Chapter 12 Valentina #2
Asher’s jaw ticks. He looks like he wants to argue with her, to insist that death is always an option, that danger doesn’t care about the word brother. But what he says is, “You’re not dying. Period.”
Her smile is small and luminous. “Of course I can’t. You’d be unbearable as a grieving big brother.”
He huffs. “I’m unbearable now.”
“Exactly.” She lifts up on her toes and kisses his cheek. It’s a quick, affectionate press of lips to skin, but Asher freezes like she’s put a hand on his bare heart.
Then she steps back, grabbing her mug. “I’m going to change into sweats since I’ll be on baby duty all afternoon.”
She gives me a little wave and slips past us, leaving a trail of softer air behind.
Silence settles between Asher and me. It’s not the comfortable kind we used to share. It’s thick and heavy, full of things unsaid. I can feel his eyes on me, feel the distance between us stretch and pull.
“You ready?” he asks finally.
No. “Yes.”
We walk to the garage without speaking. The car feels too sleek, too silent, the leather of the seats cold against the backs of my thighs. Asher starts the engine. The radio is off. The absence of sound presses in.
I can feel his presence beside me the way I always do—solid, grounding, familiar. But it also feels like he’s a hundred miles away, sitting behind invisible glass.
The drive starts quiet. Streetlights blur past. Buildings turn into gray smears. The city feels like it’s holding its breath.
The silence goes from awkward to suffocating within minutes.
“This is weird,” I say.
Asher glances at me briefly, then back at the road. “What is?”
“You. Me. This.” I wave a hand vaguely in the space between us. “You’ve been… distant.”
He tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “I’ve been here every day.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.
” The frustration in my chest rises, thick and unwieldy.
“You’re physically here, Asher. You’re always physically here.
But a few weeks ago it felt like—” My throat closes around the words.
“It felt like we had… something. And now it feels like you’re halfway out the door every time we’re alone. ”
His jaw flexes. The muscle there jumps once, twice. I watch his knuckles whiten on the wheel.
“A few weeks ago,” he says slowly, “Xavier wasn’t in a hospital bed because I didn’t get to him fast enough.”
Guilt. It splinters through his voice, through the line of his shoulders. I knew it was there, humming under his skin, but hearing it out loud makes my chest ache.
“You’re not responsible for what happened to him,” I say.
“I’m responsible for the people under my protection,” he counters. “Always have been. Always will be.”
“And I’m responsible for the Raiders now,” I say. “By that logic, everything that goes wrong is my fault too, and we both know that’s not how this works or I’d already be six feet under from the weight of it.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay fixed on the road, jaw locked, throat working.
“What are we doing, then?” I push. “What are you doing? Because I feel like I’m reaching across this… gap, and every time I get close, you add another mile.”
A muscle twitches in his cheek. “We can’t…”
“We can’t what?” I press.
He exhales, a harsh, ragged sound. “We can’t have anything. Not while Xavier is like this.”
The words land like a slap.
I stare at him, trying to pull oxygen into my lungs. “Is that what you think this is? Having something like it’s a luxury item on a shelf you can pick up later?”
He flinches, barely. “Val—”
“We’re not talking about dating,” I say, voice tight.
“We’re not talking about some stupid label.
I’m talking about the fact that a few weeks ago I felt like I could lean on you without wondering if you were going to vanish.
I’m talking about the fact that you looked at me like I was more than a job.
And now you’re… polite. Careful. Distant. ”
His hands flex on the wheel. “I can’t want you while he’s lying in that bed because I wasn’t fast enough. Because I didn’t stop it. Because the last time I took my eyes off what mattered, my best friend took a bullet.”
The car fills with those words. Heavy. Irrefutable.
He swallows, eyes still on the road. “My guilt won’t let me move forward with… anything that isn’t keeping you alive and getting him back.”
There it is. Not a rejection. Not really. Just a wall he’s built out of penance.
I sink back into the seat, the hurt spreading slow and cold. I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew guilt had its hooks in him. I just didn’t realize how deep.
“Right,” I say quietly.
He glances at me then, eyes searching my face, something like regret flickering in them. “It’s not that there’s nothing there, Valentina.”
“Don’t,” I whisper. I don’t want crumbs. I don’t want half-admissions thrown into the car and then retracted in the hospital parking lot. “Just drive.”
