Chapter 1 Valentina #2
"Val," Zay says, and there's something soft in his tone, something almost gentle. "You okay?"
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. I'm not okay. I'm so far from okay I can't even see it from here.
"She's fine," Asher answers for me, which is a lie, but I'm grateful for it anyway. "How's Xavier?"
"Still in surgery. Hour six." Zay says, and the exhaustion in his voice is bone-deep. "They're saying it's going to be a while longer. I'll call when I know more."
"Okay." Asher's hand comes to rest on the edge of the table, his knuckles white. "Keep us updated."
"Yeah." Zay pauses. "Take care of our girl."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Asher tilt his head to the side. “Always.”
The line goes dead and I hold still, stopping my stomach from doing back flips at the comment of our girl.
Asher moves around the table, his footsteps heavy, and stops in front of me. For a moment, he just stands there, the heat of his gaze burning a hole through my clothes, and the metallic scent of Xavier’s blood making me sick to my knees.
"Come on," he says quietly, grabbing my arm gently but firmly, and pulls me to my feet."You need air."
I don't argue. I let him guide me out of the room, through the hallway lined with dark wood paneling and portraits of men I don't recognize, and into a smaller office that smells like leather and old books.
The second the door closes behind us, I feel like I can breathe for the first time since this nightmare started.
I lean against the wall, pressing my palms flat against the cool surface, and force myself to inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
"Why?" My voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Why would you do that?"
Asher crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the desk. He rolls his jaw and the dried blood cracks against his skin.
"Because it's the only way to keep Xavier on top," he says simply. "And the only way to keep you safe."
I blink at him, trying to process his words through the fog in my head. "I don't understand."
"Xavier's enemies are circling," Asher explains, his tone matter-of-fact. " Even if you didn’t want him to claim you, he did, and the second news spreads that he’s down, They’re going to come for the Raiders. They’re going to come for you."
"But I'm not—" I start, my voice cracking. "I didn’t want this.”
Asher scoffs. “I’m sure Xav didn’t want to be shot either.”
“ I don't know what I'm doing,” I grip my hair at the root and tug a bit, looking away from him. “I'm going to mess this up, Asher. I'm going to—"
"You're not going to mess anything up," he interrupts, his voice firm but not unkind. "You're scared. That's normal. But you're also smart, and Zay, and I will help you. Okay? You’re good."
I stare at him, my throat tight, my chest aching. "I’m not good. Asher, I am far from good. I don’t want to do this. I can’t."
"You can." His voice softens, just slightly. "And you will. Because Xavier needs you to. Because we all need you to."
The weight of his words settles over me like a lead blanket, and I have to fight the urge to slide down the wall and curl into a ball. "How is he?" I ask, my voice breaking. "What's the real update? Not the sanitized version for the table. The truth."
Asher's expression darkens, and for a moment, he doesn't answer. He looks away, his jaw working like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to say. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of dried blood in the long blond strands.
"It's bad, Valentina," he says finally, and the gentleness in his voice makes my stomach drop. "The bullet... it did a lot of damage. They're working on him, but it's going to be hours before we know anything for sure, and it doesn’t look good."
My knees go weak, and I press harder against the wall to keep myself upright. "But he's alive."
"He's alive," Asher confirms, and it's the only thing keeping me from completely falling apart. "He's a fighter. You know that. He's not going down easy."
I nod, even though it feels like the floor is shifting beneath me. "When can I see him?"
"Once the doctors give the okay," Asher says. "We'll go together. But right now, Zay's the only one they're talking to. Hospital policy—next of kin only."
"Right." I swallow hard, tasting something bitter. "Right. Of course."
Asher steps closer, and suddenly his hand is on my shoulder, warm and solid and grounding.
“We’ll figure this out,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Together. You, me, Zay, Jackie. We’re going to keep the Raiders intact, and we’re going to keep you safe until Xavier comes back. I promise you that.”
I want to believe him.
God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
But all I can think about is Xavier getting close to me, whispering in my ear how I was always meant to be his like some divine blessing.
All I can think is maybe he’s right.
I am scared he will die.
I am scared that he was meant for me.
I am scared they are all meant for me.
“What if he doesn’t come back?”
The words slip out before I can stop them, small and terrified.
Asher’s grip on my shoulder tightens.
“He will.”
“But what if—”
“He will,” Asher repeats, and there’s steel in his voice now, a certainty that leaves no room for doubt. “Xavier doesn’t lose. Not to a bullet. Not to anything. You know that.”
I do know that. Or at least, I want to.
I need to.
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against the cool wall, and try to pull myself together.
Try to find some semblance of the person Asher and Jackie and Zay seem to think I am.
The person Xavier saw in me.
When I open my eyes again, Asher is still there, still watching me with that steady, unwavering gaze.
“Okay,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Okay. What do we do now?”
Asher’s mouth curves into something that might be a smile if it wasn’t so grim.
“The first thing you’re doing as interim is moving rooms.”
My stomach drops.
“What?”
“You’re not staying in Zay’s,” he says simply, like it’s already decided.
I blink at him, the words slow to land.
“So I have to sleep in Xav’s room, even though I never have. Why?”
His eyes flick to the wall, toward the chaos of the meeting room, then back to me.
“Because we just painted a target on you. Anyone who didn’t like that vote now knows exactly where you sleep.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice.
“And because if Xavier wakes up and hears you’re sleeping in his brother’s room instead of his—he’ll burn down the entire hospital.”
