Chapter 10
MIA
No matter how much I try, I find it hard to relax after the girls go to bed. My stomach groans. I didn’t have dinner because I didn’t feel like eating anything, and now my stomach is revolting.
I pause at the sight of Asher standing by the kitchen counter, his sleeves rolled up and a smudge of flour on his wrist. A tray of cookies cools beside him, and another batch is in the oven.
“You bake?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
He glances up, grinning as he scrapes dough from a mixing bowl. “The smell helps kids feel at home,” he says, then shrugs. “Also, surveillance is boring without snacks.”
I smile despite myself, stepping closer to the counter. “At midnight?”
“Stress-baking,” he admits. “Everyone’s got their thing.”
“So you stress-bake. Cute,” I say, unable to help myself.
“Sometimes I build things,” he replies. “But this is quieter, and I figured you didn’t want me hammering at midnight.”
I lean against the counter, watching him with mild fascination. It’s strange seeing someone like Asher—broad shoulders, calloused hands, the quiet intensity that all but screams dangerous—making cookies like he’s auditioning for a baking show.
“You’re good at this,” I remark, nodding at the tray already lined with dough. “Your mom teach you?”
His hands pause for a moment. “No. Olive did. She’s… well, she’s not family by blood, but she raised me.”
The mention of this person stirs something curious in me. “Where were your parents?” I ask gently.
His hands resume their work, and he doesn’t look at me. “They died when I was a kid,” he says.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but no words come.
“I was eight,” he continues flatly, like he’s explaining someone else’s life. “Home invasion. I was in the closet hiding like they told me to. Heard everything.”
My stomach twists. “Asher, I’m—”
“Don’t,” he says, glancing up at me. His expression isn’t cold, but there’s a quiet finality to his tone. “It was a long time ago. Olive made sure I had a home and a chance to grow up. That’s more than a lot of kids get.”
The image of Asher as a frightened child hiding in a closet is hard to reconcile with the confident, composed man standing in front of me.
“Is that why you…” I trail off, gesturing vaguely toward him. “Why you do this? Protect people?”
He nods once, placing the baking sheet in the oven. “Something like that. I started out in intelligence.”
“Military?” I ask, even though I’m already sure of the answer.
“Intelligence wing,” he confirms, leaning against the counter.
“Worked ops, gathering intel, analyzing threats. It wasn’t easy.
No physical scars, but I’ve seen my share of shit.
Let’s just say… I know what it’s like to have your life ripped apart by someone else’s choices.
But it stays with you. You learn to live with it, or it swallows you whole. ”
“That must’ve been hard.”
“It was,” he admits quietly. “Olive did her best. She’s the reason I know my way around a kitchen. Said every kid should know how to make cookies, no matter what’s going on in their life.”
I glance at the oven, watching the faint glow of the light inside. “And now you’re here, baking cookies at midnight for two little girls you just met.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Life’s funny like that.”
We fall into a companionable silence, the hum of the oven filling the room. I should go back to bed, try to get some sleep, but I don’t move.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, meeting his gaze. “For being here. For helping.”
He shrugs, but his smile softens. “It’s what I signed up for.” Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he adds, “Besides, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t burn down the house while stress-cooking.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a smile on my face now, too.
Asher leans back against the counter, arms crossed, his posture deceptively relaxed. But his eyes—those sharp, unrelenting eyes—stay locked on me. There’s something about the way he looks at me, like he’s trying to figure me out, to piece together parts of me I didn’t even know were missing.
“Do you bake often?” I ask, desperate to fill the silence. My voice wavers, to my embarrassment.
He smirks a little, giving the faintest curve of his lips, but there’s no humor in it. “Not really. Only when I need a distraction.”
I swallow hard, unsure if he’s talking about tonight or something bigger.
“The kids will definitely love the cookies,” I say.
“It’s not just for them,” Asher says.
My heart skips a beat. Is he talking about me?
I take a small step back, bumping into the counter behind me. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too quiet, too charged. Asher’s eyes follow the movement, and my breath catches when he takes a step closer.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice low, almost tender.
“I…” My words falter as he closes the distance between us. He’s not touching me, not yet, but the space between us is thin as a thread, ready to snap.
“Asher,” I whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He tilts his head slightly, his eyes searching mine. “Tell me to stop.”
