Chapter Eight
Asher
Iknow I'm dreaming, the same fucking way I always do.
But like always, there's not a fucking thing I can do to stop it.
I'm back in the car with Brielle's lips locked on mine, her perfect taste on my tongue, a split second before my brain registers that the light in my eyes isn't heaven.
It's a garbage truck rumbling through the intersection, heading straight for us.
I shove her away, trying to steer left and slam on the brakes at the same time, trying to save her.
But it's already too late.
We're still going far too goddamn fast.
"Asher!" she screams, terror in her voice as she finally realizes what's happening, why I pushed her away. Her eyes meet mine for one perfect, endless moment—full of confusion and betrayal.
"Brielle," I rasp, trying to tell her that I lied, that she's the only goddamn thing I've ever let into my heart. That I'm so fucking sorry for what I've done.
I don't get a chance before the world shatters.
The garbage truck slams into the side of the car with enough force to snap my head back against the seat. Metal screeches as it twists and crumbles, the sound of a future with her being crushed to nothing.
I watch in sick horror as her entire body flies forward, her head cracking against the windshield.
The sound is loud, so goddamn loud. The dash on her side caves in, pieces of metal and hard plastic piercing her body, pinning her in the twisted wreckage.
Blood blooms across her white dress, staining her with my sins.
"Brielle!" I shout, panicked, but she can't hear me.
Christ. Is she even breathing? Part of my sleeping mind knows she is, but the other part—the biggest part—is back there, reliving the terror.
That part doesn't recognize that this is a dream.
It only recognizes that she's pinned in the wreckage, bleeding, and limp.
That her life is leaking out between the fingers I have pressed to her chest because I couldn't keep her safe.
"Brielle!" I shout again, clawing at the airbag and my seatbelt, desperate to get her out of the car, to keep her breathing. To take it all back.
Christ, she has to keep breathing. I can't be the man who killed the only good thing he ever touched.
Somehow, I stumble from the wreckage. People are screaming, but I don't hear them. I don't hear anything but the frantic beating of my own heart as I stumble around the side of the car to her door, trying to claw it from the fucking hinges with bloody hands that won't ever come clean again.
"Asher!" someone shouts, grabbing my arm, trying to pull me away.
I come up fighting.
It's not conscious. I'm still caught in the nightmare, still trying to save the only life that's ever mattered to me, and someone is trying to stop me. My body simply reacts, pinning the threat beneath me with my hand around its throat and a vicious snarl ripping from my lips.
The only thing that saves her from a broken neck is the sound she makes—half gasp, half whimper—and the sick certainty that I know that voice.
I snap back to reality just before I cut off her air supply completely.
There's a heartbeat where neither of us moves. The sheets are twisted between us, drenched with sweat. My hand is still locked around her throat, my thumb pressed to her thundering pulse.
"Let go," she rasps, but there's no fear in her voice. Only shock.
I snap my hand away like she's molten and roll off her, sprawling on my back, trying to breathe. The ceiling is a dull white smear above me. My chest is on fire, my arms shaking.
"I'm sorry," I say, choking on words I've never said.
Christ. Why can't I forget that fucking accident? Why do I have to relive the sound of her scream and the sight of her bloody, battered body every goddamn night? It's what I deserve for what I did, I know that, but that doesn't make it any easier to live with.
She flicks on the light and sits up, dragging the sheet with her, as if it can protect her from the rawness I just unleashed in the room. Her hair is a tangled halo. Her neck is already marked where I grabbed her, a bloom of angry red fingerprints on her pale skin.
It's ironic, really. I left marks all over her body earlier, pressing my worship into her skin in bruises and bites so she never forgets I was there. But the sight of these and everything they signify, makes me sick to my stomach.
"You were having a nightmare," she says, watching me.
I scrub my hands over my face, trying to scrub the images from my mind. I don't want to talk about it. I never want to talk. But she just keeps staring at me, all that fire and curiosity and stubborn hope just patiently waiting for me to explain.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," I say, which is the only truth that really matters.
"You didn't. You just scared the shit out of me."
"Yeah, I did. You're already bruising, Brielle."
"I'm fine," she growls.
I tug at my hair like that'll erase the nightmare or the memory of her pinned beneath me. It doesn't.
