Chapter 49
Fracture Lines
Asher
The sharp click of my shoes against the tile echoes through the lab as I storm toward the exit, my pulse a slow, simmering rage. Violet follows behind me, her steps hesitant, and her body still thrum with the aftermath of what we just did.
I don’t look at her. I can’t. Not with the fury clawing at my throat, barely contained.
“Boss—” Maverick’s voice cuts through the tense air as he catches up to me, his expression unreadable but his tone cautious. Smart. He knows better than to poke the bear when I’m like this.
Behind him, Dr. Patel—my lead scientist, always meticulous and unbearably precise—adjusts his glasses, clearing his throat, while his lips press into a thin line. “Mr. Redmont, we need to discuss the—”
“Not now.” My voice is razor-sharp, cutting through whatever excuse he was about to offer.
Patel’s gaze flickers to Violet, and that’s all it takes for the fury to snap its leash.
My hands slam against the metal doorframe as I turn on them, voice dangerously low. “If I so much as hear a whisper of what happened in that lab tonight, I will personally ensure none of you work in this field again. Do you understand me?”
Patel swallows hard, nodding. “Of course, sir.”
Maverick, the bastard, just smirks. “Bit late for that, don’t you think?”
I whip toward him, my glare enough to make most men cower. “Mav.”
He chuckles but lifts his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying. Can’t exactly un-see that.”
Violet stifles another giggle, her shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. She finds the entire thing hilarious, the fact that we got caught, and the shock on their faces. It only fuels my fury.
I shove the door open, stepping outside into the night air, the cool air hitting me like a slap. My pulse is still hammering, my mind replaying the way Patel had looked at her, and the way Maverick had smirked. The fucking audacity of it all.
My driver is already waiting, standing beside the sleek black car under the dim lights.
My grip tightens around the car door, muscles coiled with leftover rage.
I need to let it go. Need to focus on something else.
But the fury doesn’t settle—it lingers, shifting into something more dangerous.
My jaw aches from clenching. Without a word, I pull open the back door for her, the movement sharp, controlled—but barely.
She hesitates, like she can feel the storm still raging in me.
I finally look at her then, my jaw tight. “Get in, Vi.”
Her lips press together, but she slides inside without protest. I shut the door harder than necessary, tension bleeding from my grip. The driver pulls out smoothly, oblivious to the chaos still clawing at my ribs.
Pain lances through my side as I shift slightly, trying to ease the pressure without alerting her.
The stitches barely held through what happened in that lab, and every movement sends another sharp warning through me.
Violet notices the tension in my posture, her sleepy gaze flicking up to me with lingering amusement.
"Still mad?" she teases, nudging me lightly with her elbow.
I cut her a sidelong glance, my jaw tight. "I'm debating whether or not to throw you out of this car."
She snickers, but her gaze drops to my side, where my shirt is undoubtedly damp with blood. Her fingers brush against the fabric before she can think better of it. "You're bleeding still."
"Not the first time," I mutter.
She exhales through her nose, exasperated but not pushing it. "You need to let the doctor fix it."
"I'll handle it."
"That’s not handling it, that’s ignoring it."
I shake my head, exhaling. "You act like everything is yours to fix."
She hesitates, fingers curling slightly before pulling back. "Maybe," she hisses, her voice softer now. "But I don’t like seeing you in pain. Even when you're being insufferable."
The city lights flicker past in a blur of gold and shadow, casting long streaks across the windshield as the driver glances at us briefly in the rearview mirror before refocusing on the road.
The low hum of the engine fills the silence, steady, and controlled—so unlike the thoughts twisting through my mind like a storm I can’t quiet.
Violet shifts against me, her body curling instinctively into my side, pressing closer as if she can sense the tension rolling off me even in sleep.
And I let her, even though I shouldn’t. Even though it terrifies me.
She must be exhausted. After everything—raw, unfiltered, and consuming—I don’t know how she hasn’t collapsed from exhaustion.
