Chapter 42
A Love Letter Written in Ashes
Violet
The hours slip away in a blur. I give him pain meds when he stirs, changing out his fluids, and checking his temp.
The weight of exhaustion drags at my limbs, but I force myself to stay alert.
Every movement feels slow, my body aching from hours spent hovering over him.
The helplessness gnaws at me—I hate seeing him like this, hate that there’s nothing I can do except wait.
A knot tightens in my throat. "Come on, Asher. You’re stronger than this.
" I barely leave his side, forcing him to drink sips of water when he stirs awake, while whispering assurances he likely doesn’t even hear.
I am exhausted. Boris came at some point and brought me a plate of food. I can barely eat though.
After this last dose of meds I finally allowed myself to fall asleep in my makeshift bed in the chair I pulled from the sitting area.
I don't know how long I have been asleep, when a moan next to me wakes me.
I sit up, my pulse hammering in my ears. His face is covered in a gloss of sweat. My hand presses to his forehead—too hot. Too damn hot. My fingers tremble as I check his pulse, his breath shallow and uneven.
He’s burning up. Fuck
I hurry to the ensuite, grabbing a fresh washcloth and soaking it in cold water before wringing it out.
Returning to his side, I strip the damp sheets away from his body, the scent of sweat and fever clinging to the air.
His skin is clammy beneath my fingers, his chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow pants.
I press the chilled cloth to his forehead, hoping to bring the fever down, but he barely reacts.
His body twitches, restless, and lost in fevered delirium.
I hesitate, phone in hand, and my fingers hovering over the call button. What if I'm overreacting? But then I look at him—his skin flushed, his breath ragged—and the doubt vanishes.
I dial, my voice tight as I explain the new symptoms to the doctor.
He listens, his tone growing serious. "I'll be there in 20 minutes."
Relief floods me, but it’s short-lived. Asher stirs, his lips moving in barely audible mumbles. My grip tightens around the phone.
"Hurry," I whisper, but then his mumbling worsens. The urgency spikes in my chest. "Please, get here now."
At first, it’s sharp, clipped commands. “Secure the perimeter.” There is a pause. “No loose ends.” His instincts, even in weakness, remain honed for battle. But then, something shifts. His voice breaks, something raw bleeding into his words. “Sera—don’t go. Please.”
I freeze. The name hangs in the air, thick with desperation. His face twists, agony etched into every line, and every furrow of his brow. I’ve never heard him sound like this—so broken. So lost.
The words spill out in fevered fragments, pieces of a past that still haunts him.
“I told her not to go to him… I warned her… but she wouldn’t listen.
” His eyes twitch behind his lids. “I ran, I ran as fast as I could.” His fists grip the sheet beneath him and I stop myself from grabbing his hand.
“Too late. Always too late. He was standing there… watching… like it meant nothing.” A silent tear trails down his cheek.
“She was everything good in this world. And he took her from me.”
My throat tightens. I don’t know who Serafina is, but the grief in his voice makes my chest ache. I should pull back, give him space. But I can’t. Not when he looks like this—trapped in a nightmare he can’t escape.
Suddenly, his fingers wrap around my wrist—tight, almost bruising. His eyes crack open, fevered and unfocused. “Don’t leave me,” he rasps, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Not you too.”
I swallow hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. “I’m not leaving.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
The doctor arrives, his expression grim as he checks Asher over. “The infection is setting in,” he confirms. “We’re going to start IV antibiotics now, but it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
I nod, barely hearing him. My focus remains on Asher—the way his body shivers despite the heat radiating from him, and the way his breath catches in his throat. He’s fighting, even in his sleep. Fighting something far bigger than just an infection.
It's been hours and the fever hasn’t broken.
Asher's body thrashes against the sheets, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. His breathing is erratic, his skin flushed and burning beneath my touch. He’s lost in the past, trapped in a loop of pain he can’t escape.
My hands tighten into fists at my sides. He’s always so controlled, and so untouchable—seeing him like this, unraveling, shakes something loose in me.
He won’t let anyone close, won’t let anyone see the cracks beneath the armor. But now? Now there’s no mask, and no shield, just the raw edges of a man who’s carried too much for too long.
I do the only thing I can think of—I talk to him.
“You’re an idiot, you know that?” My voice is quiet, but my hands stay steady as I run the damp cloth down his neck. “You push everyone away, but when you’re like this… when you’re too out of it to hide…” I exhale sharply. “Maybe you’re not as heartless as you pretend to be.”
The words settle between us, soft but undeniable. Asher's thrashing slows, his breath hitching as his fevered eyes blink open. For the first time in hours, they seem just a little clearer, as if he’s momentarily surfacing from the haze. His gaze locks onto mine, searching, confused.
Then, before I can stop myself, the question slips free.
“Who was she?”
His breath hitches. Even in fevered delirium, the name holds power over him.
"Serafina Redmont.”
“She was my older sister. My protector. In a house ruled by my father’s brutality, she was my shield, my sanctuary.
She took the hits for me, whispered to me in the dark that I wasn’t alone.
That I would always have her." Asher shifts beneath the damp sheets, his brow furrowing.
A soft whimper escapes his lips, his body tensing before slackening again.
