable. Not disgust. Not sympathy. Just… understanding. And for me, that’s enough.
The snow keeps falling.
But for the first time in years, it doesn’t feel like it’s burying me.
It feels like a clean slate.
For a second, she just stands there. The wind stirs her hair across her cheek. Her eyes gleam.
It happens so fast I don’t react in time. Her shoulders lurch. Her knees buckle. And then she’s throwing up in the snow.
“Shit.” I’m beside her in two seconds, one hand on her back, the other trying to catch her hair before it falls into the mess.
She chokes. Gags. Then vomits again, harder this time, her whole body shuddering as bile splatters against the powder.
“Easy,” I murmur, steadying her. “Breathe through it. Let it out, I’ve got you.”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her glove, groaning softly. Her face is pale, lips chapped and trembling.
“Food… it’s not sitting right,” she mumbles. “Maybe the meat—”
“No,” I say, a little too sharply. “Nothing wrong with the meat. I eat the same stuff.”
She shakes her head. “Then what—”
“Come on.” I crouch beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “We’re going back.”
“I can walk—”
“You can barely stand, sweet doe.”
She protests, but her knees wobble when she tries to straighten. Without another word, I scoop her up.
She doesn’t fight me this time.
Her body folds into mine like she belongs there.
I walk us back through the snow, heart hammering in my throat. She’s so light. Too light. Her fingers curl against my coat like she’s cold and trying not to ask for help. Her cheek rests against my collarbone, hot with fever.
Something’s fucking wrong.
By the time we make it to the cabin, I’m coated in sweat despite the cold. I set her down gently on the couch and throw another log on the fire. The flames hiss and crackle to life, filling the space with warmth and flickering orange light.
She groans and curls into herself.
“You need water,” I mutter, grabbing a thermos from the shelf and twisting the lid off. “Blanket’s already here, I have fever meds upstairs... Hang on.”
I move quickly.
Up the stairs, two at a time. Grab the bottle of fever meds off the nightstand, swipe a fresh pillow off the bed with one hand and a clean rag with the other.
When I come back down, she hasn’t moved much—still curled up under the throw blanket, looking pale and miserable, a faint sheen of sweat slicking her forehead.
I throw everything into the bedroom, then lean in and lift her gently into my arms. She mumbles something—too soft to catch—but she doesn’t fight it. Just sags into me like her bones are too heavy to carry on their own.
“Shh, I got you.”
I carry her to our room, then lower myself onto the bed, shift the pillow behind me, and pull her down against my chest. Her head finds the dip just below my collarbone. I tuck the blanket tighter around her and pull the trash can closer, setting it right beside the bed, just in case.
“Sit up for a second,” I murmur, uncapping the pill bottle.
She tries. It’s slow, groggy, but she gets there with my help. I press two pills into her palm and hold the thermos to her lips. “Small sips,” I say, voice gentler than I knew I could be. “Don’t rush it.”
She obeys. Swallows the meds. Grimaces like even that took too much effort.
I set the water down and guide her back against me, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Her skin is clammy, her pulse fluttering too fast beneath her wrist. I press the cool rag to her forehead, brushing damp strands of hair out of her face.
“I’ll take care of you,” I whisper, like a vow. “No one ever did that for me. Not really. Not when it mattered.”
She doesn’t say anything back. Her eyes are already fluttering closed, but I know she hears me, and for now, that’s enough.
Her breathing slows, and she shifts closer, her fingers brushing against my thigh softly as she looks up, eyes half-lidded, voice fragile as glass.
“I’ll never leave you like they left me.”
It takes me a second to realize I said it aloud.
Her gaze holds mine.
Then, slowly, she reaches for my hand. Pulls my wrist toward her. Her fingers tracing the scars hidden beneath my sleeve that are now no more than raised lines, faded but permanent.
Her touch is featherlight. Almost reverent.
“I understand now,” she whispers, and somehow, in that moment, her warmth is the only thing in the whole fucking world that feels real.