He closes his mouth.
We spend the rest of the drive in silence.
The hospital rises out of the concrete like a sterile fortress, windows reflecting gray sky. Asher parks. The engine shuts off. The quiet between us shifts from suffocating to fragile.
I unbuckle my seatbelt, fingers clumsy. Asher gets out first, coming around to my side, opening my door like he always does. For a second, I expect his hand—his usual brief, grounding touch on my elbow.
It doesn’t come.
I step out on my own.
We walk through the automatic doors and into the too-bright lobby, the disinfectant smell clawing at my throat. The elevator hums as we rise, each floor making my pulse slam harder. My palms go damp. My stomach twists. I don’t want to see him like this. I’m not ready to see him like this.
Because the last time I saw Xavier awake… I was supposed to be named his First Lady.
And instead he was getting shot.
The guilt presses hard against my ribs. If I’d been there. If I hadn’t run. If I’d just accepted what he wanted from the beginning—if I’d chosen him when he chose me—maybe none of this would’ve happened. Maybe he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed with machines doing half the work his body can’t.
The dread builds until it buzzes in my teeth.
When we step into his room, it hits all at once. Neutral walls. Blinking monitors. Tubes snaking from his arms. Xavier, still and pale in a way he has never been around me.
My breath stutters. Guilt and what-ifs crash over me so hard my knees nearly give.
My feet feel glued to the tile, but something heavier pushes me forward—shame, longing, responsibility, maybe all three tangled in ways I can’t untangle. He deserved better than machines keeping time for him. He deserved better than me running when he reached for me.
I swallow hard and force my foot to move. Asher stays by the door, as I push myself step by step until I am standing in front of his bed.
I turn to tell Asher to come with me, but then I catch it—just for a second. The way his face changes when he looks at Xavier. The way guilt slides over his features like a shadow. The way his throat moves like he’s swallowing broken glass.
“I’ll… give you some time,” he says quietly.
“You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he cuts in sharply, biting his inner lip for a moment before exhaling.
There’s a rawness to his voice that makes my chest ache. I nod. He steps backward, toward the door.
“Call me if you need anything,” he adds.
“I will.”
Our eyes meet one last time. There’s a thousand things we’re not saying, floating in the air between us. Then he slips out of the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
Before I can think about running, I force myself to talk.
“Hey,” I say, my voice too shaky, too small. I clear my throat and try again. “Hey, asshole.”
The nickname feels wrong and right at the same time. My eyes sting.
“I know you can’t hear me,” I continue, walking closer. “But I’m going to talk anyway because if I don’t, I’ll start throwing things, and I’m pretty sure the doctors won’t like that.”
I drag the chair closer to the bed and sink into it. His face looks… peaceful, which annoys me. Like he’s on vacation instead of suspended between life and loss. There are faint bruises still fading along his jaw, shadows under his eyes.
“You’re such a prick, you know that?” I say softly. “Who the hell gets themselves shot and then decides to take a nap while I clean up your mess?”
The words come out sharper than I intend. My throat tightens.
I reach for his hand, fingers hesitant at first, then more firm. His skin is warm.
“I’m the head of the Raiders now,” I tell him. “Because you wanted me to be your girl so bad that now I am the leader of your club, until you wake up. Or maybe your club likes me more than they like you and I will be Raider Queen for life.”
A faint, watery laugh escapes me. “But I had to beat Johnson’s ass in the breakfast hall day one because he is such a fucking prick.. You’d have loved that. The look on his face, X. You have to wake up so I can reenact it for you.”
My thumb strokes across his knuckles, tracing the old scars I never knew were there.
“The club is… it’s not falling apart,” I say.
“Not yet. Jackie’s sharper than ever. Zay’s being…
Zay. Obsessive and weird and somehow exactly where I need him.
Asher’s more ghost than man at this point, hovering around me like if he blinks I’ll disappear.
” My voice cracks slightly on that. I push through.
“We’re holding it together. But it feels like—like I’m building a tower out of broken glass.
Any second and it all could come down, and you’re not here to tell me which pieces to move first.”
I draw in a slow breath, eyes closing for a moment. It’s easier to say this with my eyes shut.
“I’m mad at you,” I whisper. “I know that’s not fair, but I am.
