Chapter 12 Valentina
VALENTINA
I have not been to see Xavier since he was shot.
The thought drops into my head when I wake, heavy as a stone, and refuses to move. It follows me from bed to bathroom to the hallway where the walls feel too close, to the railing where I stand and stare down at the foyer like the right angle of the banister might hold me together.
I tell myself it’s because I’ve been busy.
Because the council won’t stop breathing down my neck, because Johnson needs to be kept in line, because we’re still chasing whispers about moles and Vipers and who wants me dead this week.
Because the club can’t function without me—I’ve repeated that like a prayer until I almost believe it.
But the truth is simpler and uglier.
I’m scared.
I’m scared of the way Xavier looks in that bed.
I’m scared of the machines and the tubes and the way his chest rises and falls without his permission.
I’m scared that if I look at him too long, I’ll have to accept that there’s a version of my life where Xavier won’t be there.
A version of my life where we stop arguing and are real with each other.
I push away from the railing. My feet move on their own, carrying me down the stairs, across the hall, toward the muffled thumps and faint rhythm of music leaking from the gym.
Asher’s sanctuary.
The door is slightly ajar, light spilling through the crack. I pause with my hand on the frame, gathering what’s left of my courage, then push it open.
The air inside feels thicker somehow—warm from exertion, charged with the energy that comes with fighting a thing you can’t name. The mat covers most of the floor, scuffed and scarred from years of impact. Punching bags hang from the ceiling, swaying gently as if they’re still remembering blows.
Asher is at the far end of the room, shirtless, hands wrapped, driving punches into the heavy bag with steady, ruthless force. Each strike lands with a dull, satisfying thud, the chain above the bag rattling, his shoulders flexing under the movement.
He looks… carved. Muscles defined, skin faintly sheened from the workout, lines of tension running through his back, his arms, his neck.
There’s a tattoo along his ribs that I haven’t seen before—black script curling into a symbol near his side—and for a moment I forget what I came here to do, caught by the way his body moves, by the way everything about him is contained power.
He doesn’t notice me at first, or pretends not to. He moves around the bag, feet light, breathing even, eyes locked on where his fist will land next. There’s a focus in him that feels almost unreachable, like he’s taken the parts of himself I know and locked them behind a wall.
“Asher,” I say.
He stops.
It’s not dramatic. No gasping, no flinching. Just—stillness. His left fist rests gently against the bag, his chest rising and falling a little harder now that he’s not punching through the air. He turns his head, then his body, eyes narrowing a fraction as if pulling me into focus.
“Val.” His voice is low, roughened by exertion. “You okay?”
He always starts there.
Am I okay.
Never is there a problem, never what do you want. He asks about me like it’s a reflex, like I’m a checklist he runs through every time I enter the room. Lately, though, even that feels distant, like he’s saying the right words from far away.
I cross my arms over my chest, fingers digging into my own sides. “I need a favor.”
He watches me carefully. Sweat slides down his throat, catching the light. “All right.”
I should just say it. I should just ask. Instead, my eyes drag over him: the stiffness in his shoulders, the faint tightness around his mouth, the faint shadows under his eyes as if he hasn’t been sleeping.
He’s always close. In the hallway. Outside my door. Two steps behind me at council meetings. But lately it feels like he’s standing at the other end of a bridge he refuses to cross. As if the more I reach, the more he inches back.
I hate it.
“I haven’t visited Xavier.” The words scrape on their way out. “Not since…”
His gaze shifts, just slightly. Something darkens in it, some flicker of understanding or pain. “You’ve been busy.”
“That’s an excuse.” I swallow. “I don’t want excuses.”
Asher studies me for a long breath. “What do you want?”
“I want to see him,” I say. “But I… I don’t want to go alone.”
His jaw clenches.
That’s the only outward sign he feels anything about what I just asked, but I know him well enough to read the tension in the rest of him. His hands curl into fists, then relax. His chest rises, falls, then tightens again. As if the idea of Xavier’s room is a punch he’s not sure how to block.
“Will you take me?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. No hesitation. Just that steady, quiet certainty that has always been as dangerous as it is reassuring. “I’ll take you.”
Relief looseness something tight in my chest. “Okay.”
He nods toward the rack by the wall. “Give me ten minutes. I need a shower.”
