Chapter 13 #3
I press my palms to the mirror, sucking in a shaky breath before turning away.
Piece by piece, I peel myself out of the corset dress, the stockings, all of it.
The air is cool against my bare skin, but it doesn’t calm me.
I dig through the pile for the least sexy underwear I can find, which—of course—turns out to be a black cotton thong and a black see-through bra. Perfect.
I yank them on, refusing to think about how both cling to me in ways that don’t feel remotely modest. Then the rest—the Panic!
At the Disco crop top, a new pair of tight black skinny jeans, the new over-the-knee boots Rosa picked.
The outfit feels sharp, casual, armored. More me, less… whatever just happened.
When I step out of the dressing room, Asher is leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching me with that same infuriating, unreadable expression. His eyes flick down my frame once and his jaw shifts.
“This is no better,” he mutters, voice flat but weighted, like the words carry more than just criticism.
Before I can bite back, Rosa sweeps in, all red nails and perfume, and waves a hand at him like he’s a noisy child. “Hush, Asher. You’ll ruin the moment.” She turns to me, her smile gleaming. “So, Valentina—did you like everything?”
My lips curve, and for once it’s not forced. “I loved everything.”
“I’ll pack it and the rest of the clothes and have everything delivered tonight,” Rosa smiles, gliding toward the register. “But I did pick out a couple more for you, and packed them up because I know you’re going to love them.”
“Wait!” I nearly trip in my new heels trying to catch up to her. “This is too much. I mean—”
“It’s on us,” Asher cuts in, already digging into his back pocket. He pulls out a sleek black wallet, movements precise, economical, like everything else he does.
Heat flares in my cheeks, the automatic thank-you rising to my lips—until he opens his mouth again.
“Can’t have our Toy outside looking a mess, can we?”
Oh! And so close to making me like him. My blush burns hotter, but I roll my eyes, forcing the corners of my mouth not to twitch. Orgasm or not, the nickname has to go.
We thank Rosa—well, I thank Rosa, Asher only gives her one of his curt nods—and then step out into the sharp daylight of the shopping street.
Asher adjusts the bags of the clothes in his hand that Rosa did pack up for me, his eyes flicking down at me. “What stop next?”
The question hits like a spark, and I can’t help it—I squeal, the sound breaking free before I can shove it down. “Dior!”
I dart ahead in my boots, weaving past a pair of women in pearl earrings, heading straight for the glass doors gleaming with promise.
Behind me, I hear Asher’s sigh, low and put-upon, but his steady footsteps follow all the same.
By the time we stumble through Xavier’s back door, my arms ache from hauling half the boutiques of Dallas with me.
Shopping bags swing from my elbows, clattering against each other as I kick the door shut with my heel.
Asher follows right behind, weighed down with twice as many, his jaw locked like the bags are chains instead of silk and leather.
I drop mine in the hallway with a dramatic sigh, grinning as I watch him stalk past with that same permanent scowl. “You know,” I tease, “for a man who just dropped more cash than I’ve ever seen in one place, you could at least pretend you had fun.”
His steel eyes cut my way, flat, unimpressed. “It wasn’t fun.”
I bite back a laugh, tossing my hair over my shoulder as I start sorting through my bags. “God, you’re so grumpy. Do you ever smile? Or are you afraid it’ll crack your face?”
He sets his load down with a heavy thump, crossing his arms. “Smiling’s inefficient.”
“Oh my god,” I groan, shaking my head. “You know it takes more muscles to frown than smile.”
His gaze snaps to mine, unamused. “Muscles build strength.”
I blink, then let out a snort. “You did not just turn frowning into a workout plan.”
“Better than wasting energy,” he says, voice flat as ever, though his eyes flick over me like he’s daring me to push.
I bounce onto the bed, grinning wide, letting the pile of shopping bags fall around me like trophies. “Admit it—you practice those scowls in the mirror.”
Asher sighs, a sound edged with irritation, and drops the rest of the bags on the floor with a dull thud. “You think I would waste time on a natural skill?”
“Har har, very funny,” I shoot back, sticking out my tongue at him like the brat I know it makes me look.
His gaze darkens, that cold steel sharpening into something feral. “Do you want something else in your mouth, Toy?”
The words hit low in my belly. My mouth opens before my brain catches up. “No,” I blurt, too quick, not even giving myself time to think yes.
“Then keep that tongue in your mouth.” His voice drops to a low snarl, vibrating through me. For a split second, I feel like an animal caught under the stare of the alpha, tail tucked, breath stilled, instincts bowing whether I want them to or not.