I choke on a breath.
“Asher—”
“It’s not about romance,” he adds, cutting me off before the panic can rise. “It’s about optics. Rumors are already floating around about you two, and it will seem like Zay is using your position and betraying Xavier if you two are sleeping together, instead of you mourning your man.”
My pulse skitters.
Xavier’s room.
A place I’ve never been allowed into.
A place I’ve only imagined—dark wood and steel, expensive sheets, clean angles, the scent of cedar and sin.
A place that feels like stepping directly into the center of him.
“Come on,” Asher nods toward the door, and I mindlessly follow into the main house.
I can hear the faint echoes of people whispering downstairs, and now I am grateful for the fact that most members live in the bunk hall on the other side of the house, or off the property all together.
The hallway feels too long and too narrow and too quiet, every step echoing back at us like a warning.
Each breath is sharp enough to taste.
We pass Zay’s room at the far end, the door cracked just enough to show a slice of darkness I recognize too well, before turning toward the small staircase tucked into the wall a little further down.
The private wing feels like stepping into a different house entirely.
Cleaner. Colder.
The air goes still, the lighting dimmer, the floors muffling sound instead of carrying it. The walls shift to a darker tone that seems to swallow movement whole.
Two locked doors face each other across the hall, names carved cleanly across the top: Asher’s. And Xavier’s.
Asher walks straight to Xavier’s and stops, his hand hovering at the handle, the silence tightening around us like a held breath.
“You’ll stay here,” he says, voice low. “Door locked. Don’t open it for anyone but me, Jackie, or Zay.”
His hand hovers over the doorknob like he’s bracing for something to jump out from behind it.
Then he pushes it open. It’s dark inside. And still. Not empty—just waiting.
“I’ll check perimeter,” Asher says. “Five minutes.”
I nod, but I don’t move.
Not until his footsteps fade down the hall.
Only then do I step inside.
It feels like stepping into a lung that forgot how to breathe.
The air is warm and still, heavy with a familiar undertone—dark cologne, cedar-wood, the faint smear of smoke.
It smells like him.
Like his shirt against my skin the night he dragged me out of that alley, like the curve of his throat when he leaned too close, like the inside of his car after he sped through the city without looking anywhere but at me.
My chest tightens as I close the door behind me.
The room is exactly what I imagined and nothing like it.
Colors press inward—charcoal, blue-black, ink—pulling the air taut. The furniture sits in disciplined lines, every edge quiet and controlled, the kind of precision that belongs to a man who does not know how to do anything halfway.
It should steady me. It doesn’t. Only the bed breaks that order.
Enormous. Low.
Wrapped in dark linen that looks impossibly soft.
The sheets are rumpled, creased in a way that says someone left quickly, that ashen scent clinging to the fabric.
The thought hits hard, but my feet still move—slow, careful, like the room might crack if I breathe wrong.
It feels like trespassing. My fingers skim the dresser.
Smooth. Cool. Certain.
Then my gaze catches on the chair, and I catch my breath, refusing to breathe more than I need to.
His shirt hangs there like an exhale he forgot to finish—dark grey, softened by years of wear, still shaped faintly by the cut of his shoulders.
It looks lived-in. Trusted.
Close to him in a way I haven’t allowed myself to be.
Something caves inside me.
My hand lifts before I can think better of it, trembling as I gather the fabric. The weight of it is nothing, but it feels unbearably heavy in my chest the higher his scent makes it to my nose.
And the minute I inhale to ease my burning chest, it slams into me so hard my breath fractures.
My eyes burn. My throat closes.
For one aching second, it feels like he’s here—standing behind me, leaning close enough that his presence fills the room the way it used to fill my chest.
And my fingers curl tighter, as if holding the shirt is the only way to keep from falling apart.
But grief doesn’t care about boundaries, and my fingers won’t let go of the fabric even as my throat tightens around a sob I refuse to release.
I pull the shirt over my head anyway.
It swallows me, long enough to bridge the space between hips and hem that brushes the backs of my knees. The collar slips wide on my shoulder, the fabric brushing the line of my collarbone, the scent clouding my senses—him, memory, the gnawing sense of a life paused in the middle of a sentence.
I stand there for a long time. Just breathing. Just trying not to fall apart.
My reflection in the dark window looks like a ghost wearing a memory, and a quiet voice begs,
You don’t deserve this.
You’re sitting in his chair, wearing his clothes while he might be—
I shut the thought down before it finishes.
I crawl onto the bed.
The mattress dips softly under my weight, the sheets cool but still smelling faintly of cedar, gunpowder, the warmth he wore like a second skin.
I lie in the center, afraid to slide to either side, as if the room might swallow me whole if I loosen even a fraction.
The room is too quiet. The bed too big. My grief too loud.
I pull the shirt up to my face and breathe, hard and slow, trying to anchor myself to a breath that won’t betray me.
There’s no comfort, not really—only longing, fear, a hollow ache carved into my ribs.
I stare at the ceiling as the shapes there drift in the corners of vision, like moths drawn to a flame that won’t go out.
Wide awake, the sheets don’t warm.
My heart doesn’t settle.
My mind won’t stop replaying Zay’s words:
He’s still in surgery.
Hours pass like that—silent, motionless, wide awake in the middle of Xavier King’s bed, wrapped in a shirt that still smells like him, wearing a crown I never asked for and praying to a god I don’t believe in that he comes back to reclaim it.