Chapter 33
I Lit the Fire and He is Letting Me Burn
Violet
The routine I have fallen into is suffocating.
The same four walls, the same silence, and the same nagging ache in my chest. I wake up alone.
I move through the day alone. And by the time Asher comes home—if he even bothers—I’ve already convinced myself that I don’t exist to him beyond whatever purpose I serve in his grand scheme.
Jesus Christ, now I am calling this place fucking home. Great.
I don’t know why I did it—why I pushed first, or why I wanted to see how far I could take it before he snapped.
Maybe I liked the thrill of it, the way his eyes darkened just a little, and the way he let me think I had the upper hand.
Or maybe I just wanted to shake something loose inside him, to prove that I could get under his skin the way he always gets under mine.
I liked the game. Liked that for a moment, it felt like we were something else—something less sharp, and less raw.
But then the phone call came, and everything shifted.
My mood went from breathless and flushed, to cold and caged, a world away.
The guilt coils tight, an invisible chain, wrapping me up in all the things I can’t say. Because of Ella.
Earlier, we talked on the balcony, the cool air biting at my skin as I leaned against the railing, with the phone pressed to my ear.
Ella had been radiant, even through the phone, and her excitement bursting in every word as she gushed about Langport. “Vi, I wish you could see this place—it’s everything I ever dreamed of. The campus, the library, and even the shitty coffee from the student café. I feel like I belong here.”
I had smiled, forcing out a soft laugh. “I knew you would.”
It was a lie.
Not that I didn’t believe she belonged at Langport—she did, more than anyone I knew—but because I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how much I didn’t belong here.
That I wasn’t safe. That I was barely holding myself together.
That every night, I lay awake, tangled in uncertainty, and unable to make sense of why Asher is involved at all or what comes next.
Every question spirals into another, and the unknown is just as suffocating as the past.
That I couldn’t tell her anything.
Not about Asher.
Not about the police investigation.
Not about the overdoses.
Nothing.
Instead, I nodded along as she talked about her new classes, her new friends, and her plans for the future. She was happy, and I should be happy for her. But every word felt like a knife, twisting deeper, and cutting into the space between us.
Ella had no idea anything was wrong, and I couldn't bring myself to tell her.
Even now, I feel the weight of it pressing on me, heavy and unrelenting, like I’m drowning in something I can’t escape. My fingers dig into my palm. Fuck this.
I don’t know what I want. But I know I want more than this.
His bath has been my secret escape. The only place where I can sink into warmth and silence, let my mind unravel, and let myself breathe. I know I shouldn’t be here, but I also know he won’t be home for hours. I never get caught.
I slip through his door, my steps light, already anticipating the way the hot water will chase away the chill that lingers under my skin.
The marble glows under the soft lighting, and my pulse flutters as I peel away my clothes, one by one, letting them pool at my feet.
I slide into the hot water with a quiet sigh, sinking until only my face peeks above the surface.
It’s perfect. Heat licks at my skin, unwinding the tension, and melting away the edges of my guilt. My head falls back against the edge of the tub, and for the first time in weeks, I feel something close to peace.
“You’re in my tub.” His voice is low, playful, teasing.
I jolt upright, water sloshing against the sides of the tub. My fingers tighten against the porcelain edge as my pulse stumbles, betraying the calm I was clinging to. Heat floods my cheeks—not just from the bath—but from the weight of his gaze, sharp and knowing.
I swallow, forcing my expression into something smooth, and unaffected. “You weren’t using it.” My voice is steadier than I expected.
His lips twitch, like he’s playing a game only he knows the rules to, and waiting to see how long I’ll keep up. Instead, he moves closer, prowling, and watching me like he’s waiting for me to crack first. He shrugs off his suit jacket, tossing it onto the counter, then leans against the vanity.
“Are you testing me, Violet?” he muses, tilting his head like he’s amused by the idea.
My throat tightens. “Maybe.”
His fingers ghost along the edge of his tie. “And what exactly do you think happens when you test me?”
