Page 18 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

twelve

Vanessa

T he motorcycle rumbles to a stop beneath me, my arms still locked around Asher's waist like it's the only stable thing left in my universe. My heart hammers against my ribs. The adrenaline crash hitting me hard now that we're no longer racing through the city.

A house looms before us, all hard angles and darkened windows. Not a single light visible from outside. Smart.

"Stay close," he orders, dismounting in one fluid motion before helping me off.

I wobble slightly, my legs jelly after everything that just happened. "I've got someone's blood on my sleeve," I mutter, picking at the dark stain.

Asher doesn't respond. His eyes scan the perimeter before he guides me forward, one hand on the small of my back, the other holding his weapon at the ready.

At the entrance, he positions me partially behind him while he punches a code into a keypad, then another, then a third. My eyes widen as I take note of every detail automatically.

"Three keypads, biometric scanner, reinforced door frame. This isn't a house, it's a panic room with furniture," I blurt out.

His jaw tightens. "That's the point."

A green light flashes, and the heavy door slides open with a pneumatic hiss. Asher ushers me inside before methodically securing each lock behind us.

The interior is... bare. Clean lines, minimal furnishings, and a color palette that appears to consist only of black, gray, and more black.

My fingers tap restlessly against my thigh as I take in my surroundings. I can't help it that the tension in my body translates into movement. I drift toward a sleek kitchen counter, running my hands along its cool surface.

"Is there anything in this place that isn't gray or black?" I ask, picking up a perfectly placed coffee mug and turning it in my hands.

Asher takes it from me, returning it to its exact position. "Some of us prefer functional over decorative."

My body won't stop moving. I bounce slightly on my toes, looking at everything: exits, windows, the apparent lack of personal items. I move from the counter to a bookshelf, fingers trailing across perfectly organized titles.

"Your books are alphabetized by author's last name and color-coded." I can't help the note of fascination in my voice.

"Don't touch—" he starts, but I've already moved back to the kitchen.

A row of knives hangs on a magnetic strip, each blade precisely distanced from the next. I reach out, fascinated by their military-grade precision.

My fingers barely brush the handle of a santoku knife when Asher's hand closes around my wrist. His grip is gentle but unmistakably restraining.

"Please don't touch the knives." His voice is somehow both soft and steely. His face is inches from mine, and I can feel his breath warm against my cheek.

My pulse jumps, and it's not from fear. "Sorry. When I'm stressed, I touch things. Process information through my fingertips."

His eyes hold mine for a beat too long before he releases my wrist. "Just... ask first."

"I usually ask before touching things," I mutter defensively as he releases my wrist. The ghost of his touch lingers warm against my skin. "But sometimes my brain moves faster than my manners."

Asher's eyes narrow slightly.

"Sit." He points to a barstool at the kitchen island.

"I'm not a dog," I protest, but perch on the edge of the stool anyway, my legs swinging restlessly.

Asher moves to a cabinet above the refrigerator, retrieving what looks like a tactical first aid kit. Not the basic red cross kind—this is military-grade, with compartments labeled in a neat, angular script.

"What are you doing?" I ask, suddenly noticing the sting in my arm.

"You're bleeding."

I look down at my forearm where my sleeve is torn, revealing a three-inch gash I hadn't even registered. "Oh."

Asher places the kit on the counter and arranges supplies: antiseptic, gauze, butterfly bandages. Each item positioned with calculated intention, like pieces on a chess board.

"I'm fine. It's barely a scratch." My fingers drum against the granite countertop in an erratic beat.

"Hold still," he commands, his voice dropping an octave as he takes my arm. His touch is surprisingly gentle as he rolls up my sleeve, exposing the wound.

My stomach flips at the contrast. This dangerous man with blood still on his knuckles, handling me like I'm made of glass.

"Do you always go into terminator mode when someone touches you?" The words tumble out before I can stop them.

His hands pause mid-motion, eyes flicking up to meet mine. "What?"

"That guy, the one who grabbed me. You didn't just neutralize him. You..." The image flashes in my mind: Asher's fist connecting again and again, long past what was necessary.

Something dark flickers across his face. "He put his hands on you."