I’m absurdly aware of the sweat on his skin, the way muscles shift as he un-wraps his hands, the way his chest flexes when he roots through his bag for a clean shirt. I look away, as if that will help.
It doesn’t.
Asher leaves the gym without another word. The door swings shut behind him, and with it goes the fragile moment where it felt like our distance had thinned.
I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and head toward the kitchen.
The house is not quiet, but the sounds feel muted—pipes groaning somewhere in the walls, faint TV noise from the den, someone laughing two rooms over.
Talia is at the kitchen table, curled into one of the chairs in Asher’s oversized hoodie, bare legs pulled up, toes digging into the cushion.
Her dark hair is twisted up into a messy knot, stray curls falling into her face.
There are circles under her eyes, but less hollow than the last time I saw her.
A mug sits in front of her, steam curling up.
Asher finally let her come back.
I still think he was wrong to send her away in the first place, even if he convinced himself it was to protect her.
I would’ve argued with him, but knowing Asher, he probably wasn’t going to let her come back until every last Viper was dead and buried.
I don’t know what changed, but I’m grateful for it.
The whole house feels less bleak with her here—less haunted.
“Hey, stranger,” I say, sliding into the chair across from her.
She looks up, and her face changes—softens, brightens. “Val.”
“When did the tyrant let you back?” I nod toward her mug.
She shrugs, lips twitching. “Last night. I told him either he would come get me on his bike or I was hitchhiking back.”
“You are one scary teen girl,” I snort. “I don’t even threaten Asher and I am a trained assassin.”
“Well I have the art of puppy dog eyes and knowing where he hides all the bodies,” she winks, lifting her mug of tea to me.
“Touché,” I nod back, turning towards the kettle to make my own cup.
We fall into a quiet, easy silence as I move around the kitchen. It surprises me how much I missed this—Talia’s presence, that soft, steady calm she carries like a second skin, the way she somehow looks both fragile and completely unbreakable at the same time.
“How are you feeling?” I ask quietly. “With… all of this.”
Her eyes drop to her hands wrapped around the mug. “Depends on the hour.” She blows on the surface of the tea, watching the ripples. “Sometimes it feels like none of it happened. Sometimes it feels like Henry.”
“Henry?” I question, blowing my tea patiently.
“Y-yeah. My twin brother,” she says softly. “He was killed by the Vipers.”
“Oh,” I whisper, my stomach free falling. “I am so sorry.”
“It was five years ago. Wrong place. Wrong time.” She whispers into her mug, before taking a sip.
“It always feels like that when someone dies,” I slip into the chair across from hers. “Like if you changed one thing about that day they would still be here. That’s how I felt about my dad.”
Even though he put me up as collateral. Even though he trained me to be a killer for the cartel he thought he would run one day.
Even if at the end of the day he is not the best person, sometimes I feel like he could’ve been better.
If I loved him more. If someone showed him an ounce more of kindness.
He would still be here. He would still be my dad, and I wouldn’t know all the ugliness about him that I know now.
“I know if I changed one thing he would still be here.” She says back.
I tilt my head to the side and lean forward. Change one thing? What is she talking about? She can’t blame herself for the death of her brother. There is nothing we can do to stop death. It's a fate we are all resigned to. There was nothing she could have have done.
“Talia--” I start to respond, but the footsteps entering the room cut me off before I can string together a sentence.
Asher steps into the kitchen, hair damp from a quick shower, fresh shirt clinging to his chest, water still drying on the strong line of his throat. There’s a faint scar near his collarbone I’ve never noticed before, a pale slash against his skin.
He scans the room quickly, that habitual assessment he never quite turns off. His gaze lands on Talia first.
“You’re having more tea,” he says flatly. “What is that, your third mug?”
“Fourth,” she corrects, unbothered.
A flicker of amusement touches his mouth and disappears. “You’ll vibrate through the floor. Zay is going to take you over to Jackie’s mom’s house in a few.”
“Ash, I can just stay here,” she sighs.
“No. When I’m not here you have to go where I know you’ll be safe,” he speaks firmly and then quickly softens. “That was the deal for you to come back here, remember?”
She rises, stepping close to him. She reaches up, cupping his cheek, eyes softening in a way that makes him look… younger. Less carved out of stone.
“You know I’m not going to die on your watch, right?” she says.