Heat floods between my legs. I clench my thighs together under the water, but he knows. I can see it in the dark amusement that flickers across his face.
I swallow hard. “Maybe I wanted to find out.”
A slow exhale. Then he moves. He kneels beside the tub, and rolls his sleeves up, revealing inked patterns winding up his forearms, muscles flexing as he braces himself on the marble.
Close. Too close. My breath stutters when he reaches forward, fingers trailing lazily through the water, and barely grazing my thigh.
“You should be careful what you wish for, Vi.” His voice is soft, almost playful, but there’s a darker promise beneath it.
I should move. I should break the tension, shove him away, or do something before I completely lose myself in the way he’s looking at me.
But I don’t. A spark of bravery flickers inside me, the desperate need to claim even the smallest bit of control in a world that offers me none.
Instead, I shift forward, letting my knees brush the side of the tub, while my body practically begs for something I shouldn’t want.
“Touch me,” I whisper.
His fingers skim up my jaw, tilting my chin up. His thumb drags over my bottom lip, and my body shakes with need. Then, he grins. “Not tonight, kitten.”
For a second, I think he’s bluffing. That he’ll give in. That he wants this as much as I do. His breath is warm against my skin, his fingers press just a little deeper before pulling away, and leaving me poised for something—anything.
The amusement in his voice kills me. I want to scream. I want to drown him in this tub. But more than anything, I want him to stay.
And then, just like that, he stands, adjusting his tie, completely unaffected.
“You—” My voice is hoarse, frustrated.
“You wanted to test me.” His smirk is infuriating. "Hope you liked the results."
Then, without another word, he walks away.
At first, I don’t move, waiting, and hoping—some ridiculous part of me is convinced he’ll come back, that he’ll change his mind.
But the door stays shut. The realization slams into me, cold and sharp.
I’m aching, furious, and shattered in the middle of his tub.
The frustration doesn’t hit all at once.
At first, I just stare after him, lips parted, and mind grasping at the edges of what just happened.
Then, slowly, the heat in my veins turns to a slow burn of resentment, winding tighter and tighter until I feel like I might explode.
It’s always his game, and his rules—he pulls the strings, and I just let him.
The frustration from last night clings to me, a slow-burning rage curling beneath my skin.
I roll over in bed, my muscles tense, while my mind replays the way Asher looked at me before walking away.
The teasing, the smirks, and the way he had me trembling with need—only to leave me aching and alone. Fucking bastard.
I don’t even think before I storm out of my room, ready to fight. I want to hurl something at him, force a reaction, and make him admit that he felt it too, that he wanted me just as much as I wanted him.
Then I see him—and the words die in my throat.
Asher is standing in the kitchen, his back to me, sipping coffee like he doesn’t have a care in the world. But it’s not the casual act that stops me. It’s the way he looks.
No suit. No perfectly pressed shirt. No tie to loosen while he taunts me.
Instead, he’s in a simple tee shirt and gray sweats, the soft fabric clinging to his frame in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
His tattoos—ones I’d only glimpsed before—are on full display, and dark ink stretches over sculpted muscle.
The casualness of it, and the undeniable raw sex appeal, hits me like a wrecking ball.
I hate that it affects me.
I hate that I want him more like this.
As if sensing my presence, he turns, a slow smirk curling on his lips as he takes me in. "Morning, Kitten."
His voice is lazy, amused—like he already knows I’m still fuming, and still desperate to claw at him for leaving me hanging last night. And that smug confidence? It makes me want to wipe that look right off his face.
“Fuck you,” I snap.
His grin widens. "That what you came out here for?"
The way he says it, so damn casual, like he’s not the reason I barely slept, makes my blood boil. I take a step forward, with my fists clenching at my sides, fully intending to shove him, to say something cruel—
But Asher moves first.
He’s on me in an instant, backing me into the counter, and placing his body flush against mine. Heat explodes through me, my anger tangling with something just as dangerous, and just as consuming. And when his lips brush against my ear, voice low and wicked, and I know I’ve already lost this fight.