Chapter 12
ASHER
I lean against the car, arms crossed, sunlight heating the metal through my cut. The street buzzes with life—hawkers barking out prices, kids whining for sweets, a busker strumming off-key—but it all blurs into static behind the scene a few feet away.
Isaiah’s kissing her again. Third time since we stepped out onto the curb. She laughs, tilts into him, and he soaks it up like a junkie chasing a high.
My jaw ticks once. Isaiah falls too easily, too fast. He doesn’t think, doesn’t weigh the odds. He gives himself away like it won’t cost him later, like the world isn’t waiting to gut him for it. Reckless. Stupid.
It’s also something I’ll never have. My father beat that softness out of me years ago. Compassion, tenderness, love—whatever name you want to give it—it’s gone. Burned out of me before I was old enough to understand what it meant.
Talia is the exception. My little sister.
I keep her at a distance, but I provide, I protect.
I’ve tried to be what she needed me to be—kind, steady, gentle.
But how the hell do you learn something no one ever taught you?
People act like love is instinct, like it’s coded into the blood.
But what if you were forged in fire? What if you’re a beast built from ashes and iron?
Beasts don’t nurture. They scorch. They break.
So I stay away from the things I am not willing to break.
And I’m not violent for the sake of it. Not wild, not uncontrolled. That’s not me. I don’t snap. I don’t thrash. What I am is deliberate. I like control. I like dominance. I like watching the cracks form when someone can’t hold themselves together anymore.
And with her—Valentina, with those innocent green eyes, those pale cheeks—it terrifies me. Because when she looks at me, fragile and soft, I don’t want to cradle her. I want to see if her lips tremble when she cries. I want to see if her hands shake when the truth finally sinks in.
Is that my fault? No, I am just the man my father made me.
Isaiah’s hand slides down, gripping Valentina’s waist, tugging her close as he bends low to whisper something in her ear. She stiffens, then pushes at his chest with a little shove, laughter dying on her lips. For once she doesn’t melt, and the sight of it sends a charge through me.
My arms fold tighter across my chest, the heat of the sun forgotten.
God, she’s beautiful like this—eyes flashing, chin tilted, spine straightened as if daring the world to try her.
Valentina doesn’t even realize it, but she’s built for defiance.
And I can’t stop wondering what it would take to strip that fire down to raw edges.
To make her crumble, make her shake. It wouldn’t be easy.
That’s what makes the thought curl hot in my blood.
Isaiah glances up, catching me watching. His playful grin fades into something harder, a sharp look meant to cut straight through me. His lips form silent words even as his arm tightens around her: Don’t hurt my girl.
My jaw works, slow, deliberate. “No promises,” I say flatly, my voice carrying just enough to reach them. My eyes flick to her, lingering on her parted lips, on the pulse ticking in her throat.
Isaiah’s grin returns, forced, too sharp. “He’s joking,” he tells her, pressing another kiss to her temple. Then, softer, with a sideways glance at me: “Kind of.”
Valentina frowns, her green eyes darting between us, suspicion written plain across her face. She doesn’t know yet that in our world, nothing is safe, especially from me.
Isaiah peels away with a last brush of his mouth against hers and a cocky wink at me, then saunters down the shopping street toward Viper territory to talk about them stepping on our turf yet again.
Last time it was me, but this time Isaiah gets to have fun, blow off some steam, release some sexual tension.
Which he needs to do as soon as fucking possible, because if I hear another one of his filthy daydreams about Valentina, I might carve out my own eardrums just to get the peace.
Not that I can blame him. She’s built for obsession. The curve of her mouth, the sharpness in her eyes, the way her defiance makes you want to snuff it out just to see what’s underneath. Still, I don’t need Isaiah’s voice in my head narrating what she’d look like on her knees.
But once the thought’s there, it’s mine now.
I see it too clearly—her lips swollen from kissing, parted around a broken plea; her small hands clutching at my thighs for balance; green eyes wide and wet, flicking up at me as I hold her jaw in place.
Her voice catching when she begs for more, desperate, needy, soft in a way she never lets herself be.
My cock stirs, and I hate it. Hate that it’s her.
Hate that it’s me imagining what I’d sound like telling her she’s nothing but a toy, what her face would look like when she finally breaks for me.
I can almost hear it—her sob tangled with a moan, her body betraying her even as her mouth spits venom.
“Fuck.” The word grinds out of me, sharp and guttural, before I can choke it back down.
Her head snaps toward me, suspicion twisting into something sharper—curiosity, maybe even recognition. Like she knows I was just somewhere I shouldn’t have been.