The antiseptic stings as he dabs it across my cut, but I barely notice. My brain is too busy processing his words, the way he takes control that sends my heart racing.

"I've had worse paper cuts from manila folders." I try to pull my arm away.

His grip tightens just enough to hold me in place. "Stop. Moving."

"That's like asking water not to be wet," I mutter. "Stillness isn't really in my repertoire."

A muscle in his jaw twitches, frustration or amusement, I can't tell.

"Try."

His hands move with precision, cleaning my injury like a professional. There's something different in how he touches me though. A slight pause when he puts the bandage on, his thumb gliding over my inner wrist right where my heartbeat races.

I track his movements—the way his shoulders flex beneath his tactical shirt, the controlled precision of his breathing, the almost imperceptible softening around his eyes when he looks at the wound.

"You're asking a lot of questions for someone who was just targeted by a professional hit team." Asher applies the last bandage with just the right amount of pressure.

"Your security protocols were good. Not great," he continues, not looking up from his work. "These men weren't random. They were professional."

Heat flares in my cheeks. "My security was excellent. I've been running under the radar for years."

"Until now."

I can't argue with that, so I don't.

"Come with me," Asher commands, gathering the medical supplies with one swift motion and a precision that speaks of too much practice. He moves toward what I assume is the living room, clearly expecting me to follow without question.

I hesitate for exactly two seconds before my curiosity wins out.

The living room matches the kitchen's minimalist aesthetic—dark furniture, strategic lighting, and massive windows with a view of the Bay Bridge that must cost millions. But what catches my attention are the monitors dominating one wall, displaying maps and surveillance feeds of my building.

"You've been watching me," I breathe, stepping closer to the screens. "Hypocrite." Various algorithms track movement patterns in and around my loft—the same kinds of programs I use, but with military-grade enhancements I recognize from government systems I've previously...investigated.

Asher ignores my accusation, pulling a phone from his pocket. His fingers move quickly across the screen before he places it on the coffee table, activating speaker mode.

"Saint, secure line," he states, positioning himself where he can watch both me and the door.

A smooth voice answers immediately. "Confirmed secure. Status?"

"We've got rid of the intruders," Asher reports, eyes flicking to me as I fidget with the bandage on my arm. "Same signature as the Paradise Elite security team."

My stomach tightens. The connection I suspected, confirmed.

"Casualties?" the voice, "Saint", asks.

"Four." Asher's voice remains perfectly even, as though discussing the weather rather than four dead men.

The man on the other end exhales slowly. "Injuries on your side?"

"Minor laceration on the asset's forearm. I've treated it."

Asset? My nostrils flare.

"I have a name," I interject, even as Asher shoots me a warning look that I know would silence most people. "And they knew exactly where to find me—my security is multilayered. Someone had to be tracking me for days."

A brief silence follows.

"Is that Echo?" Saint asks. "The hacker?"

"Yes," Asher confirms, his jaw tightening.

"Keep her contained until we assess." The man's voice is calm but carries unmistakable authority. "We need to establish how compromised your location is."

"Understood." Asher reaches for the phone.

"Wait. How bad is the cut? Any signs of infection or need for stitches?"

Asher glances at my arm. "Clean cut, no debris. Approximately three inches. Butterfly closures applied."

My patience snaps. "I'm right here. You can ask me directly about my own body."

The call ends with Asher promising updates, and I stand there, vibrating with irritation.

I step toward him, fists clenched at my sides. "I'm not a liability to be managed, I'm the one who cracked this case open!"

I've never been great at standing still.

"Contained," I spit the word like it's poison. "Is that what you're going to do? Lock me in a closet somewhere?"

Asher doesn't answer. His attention has already shifted to a security panel near the far wall. I follow his gaze, noticing a reinforced door I'd overlooked in my initial scan of the room. His fingers glide across the keypad with lethal focus.

"Hello? I'm talking to you," I snap, following him as the door slides open with a whisper of hydraulics.

The words die in my throat when I see what's inside.

It's a small room with wall-to-wall weapons. Rifles mounted in perfect alignment, handguns displayed in glass cases, and what looks like enough ammunition to start a small war.

"Is this where you keep your personality?" I mutter.