I tighten my grip on the cloth in my hands, my heart pounding.
"Until she fell in love with Rinaldi." His breath turns ragged, chest rising in stilted, shallow movements.
He shudders violently, a broken sound slipping from his throat.
"Until my father made sure she paid the price.
‘I think someone’s following me.' Her voice trembled that night when she called me.
" Asher’s fingers twitch, his lips parting.
His expression twists, caught in the grip of something deeper than fever.
I squeeze his hand gently, unsure if he can even feel it.
"And I ran. I ran faster than I ever had before.
But I was too late." A sharp breath rips through him, his head shifting restlessly against the pillow.
I press the cold cloth to his forehead again, whispering his name, but he doesn’t respond.
"I saw her under the streetlamp. Heard the gunfire. I grabbed her in my arms. The blood. So much blood." His body stiffens, a strangled noise slipping past his lips.
My own breath catches as I watch the pain flicker across his fevered face.
His hand clenches briefly around mine, then weakens, fingers slackening in exhaustion. "My father stood over us both, his voice a quiet 'This is what happens when you put love above the Order.'"
A tear slips free before I can stop it. I wipe it away quickly, swallowing against the knot in my throat.
“My sister… she believed love was worth dying for.”
I brush his damp hair away from his forehead, my fingers lingering for a moment. “And you don’t?”
Silence. Then, barely more than a whisper—
“Love gets you killed.”
Something inside me cracks wide open, raw ,and aching.
My breath catches in my throat, my chest tightening under the weight of his pain.
The truth of what he’s endured sinks into me like a lead weight—I can feel it in my bones, pressing, and suffocating.
My fingers clench at my sides as I fight the sting in my eyes, a lump forming at the base of my throat.
It’s too much. Too cruel. And yet, he’s lived with it every day.
How does he carry this? How does he not collapse under it?
A shuddering breath escapes me, but I refuse to let it break me. Not now.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I climb into bed beside him, my fingers trembling as I drape my arm over his fever-wracked body.
He’s suffered so much—more than anyone should have to endure.
His breath stirs against my collarbone, uneven but slowing, and I press my lips to his temple to keep the emotions from spilling over.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I hold him, not sure if I’m offering comfort or seeking it myself. But in this moment, it doesn’t matter.
When the fever breaks, and when the walls snap back into place—will he remember this? Or will I be the only one left holding this fragile, fleeting moment between us?
A loud chime jolts me awake, my heart slamming against my ribs before my brain catches up. The room is dark except for the muted glow of the television, flickering against the walls like a phantom. I blink away the haze of sleep, my pulse still racing.
Breaking News flashes in bold red letters across the screen, the reporter’s voice slicing through the silence.
"We begin this morning with breaking news out of Manhattan—an arrest has been made in the high-profile overdose case of socialite Alessandra Moore.
Officials confirmed late last night that the woman accused of providing Moore with the fentanyl-laced drugs that led to her death is now in custody.
Sources say she has been cooperating with investigators and was aware of the lethal dose in the substances she distributed. "
The air in my lungs stills.
"The NYPD has also confirmed that Russian officials have requested her immediate extradition, meaning the suspect may never face trial in the U.S. for her alleged crimes."
I exhale slowly, pressing a hand to my forehead. That’s it. That’s what we were waiting for. That’s what kept me here, it’s over.
My name is clear. No more accusations. No more looking over my shoulder. No more being trapped.
I should be relieved. I should be packing my things, heading back to the life I had before, the safe, and quiet life where people don’t get shot. This should feel like victory.
But the thought of leaving settles like lead in my chest.
Because it wouldn’t just be leaving this place.
It would be leaving him.
The news anchor keeps talking, their voice distant, but then—
"In other news, prominent businessman Giovanni Rinaldi was found dead in his home early this morning in what officials are calling an apparent murder.
Authorities say his body was discovered shortly after several of his businesses across the city were vandalized and set ablaze overnight.
Sources close to the investigation suggest that evidence found at the scene may link Rinaldi to a network of illegal gambling houses, escort services, and drug operations, though police have not confirmed any official charges against him.
At this time, no suspects have been identified, but officials are urging anyone with information to contact the NYPD tip line immediately. "
My breath hitches.
Rinaldi is dead? He was a drug runner. Was he somehow involved with the plot to frame me? The realization strikes hard. Rinaldi is dead, and Asher almost died too.
A sharp breath shudders through me. This is where he went. This is what he did. He walked straight into the fire, took the risk, and nearly bled out—all for me.
I think of Serafina. Of how Asher told me he was too late. Of how he held her as she died, helpless to save her. Does he see this as his second chance, a way to make up for the past, and to finally save someone when he couldn’t save her?
I look at him, barely visible in the dim light, his body still tense even in sleep, and fever clinging to him like a vice. His wound, his exhaustion, and the fight still raging inside him.
This is my fault.
This wasn’t supposed to be his burden to bear. But he made it his. And I can’t let him carry it alone.
Carefully, I slip back under the blankets, pressing my body against his, and hoping my warmth will help break the fever burning through him. My hand finds his, fingers curling around his bruised knuckles, grounding him. Maybe grounding me, too.
I won’t leave. Not yet. Not until he’s well.