“Yes, sir,” I whisper, the drawl of my southern manners slipping out before I can stop it.
Asher’s eyes narrow, and the corner of his mouth twitches—pleasure, not humor. He leans in closer, so close I feel the brush of his breath along my cheek.
“I like when you say that, Toy.” His voice rumbles low, dangerous. “I like it a lot.”
Asher straightens, his eyes still on me for one lingering beat, then he turns and stalks out of the room without another word. The air feels heavier the moment he’s gone, like the walls are still holding his growl inside them.
I let out a shaky breath and press a hand to my chest, trying to calm the wild rhythm still pounding there.
The air feels thick, the room too heavy with the aftertaste of Asher’s presence, so I do the only thing I can think of—I reach for one of the glossy shopping bags and start pulling pieces out.
If I can lose myself in fabric and color, maybe I can forget the way his voice curled around me like a chain.
A crop top slides through my fingers, then a pair of skinny jeans, the shimmer of silk, the edge of lace. Normal. All mine.
But then my hand catches on something heavier, rougher, folded with military precision at the bottom.
I tug it free and stare. A shirt—broad-shouldered, stark black cotton, the kind of thing meant for a man’s frame, not mine.
It smells faintly of him, clean and sharp, leather and smoke buried deep in the fabric. My pulse trips.
“Asher!” I call, but there’s no response. “Of course,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, though the corners of my mouth twitch. The big bad Raider who terrifies half of Texas—leaves his bag behind like a distracted boyfriend.
I scoop it up and hurry into the hall, my boots thudding against the worn wood as I jog to catch up with him. “Asher!” I call, the bag swinging against my hip. “You forgot your—”
I round the corner at full speed and slam right into a wall of muscle.
“Shit!” I hiss, and for a second the hallway tilts—I’m off balance—but a wall of muscle catches me before I can go down. Big hands bracket my arms, steadying me like I weigh nothing at all. Golden eyes flash at me, not amused. Too close. Too warm.
“What are you doing in the hallways, Vixen?” Xavier’s voice is low, controlled, the way a fuse waits to be lit.
He holds me there a heartbeat longer than necessary, then releases one hand and takes the black shirt from my fingers as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He folds the fabric once, twice—methodical, clean—his thumb brushing the collar as he looks up at me.
“You look…busy,” he says, and there’s a hard edge to the word that makes my skin prickle.
I try to laugh it off. “Just grabbing something Asher forgot.”
His jaw ticks. The amusement dies in his face and a kind of cold claim settles over him, heavy and absolute.
“Have your fun now,” he says suddenly, and the words drop like a verdict.
“But remember this—once you’re First Lady, there’s no more Asher.
No more Zay. You will be mine.” His voice is measured, not cruel, but every syllable lands like iron.
“No—” I protest before the thought has time to shape itself in my mouth. “That’s not the deal.”
He lifts one shoulder, a little smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “I can have my sergeant and my vice president fucking my wife if I want.” He watches my face for the reaction, like he’s testing a theory. “You might as well be. You are mine in every sense of the word.”
My mouth goes dry at the way he says wife. It has weight. It has ownership. It presses against me in a way that makes my pulse stutter. “You won’t marry me,” I blurt, because the word wife is too large if it’s nothing but a claim.
He tilts his head, like the thought amused him. “I won’t marry you until you want it.” There’s a space between those clauses that is not empty; it is a promise, and a warning, braided together. “But don’t pretend you’re not already my woman.”
“I—” The protest dies in me, ridiculous and thin. How do you argue with the way the room seems to fold around him? How do you fight a man who says my like it’s a law?
He steps closer, close enough that I can see the fine dark hairs at his jaw, close enough that my breath swirls in the space between us.
For a second I’m thinking of everything he could take, everything he means when he claims me.
My heartbeat bangs loud in my ears. I feel small.
I feel exposed. I feel ridiculous for wanting him to mean it.
Then, impossibly, he bends and presses a single, impossibly tender kiss to my forehead—soft as silk, weirdly reverent. He hands the folded shirt back to me with the same careful grace he used to fold it, then turns on quiet, long strides and walks away, leaving the echo of his steps in the hall.
I stand there, the fabric warmed by his hand in my fingers, blood buzzing in my veins. Confusion prickles under my skin—he’s territorial and possessive and terrifying and somehow impossibly gentle in one breath. And under it all, some low, foolish heat unfurls through me like a second pulse.
He’s gone before I can sort any of it out, and I am left with the smell of him on the collar and a stupid, dangerous thing growing in my chest: turned on, and unsettled, and suddenly a little afraid of how much I might like being claimed.