The memory of her, of us, tangles in my mind like barbed wire.
The way she looked at me while I was inside her—like I was the only thing in the world, like she saw me in a way no one else ever has.
There was no hesitation, or pretense, just raw need, and it shook something loose inside me.
I’ve had women look at me before, but not like that. Not like I mattered.
That moment left a mark on me deeper than any wound.
It clawed its way into my chest, buried itself somewhere I can't reach, and I don't know how to get rid of it. I feel her exhale, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she drifts, and her body melts into mine with the kind of trust I don’t deserve. Her fingers twitch against my ribs, barely there, a fleeting touch that sends a jolt through me. She exhales, shifting slightly, and murmuring something incoherent before settling again. She’s completely unguarded, completely at ease.
Even in sleep, there's a trace of that damn giggle on her lips, like she's still reliving the moment, and still finding it funny.
It should piss me off even more, and maybe it does, but the heat of her against me drowns out everything else.
The weight of her against me is grounding, her breath warm where it ghosts over my collarbone.
Her head rests against my shoulder, fitting there like she belongs, and my fingers flex against the seat, fighting the urge to pull her closer.
The wound on my side throbs, sharp and unrelenting.
I should be focusing on the pain, on the blood soaking into my shirt, and on the fact I need to see the doctor before this gets worse.
I should move her, put space between us, and remind myself of the rules I swore to live by.
My fingers twitch, my body tensing, ready to shift away.
But before I can, she sighs softly, her breath warm against my skin, and tension in me cracks.
The thought of shifting her away feels worse than the searing pain in my side.
More unbearable than the blood soaking through my shirt.
And for what? A few more stitches I can survive without for a little longer?
I breathe through the pain, jaw locked. I can hold out a little longer.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I know better. Letting her in is reckless, but denying it feels like a lie. The walls I built aren’t just cracking—they’re caving in around me.
My free hand drifts toward her before I can stop it, fingertips grazing the strands of her hair, feeling the silken weight of it against my skin. A small, quiet thing—this moment. And maybe that’s why it hits so fucking hard. Because this… this isn’t me.
This isn’t control.
Control is the armor I’ve spent years forging, the shield that’s protected me from weakness, from loss.
It has kept me alive, but right now, it feels like a cage.
And yet, every slow breath she takes presses deeper, wearing down the defenses I swore were impenetrable.
She shouldn’t fit against me like this, shouldn’t settle into me like she belongs.
But she does. And that terrifies me more than anything.
I’ve spent years mastering control, turning emotions into weapons or discarding them entirely.
And yet, here she is—curled into me, unguarded—and I feel like I’m losing a battle I didn’t even realize I was fighting.
She’s asleep in my arms, her breath slow and steady, while her body unconsciously molds closer.
A soft hiss escapes her lips, something unintelligible, but it sends a jolt through me anyway.
She shifts slightly, her fingers twitching against my ribs before settling again.
That trust—so effortless, and so instinctive—presses against the weakest parts of me, and I don’t know if I want to hold onto it or run.
I should push her away, remind myself that love is a weakness.
But the thought barely holds weight anymore, nothing more than a frayed thread slipping through my grasp.
My father drilled that into me a long time ago.
Love is leverage. It’s a liability. It’s a loaded gun waiting for someone to pull the trigger.
But right now, with her tucked against me, safe, and untouched by the world that’s clawed at me for years—I don’t care.
My throat tightens as I press a kiss to the top of her head, barely a breath of contact. The driver keeps his eyes forward, impassive, as if moments like these aren’t meant to be acknowledged.
Just for now. Just a stolen moment. Just long enough to pretend this doesn’t mean more than it should.
The words rise unspoken in my mind, dangerous in their softness. I won’t say them. Not even to myself. Because the moment I do, it’s real.
And if it’s real, I don’t think I could walk away—even if I wanted to.