Page 22 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

fifteen

Vanessa

A fternoon light creeps across Asher's formerly pristine living room. Three laptops form my chaotic command center in a half-circle around me, each screen displaying different fragments of offshore banking transactions.

My fingers fly across the keyboards as I switch between them, following money trails that vanish and reappear under different shell companies.

"Two-point-three million transferred to Cayman account ending in 4721, then split into seventeen smaller transactions." I mutter, leg bouncing rhythmically against the coffee table. The constant movement helps me think as connections form in my mind.

Asher's presence fills the kitchen doorway before I actually see him. That quiet, controlled energy hovering there, watching me. His gaze lands heavy on my shoulders, making my skin tingle with awareness, but I can't break concentration now.

"You need to eat." His deep voice cuts through my calculations, flat and non-negotiable.

I wave him off without looking up. "I'll eat when I finish tracing these offshore accounts."

My fingers drum rapidly against the trackpad, highlighting a suspicious transfer pattern. "Almost got it..."

Asher moves across the room toward me. He prepared food. Something that smells incredible, but food has to wait. This pattern is too important, too fragile to abandon.

"The timestamps match the dates when three women disappeared after signing with Vertex," I explain, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to Asher or myself. "If I can just..."

The screen goes black as Asher closes the laptop lid, his hand remaining firmly pressed on top of it.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I explode, jumping to my feet. The sudden movement sends a stack of financial documents sliding to the floor. "I was in the middle of..."

"Burning yourself out." Asher's voice stays calm compared to my outburst. "You didn't sleep more than three hours. Your calculations will suffer."

"My calculations are fine." Heat rushes to my face as I try to pry his hand off my laptop. It's like trying to move a marble statue. "Not all of us need military-prescribed eight hours to function."

His dark eyes sweep over the chaos I created. Empty coffee mugs, scattered paperwork, three different mechanical keyboards arranged in front of me. Something in his expression shifts from irritation to something harder to read.

"The laptops will still be here after you eat." The rigid set of his shoulders betrays his frustration. "Your body needs fuel to maintain this pace."

"My body needs to find whoever killed Jenny." My voice cracks. "And your hands need to get off my laptop before I hack into your bank account and donate everything to charity."

The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth tells me he's almost amused. Almost.

I drop my hands, swiping my eyes with the back of my hand. Exhaustion makes them burn, but I refuse to acknowledge it.

"Good luck with that, little bunny." Asher uses that ridiculous nickname that makes my skin flush. "My accounts have better security than most government agencies."

"Don't underestimate what I can do with proper motivation." I snap, stalking toward the kitchen to escape his towering presence. "And don't call me that."

My hip catches the edge of the island as I circle around it, putting the granite barrier between us. The barstool scrapes across the hardwood floor as I bump into it.

Asher doesn't follow me around the island. He walks deeper into his kitchen, and I hear cabinet doors opening, plates clinking. I take advantage of his distraction to pull out my phone, trying to access my laptop remotely.

"Going to need more time than that to trick me." Asher calls out without turning around.

I scowl at his back, frustrated by his constant awareness. My stomach betrays me with a loud growl as something fragrant and garlicky fills the air. Despite my anger, my nose twitches with interest.

When Asher turns back toward me, he's holding a plate that stops me mid-thought. My brain stutters like a failing hard drive.

"Is that... longsilog ?" I stare at the perfectly arranged plate of garlic fried rice, sunny side up eggs, and sweet Filipino longanisa sausage.

Asher sets the plate on the island counter between us. "Eat."

I approach cautiously, suspicion warring with the sudden overwhelming hunger triggered by the familiar scent of my childhood breakfasts. "How did you even get this? We haven't left your place in days."

"I have my ways." His face remains impassive, but something flickers in those dark eyes.

The simple fact that he knows what longsilog is throws me completely off balance. I slide onto the barstool, picking up the fork and spoon he places beside the plate.

"You researched Filipino breakfast foods? And how we eat?" I ask between bites, waving the spoon and fork, unable to hide my surprise or the small moan of appreciation as the flavors hit my tongue. "This is actually good. Like, really good."

"Your browser history showed multiple orders from Filipino restaurants." His expression remains neutral. "Simple data analysis."

I should be mad that he snooped through my computer, but I'm too busy enjoying the unexpected taste of home. The fact that this controlled man went to the trouble of finding authentic Filipino breakfast just to make me eat is...confusing. And weirdly touching.

