Chapter 41
The Choice I Didn’t Make
Violet
The elevator dings, its chime slicing through the silence like a blade. Before I can fully process it, Maverick’s voice shatters the air.
"VIOLET!"
It’s raw. Desperate. Urgent.
My heart lurches as I throw open my door, stepping into the hallway. For a moment, I freeze. The blood. It coats Maverick’s hands, streaks across Asher’s too-pale skin, and drips onto the pristine marble floor like a grotesque piece of abstract art.
Oh, fuck.
My stomach clenches, a wave of nausea rising so fast I almost gag. For one agonizing second, I can’t move. Then adrenaline kicks in.
Maverick is half-carrying, half-dragging him down the hall, while Asher’s head lolls against his shoulder, his shirt soaked with blood, and fabric clinging to his ribs. His usual sharp, and commanding presence is gone, leaving nothing but a lifeless, crumpled version of the man I know.
My feet finally obey, and I surge forward. “What the hell happened?” I demand, but I’m already reaching for Asher before my brain can catch up.
“No time,” Mav grits out. “Help me get him to his bed.”
I push past the horror curling in my gut and hook my arm under Asher’s other side. He’s deadweight between us, his breath ragged and uneven as we haul him into his bedroom and onto the mattress.
Maverick barks orders before I can ask another question. “The Order’s doctor is on the way, but we need to slow the bleeding. Keep pressure on the wound. Clean it as best you can.”
I don’t argue. Not when Asher is this still. Not when his skin is this cold.
Maverick presses a hand over Asher’s ribs, and Asher groans, head tilting toward the sound. I swallow hard.
“Shit,” Mav mutters. “I need to check on the teams, see if we lost anyone else.”
“Wait—”
“I’ll be back,” he snaps. “Don’t let him die, Vi.”
And then he’s gone, but not before hesitating for half a second. His jaw tight, his eyes flicker with something I almost miss—fear. And then, without another word, he disappears down the hall, leaving me alone with Asher, and the sickening scent of blood.
I exhale sharply, shoving my hair out of my face. “Asshole,” I mutter. “Like I’d just let you bleed out, you dramatic bastard.”
But Asher doesn’t answer. His eyes are half-lidded, his breath shallow.
I hesitate for a split second before bolting toward the kitchen, yanking open drawers until I find the first aid kit.
Fumbling through it with shaking hands until I find the scissors.
I rush back and cut through his ruined shirt.
The wound is brutal—a gunshot, high on his ribs.
Blood seeps steadily from the hole, sluggish but unrelenting.
I grab a towel, press it hard against his side, and he makes a pained noise in the back of his throat.
I flinch but don’t stop. “You’re fine,” I lie, applying more pressure. “You’ve had worse.”
His fingers twitch against the sheets. “Vi…”
My chest squeezes. His voice is raw, barely there.
His eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t open them.
I shake my head, cursing under my breath. “Stay with me, Redmont. Don’t you dare fucking die on me.”
I grab the bottle of vodka from his nightstand—the same one he drinks from after long nights at work—and wrench off the cap. It’s not rubbing alcohol, but it’s going to have to work. This is going to hurt.
“Sorry in advance,” I mutter, and pour it over the wound.
Asher convulses, a strangled groan tearing from his throat.
His hand shoots up, seizing my throat in a vice grip.
I go rigid, my pulse hammering beneath his trembling fingers.
But the pressure fades almost as quickly as it came—his grip slackens, and his hand slipping away as his body sags, drained of strength.
My stomach drops. “No, no, no—don’t check out on me now.
” My fingers tighten on his shoulders, shaking him harder than before.
“Asher, wake the fuck up!” My voice cracks, fear clawing at my throat.
He doesn’t move. My breath stutters, panic pressing in.
I press my hand to his cheek, his skin too damn cold. “Stay with me, damn it.”
I slap his cheek lightly. His eyes flicker open just enough for me to catch a glimpse of something else—
Pain? Confusion?
"Serafina?" the name barely leaves his lips, hoarse and fragile, before his head tilts back. "Please don't leave me here..." he hisses, his voice breaking on the words.
And then the darkness drags him under again.
Serafina? Who the hell is Serafina?
Not now, Vi. Focus.
"I am not going anywhere," I whisper, more to myself than to him, my voice shaking with a conviction I barely feel. My throat tightens. I press my hands against his wound, harder this time.
The minutes drag. Asher slips in and out of consciousness, his breathing ragged and shallow, and his skin too damn cold. Every time his eyes roll back, I shake him, call his name, and curse at him—anything to keep him here.