I should. I know I should. But I can’t. The last time I let someone get this close, it ended in pain and regret.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, like he can read my mind.
“Asher,” I whisper, but the way his name comes out sounds more like a plea than a warning.
“Mia,” he murmurs, his voice rough, like he’s holding back.
My breath catches as his hand brushes my arm, light as a whisper, before settling on my waist. His touch is warm, grounding.
I don’t stop him when he dips his head, his lips brushing mine.
It’s soft at first, tentative, like he’s giving me a chance to pull away.
But I don’t. Instead, I tilt my head, pressing closer, and he takes it as permission.
The kiss deepens, his other hand sliding up to cup my face, his thumb brushing along my cheek.
My hands find their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. When his tongue brushes against mine, a soft sound escapes me, and I feel him smile against my mouth. The hand on my waist tightens slightly, pulling me closer, and I let him, melting into the heat of him.
“Asher,” I murmur against his lips, barely aware I’ve said his name until he pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are darker now, filled with something that makes my breath hitch.
I gasp when his lips leave mine to trail down my jaw, his stubble scratching deliciously against my skin. He moves lower, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below my ear, and I can’t stop the soft moan that escapes me. Heat pools low in my stomach, spreading through me like wildfire.
His hands move, too, sliding up my sides and over my waist, sending sparks racing through my veins. One hand brushes against the hem of my shirt, and I shiver at the contact, the anticipation of his touch almost too much to bear.
The oven timer blares, shrill and relentless, snapping us both back to reality.
We pull apart, both breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine as we try to catch our breath.
“I think the cookies are done,” he says finally, his voice rough, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
I let out a breathless laugh, my hands still clutching the counter behind me.
He steps back reluctantly, running a hand through his hair as he reaches for the oven mitts. I smooth down my shirt, trying to collect myself, but my lips are still tingling, my body still humming with the memory of his touch.
Zane strides in, his boots heavy against the old wooden floor. His expression is all business as he sets down a small device on the counter.
Asher and I exchange a glance. It’s a good thing he wasn’t here a few minutes ago.
“Movement two blocks south,” Zane says, crossing his arms. “Probably nothing, but I’ve got motion sensors set up just in case.”
Asher straightens from where he’s leaning against the counter. “The hospital’s security footage might tell us more,” Asher suggests. “If we can figure out who Jason’s been meeting—"
“No.” My voice comes out shakier than I want, but the words are firm. Both men turn to look at me.
Zane frowns. “Why not? Every lead gets us closer to neutralizing him.”
I shake my head, the knot in my chest tightening. “Trust me, you don’t want to dig too deep into that. People who do...” My breath hitches as memories threaten to spill over. “They disappear.”
There’s a beat of silence. Zane exchanges a glance with Asher, his brow furrowing deeper. I can tell they want to press me for more, but I can’t do this. Not now.
“Mia,” Asher says softly, stepping closer, his voice a low contrast to Zane’s more tactical edge. “What aren’t you telling us?”
I look away, wrapping my arms around myself. “Just... be careful. That’s all I’m saying. Jason isn’t working alone. And the people he’s involved with? They’re dangerous in ways you can’t even imagine.”
Zane leans forward, his jaw tight. “We’re not exactly strangers to danger, Mia.”
I glare at him, my fear bubbling over into frustration. “This isn’t just danger, Zane. These people don’t just hurt you. They erase you. Your name, your life, everything. And if Jason’s meeting with them, that means he’s not just playing games anymore. He’s escalating.”
“You’re scared,” Asher says after a moment, and it’s not a question. He steps closer, his voice dropping lower. “But we need to know, Mia. If there’s something you’re not telling us, it could put all of us at risk.”
I take a shaky breath, my nails digging into my palms. “I’m scared because I know what they’re capable of. And I don’t want your blood on my hands.”
Zane rubs a hand over his jaw, his scar catching the dim light. “We can handle ourselves, Mia. But we can’t protect you or the girls if we’re walking in blind.”
“I’m not blind,” I snap, the words sharper than I intended. “I know what Jason is capable of. And if you’re not careful, you’ll find out the hard way, too.”
“Fine,” Zane finally says, his tone clipped. “But if he’s escalating, so are we.”