Asher continues to ignore me, moving to a workbench where he methodically disassembles his handgun. His movements flow like water, each component separated and placed in a specific position with practiced familiarity.

I pace the living room just outside the door, my body unable to remain still as the events of the night cycle through my brain on repeat.

Four men. Dead. Because of me. Because of what I found.

I watch Asher through the partially open door as he cleans each gun part. His expression remains impassive, as if handling lethal weapons is as routine as brushing his teeth.

"You killed three men tonight and you're not even blinking," I observe, studying his stone-carved features. My fingers tap in an anxious rhythm against my thigh.

"You should be more concerned about the people still trying to kill you," he responds without looking up. The smell of gun oil fills the air between us.

My stomach twists. He's right, but that doesn't make this reality any easier to swallow. I've been investigating trafficking networks from behind screens for years. The blood was always... digital. Abstract.

"I need equipment," I blurt out, the pressure building inside me until the words escape. "Servers, encryption keys."

My hands shake slightly. I'd grabbed an external drive in the chaos, but it's not enough. "The hard drive I saved has critical data, but I need hardware. I need—"

"What you need is to stay alive." Asher's voice cuts through mine, sharp and cold. He finally looks up, his dark eyes locking with mine. "Your digital footprint is what led them to you."

The truth of his words hits me like a physical blow. My chest tightens, and suddenly I can't find any words. All my defenses, my codes, my firewalls, my proxy servers, meant nothing against whoever found me. For the first time in years, I'm completely untethered from my digital world.

I sink onto the edge of a chair, the silence crushing me more effectively than any argument could.

My fingers still against my leg. The realization washes over me in a cold wave.

I have no tech, no control. I'm completely dependent on this dangerous stranger with blood on his hands and ice in his veins.

And scariest of all? Some deep, primitive part of me feels safer because of it.

Silence sits heavy between us. I should be plotting my next move, figuring out how to regain control of this situation—of my life—but my brain feels disconnected from my body. For someone who lives by processing thousands of data points simultaneously, this sudden stillness is terrifying.

Asher moves with silent efficiency across the room, sliding his cleaned weapon into a holster.

"Come with me." He breaks the quiet.

I follow him almost automatically, my body moving before my brain catches up. He turns to let me pass and guides me down a darkened hallway, his hand hovering near the small of my back without actually touching me. The almost-contact sends prickles across my skin like static electricity.

The hallway is as spartan as the rest of the house—no photos, no personal items. Just clean lines and practicality. Even the overhead lighting is programmed to a dim setting that provides visibility without creating exposure from outside.

My skin tingles with awareness. I'm in a predator's territory. Every instinct screams this fact at me.

Asher pushes open a door to reveal a bedroom. Like everything else, it's minimal—king-sized bed with dark gray bedding, nightstands, nothing extraneous.

"You should shower and change." He moves to a dresser where he pulls out a gray t-shirt that would swallow my body. "There's still blood on your clothes."

He hands me the shirt, careful not to let our fingers touch. I glance around, the realization dawning on me slowly.

"Where are you planning to sleep?" I ask, scanning the hallway behind us. The tension in my shoulders ratchets up another notch when I don't spot any other doors that could be bedrooms.

Our eyes connect in the hallway's soft light, a current of energy passing between us. He stares at me with an intensity that's impossible to interpret.

"I have one bedroom," his voice deliberately neutral despite the implications. "You'll take it."

I open my mouth to protest. Who has just one bedroom in a whole house? Before I can speak, his expression stops me cold.

"I'll be right outside the door all night. No one gets in," his eyes darken as they travel over me, "and you don't get out."

My stomach drops, a warm heaviness spreading low in my belly at the possessive edge in his voice. I should be outraged. I want to argue. But my heart pounds wildly, and my clothes suddenly feel too tight.

"So I'm a prisoner now?" The words come out breathier than I intended.

"You're alive," he corrects. "Which is more than you'd be if I hadn't been there tonight."

His words settle in the air like smoke, thick with promise and threat.

My hands grip the borrowed fabric tighter while my brain cycles through exit strategies, backup plans, and the terrifying reality that some dark corner of my mind wants to stay right here with him.