Chapter 46 #2
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That’s what differentiates MDMA from Zephyra. You didn’t make a weaker version. You made a useless one.”
A pause.
“She’s wrong,” Glasses Guy sputters, turning to Asher.
Asher raises a brow. “You sure about that?”
The man falters, recalculating. His lips move. His face drains of color. “Oh. Oh shit.”
From across the lab, a younger woman snickers. She’s wearing the same coat as the rest of them, but she carries herself differently—less rigid, less obedient. “Told you she’d be pissed,” she mutters. “I was just waiting for the explosion.”
I clap my hands together, smiling brightly. “Ding ding ding. We have a winner.”
Then I see the trial data. My amusement dies instantly.
They’ve tested it. Not just theory—human trials. And the numbers are wrong. Very wrong. My pulse spikes as I flip through the pages, each one confirming my worst fear.
This isn’t about getting Zephyra right.
It’s about what happens when they get it wrong.
Asher chuckles and steps closer, and I immediately regret making this a performance. He leans against the counter beside me, too close, and his presence presses into my space. “You sound personally offended, Kitten.”
I slap my hand on the table. “Personally offended? Maybe because this was my creation. My formula. My Zephyra. And instead of asking for my help, you stole it and butchered it like a bunch of unsupervised children.”
Silence again.
Glasses Guy has the decency to look ashamed.
Asher looks pleased. “You always belonged here, Violet.”
I whip around. “Oh, well thank you so much for including me. I feel incredibly valued.”
“You should.”
I turn back to the workstation before I commit a felony, gripping the edge hard enough to ache. My brain is already correcting their mistakes, mapping fixes, and seeing solutions. I hate that part of myself for it.
Because Zephyra isn’t just a drug.
It’s my responsibility.
That truth settles heavy in my chest. No matter how much I resent being here, no matter how much I hate him, I can’t leave this unfixed.
People could get hurt.
If Zephyra exists, then I have to be the one to fix it. Because if I don’t, no one will. And I’ll never forgive myself.
I slam the papers down. “You were going to phase me out. Take my work and cut me loose.”
“I don’t need you, Violet,” Asher says calmly. “I needed Zephyra. There’s a difference.”
The words hit hard. Not just because they hurt—but because of how easily he says them.
The mask snaps back into place. Cold. Untouchable.
I shove him.
He grabs my wrist and yanks me in, our bodies colliding.
“Barely stitched up and still acting tough?” I sneer. “What are you going to do, Asher? You’re too weak to handle me.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve crossed a line.
He goes still.
Dangerously still.
I should stop. Apologize. Back down.
I don’t.
“Say it again,” he says quietly.
I shake my head.
Too late.
His hand fists in my shirt, slamming me into him. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs.
"Try that again," he growls, his breath hot against my cheek, his grip ironclad. "Say that again, and see what happens."
My heart is hammering, a brutal, and erratic rhythm. Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to fight, to push back, and to claw my way free. But another part of me—the part that’s been waiting for him to break—thrums with something dark, and something dangerous.
I let out a breathless laugh, lifting my chin. "What are you going to do, Asher?" I taunt, my voice softer now, laced with venom. "Prove me right?"
The last thread of his control snaps.
His fingers tighten, and his other hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just holding me there. "Careful, Kitten," he growls, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "You don’t want to see what happens when I stop being nice."
My breath shudders, but I don’t back down.
I should be afraid. Maybe I am. But I’m also something else entirely.
Before I can open my mouth again, the door swings open, shattering the tension like glass.
Maverick steps inside, his expression unreadable as he takes in the scene. He cocks a brow, unimpressed. "Am I interrupting something?"
Asher doesn’t move for a second, his grip still firm, and his eyes still locked on mine. Then, slowly, his fingers loosen, and his hold slips away.
I should feel relief. I don’t. I feel like I’ve lost something.
But before I can process it, Asher speaks—calm, measured, and in complete control. "Out."
Maverick doesn’t even blink, just gives a knowing smirk before turning on his heel. The other techs move in eerie silence, slipping away without hesitation, and without question. No protests, no second glances—just swift, and obedient departure.
My stomach knots. I can’t decide what unsettles me more—the fact that Asher can command a room like that, or the fact that they listen so easily.
A chill runs down my spine as the last door clicks shut.
And then, it’s just us.
His gaze drags over me, dark and unreadable, and I swear I can feel the shift in the air itself.
My skin prickles, the weight of his attention like a touch without contact.
My breath feels too shallow, my chest tightening, and heat pooling low in my stomach.
The energy between us thickens, charged and suffocating, anticipation crackling like a live wire.
Every instinct tells me to move, to break the moment, but I’m rooted in place, held by something far stronger than fear.