Chapter 3 Asher #2
Not touching, not quite, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body radiating across the gap, the faint scent of vanilla and something floral—jasmine, maybe—clinging to her skin and Xavier’s shirt.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice muffled by the pillow, barely audible over the sound of our breathing.
“Don’t mention it,” I say, my eyes tracing the patterns in the ceiling plaster, the way the early morning light is starting to creep through the blinds and paint everything in shades of gray and pale gold.
Within minutes, her breathing evens out, the tension draining from her body in stages.
I can feel it happening, the way her muscles relax one by one, her shoulders dropping, her grip on the pillow loosening.
Sleep finally claims her, pulling her under with a gentleness I envy.
She shifts again in her sleep, unconscious and seeking comfort, pressing against my side.
Her head finds its way to my shoulder, fitting into the space between my arm and my chest like it was made for it, and one hand comes to rest lightly on my chest, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of my skin.
I go rigid, every muscle locking into place, my breath catching in my throat.
This—this—is dangerous territory.
Not just because of what it looks like from the outside, but because of what it feels like from the inside.
The weight of her against me, solid and real and trusting.
The way she’s let herself be vulnerable, stripped down to her rawest self and placed that fragility in my hands.
The quiet intimacy of sharing space with someone who’s hurting as much as I am, maybe more.
I force myself to relax, consciously releasing the tension in my shoulders, my jaw, my hands.
I let her stay where she is, because moving her would wake her up, and she needs this.
She needs sleep, needs a few hours of peace before the nightmare starts all over again.
She needs to not be alone in a bed that smells like the man she might lose.
So I stay still, barely breathing, until eventually—slowly, carefully—one arm comes up to rest around her shoulders, holding her steady as she sleeps.
My hand settles against her upper arm, feeling the warmth of her skin through Xavier’s shirt, and I tell myself this is just practical.
Just keeping her from rolling away. Just making sure she stays comfortable. But I don’t sleep.
I can’t.
Because every time I close my eyes, every single goddamn time, I’m back in that moment—the crack of the gunshot echoing in my ears, sharp and unmistakable.
The way Xavier’s body jerked, his eyes going wide with shock before the pain hit.
The blood spreading across his chest like a stain I’ll never be able to scrub away, no matter how hard I try.
The weight of his body as I caught him, trying to keep him upright, my hands slipping in the blood that just kept coming.
Maybe I could’ve saved him.
In my soul I feel like I was the line between life and death for him.
I feel like I welcomed the grim reaper into that room just so I could have my sweet little killer.
Valentina shifts in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent, her lips moving against my shoulder.
The sound is soft, vulnerable, and I tighten my arm around her instinctively, my hand spreading across her back.
She settles again almost immediately, her breathing soft and steady, and I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as the sun continues its slow climb.
The weight of my guilt presses down like a physical thing, a stone on my chest that makes it hard to breathe.
This is my fault.
The words echo in my head, a condemnation I can’t escape.
Outside, the sky is lightening, the darkness bleeding into pale gray and then soft pink, the first hints of dawn creeping through the blinds and painting stripes across the wall.
The world is waking up, moving forward like nothing happened, like Xavier isn’t fighting for his life, like everything hasn’t changed completely.
Valentina’s hand twitches against my chest, her fingers curling into my skin, nails pressing lightly against my sternum, and I look down at her.
She looks younger like this, softer, the sharp edges of her fear smoothed away by sleep.
Her face is relaxed, peaceful in a way I haven’t seen since before the shooting, and she looks fragile in a way she’d never allow anyone to see while she’s awake.
Vulnerable.
Human.
Breakable.
And I realize, with a clarity that’s almost painful, that I’d do anything to keep her safe.
Not just because Xavier would want me to.
Not just because it’s my duty as vice president, as his second-in-command.
Not even because keeping her safe means keeping Xavier’s empire intact.
But because she matters.
Because somewhere along the way, in between the chaos and the violence and the constant struggle to keep everything from falling apart, she became more than just Xavier’s girl.
She became someone I’d burn the world down for if it meant keeping her whole.
Someone I’d walk through fire for, take bullets for, destroy anyone who tried to hurt her.
The thought terrifies me, sends ice sliding down my spine.
I can’t be this fucking weak over a girl I have barely touched.
Not the way I want to anyway.
She shouldn’t be this important.
She can’t.
I won’t let her be.
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly through my nose, and try to quiet the storm raging in my head.
Try to focus on the steady rhythm of Valentina’s breathing, the way her chest rises and falls against my side, the warmth of her body against mine.
The way her presence is both a comfort and a reminder of everything I stand to lose—not just Xavier, but her too, if I’m not careful.
If I don’t do better, everyone I love will be gone, and I won’t care because I’ll have her.
I’m deathly obsessed with her.
Fuck me.