Chapter 14 Valentina
VALENTINA
The past two days have turned me into Asher’s shadow—not because I’m afraid, but because I’m trying to read him without breaking him.
Every time I think I’m ready to tell him what I heard outside Talia’s door, the words dissolve on my tongue.
Not from guilt. Not from cowardice. But because saying it out loud feels like snapping a wire in a system already stretched to its limit.
I don’t know if Asher would shatter or if he’d burn the whole city down before I finished the sentence.
So I stay close.
I watch.
I listen.
I wait for the right moment—if it ever comes.
Right now, we’re in the gym.
The door is propped open, letting a draft brush across the padded floor.
The space smells faintly of rubber and chalk and something metallic that lives permanently in the air of rooms like this.
The walls are lined with mirrors, racks of weights, the huge punching bag swaying on its chain like it’s breathing.
Asher stands with his back to me, fists wrapped, shoulders bare, body tense under the overhead lights. He’s been here for almost an hour and hasn’t said a word. His punches land with lethal precision—sharp, controlled, each one sinking into the bag with a solidity that vibrates through the floor.
I’m on the stair machine across the room.
I’m not working out nearly as intensely as he is, but the steps burn in a way I welcome: my thighs tightening, calves trembling, core engaging, the deep ache under the fresh tattoo on my lower right back pulsing in time with my breath.
Every movement tugs at the ink—roses and sigil—reminding me of the needle, the metal, Zay’s steady hands bracing my hips.
But even the sting of a healing tattoo can’t compete with the sight of Asher moving.
His body is a study in controlled violence.
The twist of his torso on a hook. The flex of his triceps as he resets his stance.
The faint sheen of sweat highlighting the lines of his ribs.
There’s brutality in him, but it’s caged, trained, something he keeps wrapped in discipline tighter than the bandages on his hands.
I watch him the way someone watches lightning: knowing it’s dangerous, knowing it’s beautiful, and unable to look away.
He senses it.
His punches falter—just slightly, just enough to say you’re staring at me—and then he lets the bag swing forward. He catches it with one broad, veined hand and turns his head.
His eyes meet mine.
The contact snaps through me like a live wire.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he says, voice low and rough.
It’s not cold.
It’s not reprimanding.
It’s too warm. Too aware. Too full of a meaning he’s been trying to hide.
I step down from the machine, breath still heavy from the rhythm of the workout, and wipe my face with the edge of my shirt.
“Like what?” I ask, letting the corners of my mouth curve because I want him to feel that I’m not scared of him, or of us, or of the way tension has been building between us like a storm.
His eyes track the movement. The way my shirt lifts slightly. The way sweat beads at my sternum. The way my leggings hug my hips. His jaw flexes.
He doesn’t look away.
My legs are a little shaky, the mix of exertion and adrenaline mingling in a dizzying way I don’t bother fighting. The skin around my tattoo feels warm, sensitive, like it’s aware of the eyes on me.
I walk toward him.
He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, breath steadying, but his shoulders stay tense, like he’s bracing for impact.
“You keep staring,” he says. “Like you’re trying to figure me out.”
“I am,” I say.
His eyes flash. Something sharp and alive flickers there. “Don’t.”
I stop a foot away from him. “Then stop being interesting.”
His breath catches. Just a fraction.
He bends to grab his water bottle, taking a long, controlled drink. The flex of his throat, the shift of his shoulders—it all feels like an invitation he’s trying not to extend.
“Spar with me,” he says finally, voice calm but threaded with something raw underneath. “Your head’s too full.”
“So is yours,” I say.
He huffs out a breath. “Exactly.”
We meet in the center of the mat.
His stance forms instantly: feet grounded, knees soft, shoulders loose. Mine follows automatically. My body knows his rhythm almost better than it knows its own.
We move slowly at first.
Measuring.
Reading.
Breathing.
He tests my guard with a gentle tap; I parry. He steps in, I pivot out. We circle each other, the air between us tightening with each pass.
When he corrects my elbow angle, his fingers brush the inside of my arm—warm, rough, lingering half a second too long. Heat sparks under my skin. I catch his wrist in response; his pulse jumps under my thumb.
His eyes flick to mine.
Everything inside me pulls toward him.