I drag in a breath, force my face back to stone, and look at her expectant gaze.
“Let’s go.” I say, turning my back on her.
Behind me, her footsteps stall half a beat—testing me—then pick up again.
Good. I don’t slow down. Sunlight glares off the glass storefronts, bouncing sharp against chrome handles and spotless marble steps.
The air reeks of luxury—designer perfume pumped out of open doors, leather handbags displayed like trophies, mannequins dressed in clothes that cost more than most people make in a month.
A valet whistles for a car at the curb; heels click across polished stone; somewhere a champagne cork pops inside a boutique.
I cut through it all in a straight line, ignoring the gleam and the stares.
Because people are staring. At me. At the knitted polo stretched across my shoulders, the dark denim pressed neat, the clean sneakers.
Clothes I don’t normally wear. But I didn’t feel like dealing with the disrespect that comes from showing up here in Raider blacks and scuffed boots.
The truth is, we’re not the richest crew in the state—but we touch more dirty money in Texas than anyone wants to admit.
And the people in these glass palaces know it.
They glance, then glance again, trying to place me, trying to figure out how a man like me walked into their pristine little world without a leash.
To my irritation, Valentina slips back into step, matching my pace like she belongs here, like she belongs with me.
“You know, a gentleman would wait for me,” she says, a little out of breath, green eyes sharp with challenge.
“Did I say I was a gentleman?” My reply is flat, clipped, meant to end the conversation.
She scoffs, twisting her body to dodge some loudmouthed girl on a phone. She tries not to touch me, but the swell of her breast grazes my arm. My jaw grinds. I don’t break stride—I pull her closer instead, steering her through the crowd with a firm grip at her waist.
She stiffens. “I can walk on my own.”
“You’re too slow,” I mutter, voice low enough for only her. My fingers flex against her side, not to hold her tighter, but because I can feel her warmth through the thin fabric.
Her glare slices upward, sharp enough to cut. “And what are you, Ash? My leash?”
“Yes.” The word drops from my mouth like stone.
Her lips part, outrage flickering across her face, but she doesn’t pull away.
She lets me guide her, even as her eyes spit fire at me.
And all I can think, as I push her past the gawking stares of people with champagne flutes and thousand-dollar handbags, is how easy it would be to strip her fire down to something raw.
To force her to beg in a world that thinks she’s untouchable.
Fuck.
My hand drops to the small of her back, steady, firm, steering her toward the double glass doors of Rosalina’s Boutique. Gold letters gleam across the spotless panes, the kind of shop every girl in Dallas dreams of posting about, arms loaded with Rosa’s latest line.
Starting here is easy enough. Rosa’s not just another name in couture—she’s family, in the way that matters.
Pays us for protection, sure, but she’s been in our orbit since we were kids, back when our Road Captain Jackie ran the streets with her.
Rosa designs gowns for oil baron’s daughters and cartel wives, but she knows who keeps her glass palace from being smashed to pieces.
I push the door open, the chime delicate against the hum of soft jazz piped through the space. Air-conditioning hits sharp and cool, carrying the faint scent of roses and leather.
“Asher Throne,” Rosa sings, sweeping out from behind a rack of silk dresses, all high cheekbones and glossy black curls. Her smile widens as she takes me in. “What the hell are you doing here in daylight, dressed like…well—civilized?”
“Rosa.” I nod once, letting her kiss the air beside my cheek. Her eyes flicker to Valentina, then back to me. Suspicion. Curiosity. Hunger for gossip.
I cut her off before she can ask. My hand presses lightly at Valentina’s back, guiding her a step forward. “Valentina Torres,” I say evenly, voice carrying weight. “Future First Lady of the Raiders.”
Valentina looks over at me, her green eyes sparking. I meet her glare with a blank stare, one that gives nothing away. “Don’t think about running, Toy. I’ll be right here.”
She narrows her eyes, chin lifting in defiance, then sticks out her tongue. Petulant. Bratty. She thinks it’s a jab, but all I see is an invitation.
My jaw clenches, though my face doesn’t shift. She has no idea what she’s teasing. No idea that the same tongue she’s flashing like a weapon will be the first thing I make her put to use.
Yeah, she’s the future First Lady of the Raiders. That part isn’t a lie. But the crown doesn’t come free. Not yet. She’s still got a day left before Xavier stamps her with a title she can’t shake.
One day left to be played with.
And I intend to play. Starting with teaching her exactly what that tongue is for.