"What was the dream about?" she asks. "Your parents?"
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. It's been years since I last dreamed about finding my parents. Years since that fucked-up day haunted my mind.
She doesn't let it go. "You don't have to tell me. I just want to know if this is normal. Do you have nightmares and wake up wanting to kill people most nights?"
The silence stretches between us. I want to lie, to brush off the nightmare like it was nothing. But I've never been good at lying to her, not when she's this close.
"Every night," I say. My voice cracks. "I have nightmares every goddamn night since I almost killed you."
There it is, the truth. I want to swallow it back, pretend it doesn't matter. But she's already blinking, her mouth open like she's just now realizing I'm human.
She tries to touch me, reaching out across the wreckage of the bed, but I recoil.
The last thing I want is her pity, or worse, her forgiveness.
I don't deserve either. I never have. Isn't that the fucking problem?
I'll never deserve her, not after I almost killed her.
All I'll ever have of her is what I take by force, the spaces I carve out in her soul against her will.
I need her to hate me. It's the only thing that'll keep her safe.
But I fucking regret every second of it anyway.
"Don't," I warn, the word coming out harsher than I mean. "Just…don't."
She hesitates, then pulls her hand back.
I sit up, my head pounding. My whole body itches, like my skin is too tight. I want a drink. I want a cigarette, even though I haven't smoked since my uncle put me through detox at nineteen. Mostly, I want to be somewhere Brielle can't see me like this.
"I'll sleep in the guest room," I say, standing.
She watches me, silent. Her eyes are greener than usual in the lamplight, bottomless. "Asher," she says, quietly, "it's okay."
I laugh, a short, bitter sound. "I almost killed you," I say. The words come out as a whisper, barely there. "You stopped breathing for three entire minutes in my arms. They had to stitch you back together just to save your life. That doesn't go away just because you say it's okay, Brielle."
She wants to argue, I can see it. But I won't let her.
I walk out, leaving her alone with the memory of my guilt.
In the hallway, I lean against the wall, the cool plaster scraping my back. I can still feel the phantom of her throat under my hand, the way her pulse hammered against my thumb.
I was made to destroy things. My hands don't know how to be gentle.
I make my way to the guest room, flop onto the bed, and stare at the ceiling until the blackness behind my eyes feels safe again.
Sleep doesn't come.
It rarely does.
I find her in the kitchen at six, curled up on a barstool with one leg tucked beneath her and a mug of coffee cradled in both hands.
Sunlight streams through the window, making her look softer, almost innocent, like the girl I met before the world turned her skin to armor and I taught her to hate.
She's wearing nothing but a threadbare hoodie and a pair of boyshorts.
She's been waiting for me.
She doesn't say anything at first, just stares at me, her knuckles white on the mug. I don't want to talk. I want to avoid this entire conversation. I want to walk out the door and pretend I didn't almost break her neck in my sleep last night.
But I can feel her gaze dragging me in like a riptide, so I stand there in the doorway and let it drown me.
She finally speaks, her voice soft and careful. "Are you okay?"
The laugh that slips out is so harsh it actually makes her wince. I pour myself a mug, pretending it takes great concentration to measure out the right amount of sugar, pretending my hands don't shake. "You're the one with bruises around your throat. Why the fuck are you asking if I'm okay?"
She swings her legs down and props her elbows on the counter, her chin in her hands. "Because you look like you haven't slept in a year."
I grit my teeth and stare at her, the echo of her pulse still ghosting my thumb from last night. "It's not your problem," I say.
"Yeah, too late for that," she snorts.
I take a sip, scalding my tongue just to feel something that isn't shame. "You ever hear of boundaries, Brielle?"
She grins, but there's an edge to it, like she's ready to crack, too. "I'll Google the term later."
I almost smile, but it dies before it fully forms.
She slides off the stool and saunters across the kitchen, standing in front of me, close enough that her scent cuts through the smell of coffee and cold sweat. She sets her mug on the counter and looks up, her green eyes wide and bottomless.
"I'm not mad at you," she says, almost whispering.
I wish she were. I'd rather have her screaming, fighting, and threatening to burn down the fucking city than face this quiet, impossible kindness. I can't stand it.
"You didn't hurt me, Asher."