Chapter 44
Where Her Warmth Was
Asher
The room is quiet in a way that feels wrong.
Not peaceful. Not calm. Just heavy, pressing in on me until I’m painfully aware of every breath, and every pull of stitches when I shift. My body is wrecked—exhausted, sore, and dulled by painkillers—but it isn’t the wound that gnaws at me.
It’s the silence.
I shouldn’t have let myself have that moment.
That brief, reckless glimpse of something that felt like happiness.
Waking with Violet warm against me, her breath sliding over my skin, and her heartbeat steady beneath my palm.
For a few hours, lost in fever and haze, I forgot what I am.
Forgot what always happens when I let myself want something I don’t get to keep.
Now she’s gone.
Not physically. Worse than that.
Three days pass in a slow, suffocating blur.
She still comes in several times a day—efficient, distant.
Checks my temperature. Presses careful fingers to the bandages around my ribs.
Hands me my pain pills and waits until I take them before slipping away again.
No lingering. No warmth. No quiet reassurances like before, when she held me through the worst of it and whispered my name like it mattered.
Boris brings food and sets it down without his usual jokes. Even he feels it—the fracture in the room, the thing I broke.
I did this.
I know I did.
Knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.
Every time she enters, I wait for something. A look. A crack in her armor. Any sign that what happened between us wasn’t already boxed up and labeled a mistake. But she never meets my eyes. Never softens. She treats me like a task. A responsibility.
Like a patient.
And every time she leaves, the emptiness cuts deeper than the bullet ever did.
It makes me furious.
She was right there—holding me through fever and pain, grounding me when I was stripped down to something raw and unguarded. She gave me something I didn’t dare name, and I destroyed it with my mouth. With fear. With my father’s voice slipping out of me like poison.
I hate myself for it.
Does she regret it? Seeing me like that—weak, vulnerable, and at her mercy. The thought twists sharp and ugly in my chest. Maybe this was all she needed. Proof that I’m not worth staying for. The second she saw the door open, she was ready to bolt.
After everything I’ve done for her. After almost dying for her.
Maybe I really am something people leave behind once they’re free.
Maybe I always was.
I tell myself this distance is necessary. That it’s protection—for both of us. That if I let her in, if I let myself believe in something more, I’ll only end up proving my father right.
Love makes you weak. Weakness gets you killed.
I repeat it like a mantra until the words go hollow, until they taste like ash.
I can’t stand it.
The silence presses in, whispering every failure back at me. Every flaw. Every reason I should have known better by now.
When she comes in again, quiet, clipped, and setting down fresh bandages, something in me snaps.
I can’t lie here like this anymore. Helpless. Exposed. Being cared for like I’m breakable.
I push myself up, ignoring the way pain detonates along my ribs. I refuse to look at her as I reach for the glass of water on the nightstand—even though it’s too far.
I won’t ask.
I’d rather bleed.
The room tilts. Fire rips through my side, sharp and blinding, my breath hitching before I can stop it.
“Fuck.”
She’s on me instantly. “Are you fucking serious?” Violet snaps, already moving, her hands pressing into my ribs to steady me.
Concern flashes across her face—real and unguarded—before frustration slides into place instead.
Her touch is careful but firm as she checks the damage, her breath warm against my skin.
I feel the tension in her fingers, the restraint she’s holding onto by sheer force of will.
“You tore a stitch,” she mutters, and there’s a tremor in her voice she doesn’t quite hide. “Unbelievable. You are unbelievable.”
I smirk through the pain because it hurts less than admitting I needed her. “Guess you still care. Even if you don’t want to.”
She freezes. Her fingers still against my skin. When she speaks again, her voice is low and cold. “You don’t get to say that.”
The words land harder than the pain.
She moves fast after that, antiseptic burning as she cleans the wound. I hiss and grip the sheets, vision blurring for a moment.
Her touch softens just enough afterward to give her away. “You’re an idiot,” she mutters. “A reckless, stubborn idiot.”
“Been called worse,” I say.
Her eyes snap up, sharp and guarded. “Give it time.”
She wraps the bandage tight, methodical and precise. I don’t flinch. I watch her instead—the tight line of her mouth, the way she refuses to look at me unless she has to.
“Why are you even bothering?” I ask, regretting it the second the words leave my mouth.
She doesn’t answer right away. Just smooths the gauze, presses to make sure it holds. “Because I don’t want you to die.”
That’s it.
Not I care. Not you matter.
Just the bare minimum.
Something in my chest caves in anyway.
When she finally meets my gaze, there’s a storm there she refuses to let loose. “I’m sorry you got hurt for me,” she says quietly. “And… thank you. For clearing my name.”
Then she’s gone.
I don’t stop her.
Another week passes, each day marked by small victories.
The pain never fully leaves—just settles into a dull, constant ache—but I find I don’t mind it as much as I should.
It keeps me grounded. Keeps me aware. A reminder of why I can’t afford to be weak.
I force myself to move, to stretch, pushing through the discomfort even when my body protests. I refuse to be helpless any longer.
By the time I’m able to move around on my own, I’ve rebuilt my walls piece by piece, and wrapped myself in distance and control until it feels familiar again.
Safer. I tell myself that keeping her at arm’s length is the only way to survive—that if I don’t let her in, she can’t hurt me the way she already has.
I do everything on my own now. Dressing.
Eating. Walking the length of the room just to test my limits.
Still, the ache in my ribs lingers, a quiet warning of what happens when I let myself care too much.
Maverick arrives late in the evening, leaning against the doorframe like he’s been there all along. His gaze sweeps over me, taking in the way I hold myself, the stiffness in my movements, the careful control I’m forcing into every motion.
“You look like shit,” he says, stepping inside.
“Thanks for the update,” I mutter, lowering myself carefully into a chair.
He doesn’t sit. Just watches me for a moment before sighing. “You were right about Rinaldi’s men. They were lying in wait. The damage was bad, but the loss of life was small. Could’ve been worse.”
Something in my chest eases at that, even if I don’t let it show. “Cleanup?”
Mav shrugs. “Ongoing. The Order’s making sure there’s nothing left to tie back to us. It’s messy, but all in all, we came out ahead. Better than expected.”
He lingers after that, like there’s something else he wants to say, something sitting heavy on his tongue. In the end, he just exhales sharply and nods toward the door. “Rest up, Boss.”
When he’s gone, I lean back and stare at the ceiling.
The ache in my ribs pulses, steady and insistent—a reminder of everything that’s happened.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That it shouldn’t.
But if that were true, why does it feel like something more?
Why does the thought of losing her feel like a wound deeper than any bullet?
And worse—does Maverick see it too?
I hate that he knows about my sister. Hate that he saw me weak, distracted, and unraveling in ways I never allow.
I should’ve been sharper. More controlled.
Instead, I let my grief bleed out in front of him, let it cloud my judgment.
Does he think less of me now? Did he hesitate before calling me Boss?
Maybe he doesn’t see me the same way anymore.
The thought claws at me, bitter and unrelenting.
Tiny fractures in the armor I spent years perfecting.