And then, finally, footsteps thunder down the hall.
Of course, because apparently, everyone has the secret code to the elevator that keeps me trapped here, like a goddamn caged bird.
I sag in relief as the doctor pushes past me, his bag already open.
My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the sharp edge of my own breath.
The doctor takes one look at Asher and mutters something under his breath, low and unreadable, before getting to work.
My hands shake as I press them into my lap, fingers curled so tightly they ache.
The next few minutes stretch into eternity. The room is thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the sharp bite of antiseptic. The doctor’s hands move with swift efficiency—probing, extracting, and stitching—then he reaches into his bag, pulling out an IV kit.
"He’s lost too much blood," the doctor mutters. "He needs fluids, now." He ties off Asher’s arm, finds a vein, and inserts the needle with practiced ease.
The sight of the tube, and the slow drip of clear liquid, makes my stomach twist. It feels too fragile, too temporary, like a thread barely holding him to this world. My stomach churns. I hate this. I hate seeing him like this. I hate feeling this helpless.
"The IV will help stabilize him, but if he crashes, we’ll need a transfusion fast." He glances at me, then gestures to the IV bag.
"If it runs low, replace it with one of these.
" He points to the two sitting on the nightstand.
"Just unclip the old bag and attach the new one here.
" He taps the IV line to show me. "Make sure to flush the line before switching bags—just squeeze the clamp shut, remove the old bag, spike the new one, and open the line again.
It should drip steadily. If it stops or you see air bubbles, clamp it immediately and let me know. "
He picks up a small vial and syringe. "This is his pain medication. It goes directly into the IV port here," he taps a small rubber opening on the tubing. "Draw up the dose, push it in slowly, then flush with saline to clear the line. Don't overdo it. Too much and he'll stop breathing."
His eyes flick to the gauze covering the wound. "Check his bandages every couple of hours. If the blood soaks through, apply pressure and change them. Look for swelling, redness, or anything leaking that shouldn't be—pus means infection, and we don’t have time for that shit."
He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a card and pressing it into my palm. "My number. If his fever spikes, if he gets disoriented, or if his breathing changes—call me immediately. No hesitation."
He exhales, glancing back at Asher one last time before straightening. "I've done all I can. Now it's up to him." Without another word, he grabs his bag and heads for the door, his footsteps echoing as he disappears down the hall.
I nod numbly, barely processing the words. My chest feels tight, like someone’s wrapped a fist around my ribs and won’t let go. Asher stirs, his head rolling to the side, and I hold my breath.
His lashes flutter, just barely, his gaze locking onto mine for a brief, fragile moment. Relief crashes into me so fast it nearly knocks me over.
“You’re an idiot,” I whisper, my voice cracking despite myself.
His lips twitch, the ghost of a smirk. “Didn’t… mean to ruin your night.”
A shaky laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Shut up and go to sleep.”
But as the silence settles in, my mind refuses to follow.
I stare at him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, while the IV drip working to keep him stable.
Seeing him like this—so vulnerable—is a stark contrast to the Asher I know.
The man who carries himself like a king, who walks into a room and commands it without a word.
Now, his piercing blue eyes are glassy and pale, his skin almost sickly under the dim light.
He looks fragile in a way I never thought possible, and it unsettles me.
The blood is cleaned up, his wound stitched, but the damage isn't just physical. Not for me.
Serafina. The name lingers, heavy and unshakable.
Who is she? It doesn’t matter. Not really.
Because I already know the truth—everything between us was just smoke and mirrors, a carefully constructed lie.
A sharp pang twists in my gut, but I shove it down.
I refuse to let it hurt. I refuse to let him matter.
But still, I don’t leave. Even though I should. Even though I know better.
I drag a chair closer to the bed and sink into it, exhaustion pressing on me.
My body is screaming for rest, but my mind won’t let go of the image of him lying there, so fragile.
It feels like watching a statue crack, something unbreakable reduced to something painfully human.
Despite everything, despite the questions clawing at my mind, I can't leave him like this.
I grab the remote from the nightstand and turn on the TV, but before I do, my hand hesitates.
I glance at Asher, my fingers twitching like they might reach for him, or might touch his hand just to feel something solid, something real.
But I stop myself. Not real, remember? With a sharp inhale, I flick the TV on, letting the low hum of background noise fill the room.
The screen flickers, mindless static giving way to some late-night show I don’t care about.
Anything to keep me from thinking too much, from feeling too much. But I do.
And that scares me more than anything.