He moves in with a sweep. I block too slowly. He catches my hips, pivots me, draws me backward with the kind of control that makes my breath leave my lungs. His chest meets my back for the briefest moment—solid, hot, overwhelming—before I slip out of his hold and turn to face him again.
We’re closer now.
Too close.
We circle again.
His hand brushes my waist.
I follow the momentum and let him take me down.
But I refuse to lie under him.
I twist—sharp, practiced—and pull him down with me.
We hit the mat.
I land straddling his hips.
Our breath leaves us in the same moment.
My palms are on his chest—firm muscle under warm skin. His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging in, not in a possessive way, but in a don’t move, I need a second to breathe way.
His eyes travel from my mouth to my eyes with slow, devastating clarity.
“Valentina,” he says softly.
The way he says my name makes my stomach flip. Not pleading. Not warning. Something else.
“This is a bad idea,” he murmurs.
“Then get up,” I challenge, not moving an inch.
His jaw clenches.
He doesn’t move.
The heat between us thickens—heavy, electric, a pull I feel in the center of my ribs.
My voice lowers. “Do you want me to stop looking at you like this?”
He closes his eyes for a beat, as if that might help him regain control, and when he opens them again, that control is wearing thin.
“I want—” he starts.
Then something in him snaps.
He surges up, hand sliding to the back of my neck, and his mouth finds mine.
The kiss is heat, precision, restraint finally failing. His lips move against mine with surprising softness at first, testing the shape of it, the taste of it, before hunger takes over. His teeth graze my bottom lip; I gasp. He swallows the sound.
My hands slide up his shoulders, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer because closeness suddenly isn’t enough. He rolls us smoothly, pinning me beneath him, forearms braced on either side of my head. His chest brushes mine with each breath.
He kisses me like we’ve been building to this for years.
His mouth travels to my jaw, my neck, the hollow beneath my ear—slow, reverent, devastating. My back arches into him. His breath hits my skin in hot waves. His hand slides under my tank top, fingers splayed over my ribs, thumb tracing upward, slow enough to feel every inch of skin rise to meet him.
His voice breaks against my throat. “Tell me to stop…”
I shake my head. “I won’t.”
He groans—a sound that vibrates into my chest—and kisses me harder, mouth claiming mine with the kind of focused desperation that feels like a confession. His hands slide lower, gripping my hips, dragging me up against him until the friction steals my breath.
We move together, slow at first, then faster, bodies learning each other in half-moons and desperate arcs.
His forehead presses to mine.
His breath falls against my lips.
His hips settle between my thighs.
He says my name again—soft, bruised, reverent—right before the rest dissolves into heat.
But the heat is just the beginning. That single, perfect point of connection where our bodies meet is a live wire, and every nerve ending I possess is screaming for more. The tough fabric of his shorts is a maddening barrier, and my own leggings feel like a prison.
His hands lift from my hips, sliding around to my backside, and he grips me firmly, pulling me even tighter against the hard ridge of his cock. A whimper escapes me, high and needy.
“So impatient,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice a low, thrilling rumble. His teeth graze my bottom lip, a sharp promise that makes my knees buckle. He holds me up effortlessly. “You feel that, Val? That’s what you do to me. Every. Damn. Time.”
I can feel it. I can feel the thick, insistent pressure of him, and a fresh wave of pure, liquid want washes through me, so potent my head swims. I rock against him, a small, desperate movement I can’t control, seeking the friction I’m dying for.
A dark, approving sound vibrates in his chest. “That’s it. Show me what you need.”
One of his hands leaves my ass, sliding up my spine, and his fingers tangle in the high ponytail at the back of my head.
He gives it a gentle, testing tug, tilting my head back and exposing my throat.
His lips are there in an instant, hot and open-mouthed, tasting my skin.
He sucks lightly just below my jaw, and I know he’s marking me, branding me, and the thought is so possessive it sends a jolt straight to my core.
“Asher…” I gasp, my own hands frantic now, sliding under his damp shirt, feeling the incredible heat of his skin, the hard planes of his stomach muscles clenching under my palms.
He releases my hair, his hands going to the waistband of my leggings. His eyes lock with mine, a silent question burning in their dark depths. My breath hitches. All I can do is nod, a quick, frantic bob of my head.
Yes. God, yes.