Chapter 48
Aftershocks
Violet
I’m sprawled out beneath him, wrecked in the best way possible, my smirk lazy and unrepentant, while my breath still comes in uneven bursts.
Asher hovers over me, and his fingers dig into my hips like he needs to keep me here—like I might disappear if he lets go—but it’s more than possession.
It’s grounding. Like he needs the reminder that I’m real, that this moment is real, not just the pleasure of it but the proof of something deeper he doesn’t want to name.
And I know it, right down to my bones.
I’ve proven something.
He needs me.
Not just the drug.
Me.
His thumb drags slowly along my lower lip, dark eyes tracking my face with something raw slipping beneath his usual control. “You look entirely too pleased with yourself, Kitten.”
I lick my lips, deliberately, watching the way his jaw tightens like it costs him something not to react. “I am.”
When he pulls out of me, it’s slow—reluctant—a sharp inhale barely escaping him as if his body resents the separation.
He tucks himself back into his pants with movements that feel heavy, like he’s fighting the urge to stay right where he is.
His shirt is still gone, discarded somewhere in the chaos of the lab, and his bare chest glows red where my nails dragged, marked, and claimed.
He looks wrecked.
Just not the way I am.
Even like this—disheveled, skin flushed, and breath still uneven—he carries himself with effortless authority. Muscles taut. Jaw locked. Like he could walk straight into a boardroom and make men twice his size fold without raising his voice.
Me?
I’m a mess. Skin hot. Hair tangled. My body still trembling from the way he ruined me—how thoroughly, how unapologetically. From the way I ruined him too.
And that’s the best part.
Tonight wasn’t just sex.
It was leverage.
I can make him lose control. I can make him unravel. I can pull him apart just as easily as he thinks he can cage me.
That makes me dangerous.
Dangerous—and addicting.
Then—
A cough.
We turn at the same time.
A glass wall separates the lab from the adjoining room, and his team is standing there, staring straight at us. Wide-eyed. Frozen. Horrified. One of them looks like he might actually faint.
A slow grin curls across my mouth. “Guess they learned something new today.”
Asher is fucking livid. I can tell by the way his jaw ticks and he stares down the glass like it might shatter by just his look alone.
He moves before I can blink, covering me with his body on instinct alone, and shielding me from their gaze like it’s muscle memory. His skin is still warm, breath still uneven, but his body locks down tight—coiled, lethal, and ready.
I can feel the rage vibrating through him, barely contained.
He grabs the nearest thing—a metal tray—and hurls it at the glass. The clang is violent, echoing through the lab as his team scatters like startled animals, tripping over themselves to get the fuck out.
“Out,” he snarls, voice low and murderous. “Now.”
They don’t hesitate. The last one barely clears the doorway before Asher storms forward and locks it with a sharp, final click.
When he turns back to me, I’m watching him with a different kind of hunger now—slower, sharper.
I bite my lip, suppressing a laugh. “Aw. Did the big bad mobster get caught?”
His jaw tightens. “You think this is funny?”
I shrug, completely unbothered. “I think it’s fucking hilarious.”
He’s in front of me in an instant, fingers closing around my chin, tilting my face up. His grip isn’t gentle.
It’s possessive.
Punishing.
“You just love fucking with me, don’t you?”
My breath hitches, but I don’t look away. I lick my lips again, slow and deliberate. “Every second.”
He crushes his mouth against mine, swallowing whatever smart-ass remark I had ready. I melt into him immediately, nails digging into his shoulders, while pulling him closer like I want to feel every inch of him again.
Eventually, we get dressed.
That’s when I see it—the way his hand lingers at his side, fingers pressing too carefully. A dark stain blooms faintly beneath the bandage.
My amusement drains away. “Are you in pain?” I reach for him without thinking.
He catches my wrist.
And for the first time—
He doesn’t shove me away. “I’ll live.”
I lean in anyway, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. Quiet. Gentle. Rare. His body is wound tight beneath my fingers, tension humming under the surface.
I can feel the war inside him.
Pride versus pain. Control versus instinct. The need to retreat battling the need to stay.
For just a second, he lets himself lean into me. His breath shudders. His grip loosens. Like he wants this. Like he wants to let himself have it.
Then it’s gone.
The mask slides back into place.
But I felt it.
That slip.
That need.
“I’m just saying,” I add lightly, because I refuse to let the moment go untouched, “if you die, you better put me in your will. At least leave me the penthouse.”
He exhales sharply, then a quiet chuckle slips out as he shakes his head. “You’re fucking impossible.”
“You love it.”
He doesn’t answer.
But he doesn’t deny it either.