I’m mad that you’re lying here while I have to run this club.
I’m mad that now I care about this stupid club, about these people, and then you left me with them.
I’m mad that you took a bullet the day of our ceremony.
I am mad that you are a jerk. You could have been kind to me, and I would have liked you so much quicker. ”
My eyes burn. I open them, staring at his still face, at the slight slackness around his mouth, at the eyelashes lying dark against his cheeks.
“Don’t be selfish,” I say. “Don’t stay here because it’s easier than waking up to all the bullshit. Don’t leave me like this. Ash and Zay say you wanted me, so act like it.”
My voice drops. “Please.”
Nothing.
The machines keep beeping. The air feels too thin.
I scoot closer, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor. I rest my elbow on the edge of the bed and bow my head, forehead almost touching our joined hands.
“You hear that?” I whisper. “They’re saying there’s a mole in our house, Xavier.
That someone close is feeding the Viper’s information.
It’s a mess, but I know you would have been better at this than me.
You were always three steps ahead of everyone.
I’m trying, but half the time I feel like I’m drowning and the other half I feel like I’m going to drown everyone else. ”
My fingers tighten around his. “I need you to wake up. Call me an idiot. Tell me I’m a brat. Drag me back. Or just… be there at the table so when they look at me like I’m a girl playing dress up in your throne, you can glare at them and make them remember who the fuck we are.”
I fall quiet, breathing in rhythm with the steady rise and fall of his chest. Minutes pass. My hand stays wrapped around his, fingers fitting like they always have.
My eyes close again. I feel very small.
“I don’t know how to do this without you,” I admit. “I will. I’ll figure it out. I’ll keep the club standing, I’ll protect your people, I’ll burn anyone who tries to hurt us.” My grip tightens. “But I need you to meet me halfway. You’re not allowed to just… drift away and leave me fighting alone.”
The monitor keeps its steady beep.
I’m about to move my hand, to wipe my eyes, to pull myself together, when it happens.
A faint pressure closes around my fingers.
Subtle. So subtle I almost think I imagined it. But it’s there—a tiny, definite squeeze. The contact is brief but intentional, like a tap of knuckles.
My head snaps up. I stare at his hand, at our joined fingers, at the slight tension that wasn’t there before.
“Xavier?” My voice comes out as a harsh whisper.
Nothing changes on his face. His eyes stay closed. His mouth stays relaxed.
But his hand squeezes again.
Harder this time.
A shock rips through me—fingers, chest, throat—so sudden I gasp. Panic and hope explode against each other inside me, too big for my ribs, too sharp to swallow.
I fumble for the call button with my free hand and slam it. “Nurse! Doctor! Someone!”
The door bursts open faster than I expect.
Asher, a nurse, then two doctors, then more staff flood the room in a rush of white coats and blue scrubs.
Calm voices, practiced movements. They check the monitors, his vitals, his pupils.
They move around me with quick, precise hands, the room suddenly too bright, too crowded, too loud.
“I felt him squeeze my hand,” I tell them, breath shaking. “Twice. He—he squeezed it.”
“He squeezed your hand?” Asher asks breathlessly. His eyes searching mine and darting over Xavier’s comatose body.
“Yes. It was like he was responding to me. Ash--” I rush over to him, beaming.
“Before we celebrate. It is important to know that that can happen,” he says gently. “Comatose patients sometimes exhibit involuntary motor responses. It doesn’t necessarily mean—”
“I know what I felt,” I snap, voice cracking right down the middle.
His expression doesn’t change. “It can be difficult to tell, Miss Torres. The brain—”
“He squeezed my hand when I spoke to him,” I insist. “Not randomly. Not when you poked him. When I was talking. That’s not an accident.”
They exchange looks. One of the nurses offers a sympathetic smile. “It’s a good sign that his body is responsive. But it’s too soon to know how meaningful it is, all right? We’ll keep monitoring.”
They run a few more tests, then drift out as quickly as they came, leaving the air buzzing in their wake.
“Val,” Asher sighs after a while.
I go back to sitting next to Xavier, my body hanging over his hospital bed. My hand in his.
“I know what I felt, Ash.” I snap, not wanting to hear him be realistic right now, because I can feel it. I know it is only a matter of time before Xavier comes home. I know he is fighting for me.