"Fine. You win this round." I concede, shoveling another forkful into my mouth. "But don't think this means I'm okay with being cut off from real-time intel while your team investigates Vertex."

Asher leans against the counter across from me, arms crossed. "You'll analyze whatever data we collect."

"After the fact." I set down my fork harder than necessary. "That's not how I work, Asher. I need live feeds, real-time data streams. I'm supposed to be your digital eyes and ears, not some post-mission cleanup crew."

His jaw tightens. "The surveillance operation starts in three hours. You provide remote analysis from here."

"Remote analysis of what? Recordings? Screenshots?" My voice rises as frustration builds again. "I found the money trail that led to Vertex in the first place. I should be monitoring their systems in real-time, tracking any changes as they happen."

"You're not field support." His tone grows colder. "You're a consultant."

I push the half-eaten plate away, my brief moment of gratitude evaporating. "So I'm just your data monkey now? You've been using my findings to build your case against Vertex, and now I'm supposed to sit here like some kind of technical afterthought?"

Heat floods my cheeks as I stand, moving around the island toward him. Something about the way he moves draws my attention despite my anger. Controlled power contained in every step.

The tendons in his forearms tighten through tanned skin as his palms flatten against the counter.

"I am not your prisoner." I hiss, stepping into his personal space. My heart hammers as I tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. "I am your partner in this investigation."

"Partner implies equal say in operational decisions." Asher's voice drops as cold as his callsign. "You agreed to follow my lead."

His body doesn't move an inch as I invade his space. It's like confronting a marble statue. Beautiful, hard, and unmoved by my fury.

My frustration boils over. I slam my palms against his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle beneath his shirt. "Following your lead doesn't mean being treated like some background resource!"

In one fluid motion, so fast I barely register it happening, Asher catches my wrists. His grip applies the right pressure. Firm enough to stop me, gentle enough not to hurt. The touch shoots lightning up my arms, scrambling every coherent thought in my head.

"Don't." His voice drops to a dangerous rumble that vibrates through my chest.

All at once, my racing thoughts narrow to a single point. The sensation of his fingers around my wrists. My typical tornado of thoughts reduced to strange, unfamiliar calm. His touch anchors me, steadying the perpetual storm in my head.

Back in the living room, my center laptop screen flashes with a new detection result. A pattern connects Paradise Elite to another shell company. The missing link I've been searching for all morning. But Asher's face draws all my attention, the way his eyes darken as he notices my sudden stillness.

My heartbeat races beneath his touch. He has to feel it. The erratic rhythm betraying something I'm not ready to admit.

"Let me go." I demand, but my voice lacks conviction, and we both hear it.

His fingers remain around my wrists, anchoring me in this strange new quiet. "Is that what you really want?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The words tangle in my throat as his dark eyes hold mine. My hands want to fidget with something, anything, but there's nothing within reach.

When I don't answer, Asher steps closer, still holding my wrists. His other hand comes up to tilt my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against my jawline, sending sparks dancing across my skin.

"Tell me what you want, Vanessa."

My breath catches. The kitchen suddenly feels too warm, too small. Back in the living room, the forgotten laptop pings with another alert, but for once, I don't turn toward the sound.

That never happens. Ever.

"I want... I need..." I stammer, overwhelmed by the sudden clarity his touch brings. Words usually flow from me in unstoppable torrents, but now they're trapped somewhere between my racing heart and dry lips.

Asher doesn't speak. He moves with purpose, repositioning his hold to capture both my wrists in one hand, drawing them behind my back. The motion brings our bodies flush against each other, my chest pressed to his.

His free hand slides to cup my face, thumb tracing my lower lip with just enough pressure to make me gasp.

"Your mind never stops." He observes, his lips brushing my ear. "Let me quiet it for you."

My breath catches. No one has ever understood this about me. How I sometimes wish for silence inside my own head.

"How?" The question escapes as barely more than a breath.

His free hand traces along my jawline, thumb brushing across my bottom lip. "By giving you something else to think about. Something simple. Clear."

"Nothing's ever simple." I argue, though my body sways toward his.

The corner of his mouth twitches. "That's where you're wrong, little bunny. Some things are simple."

His fingers slide into my hair, tipping my head back to look into his eyes.

"Kneel."

That single word cuts through all my defenses. My heart hammers against my ribs, and for a moment, I can't breathe. No one has ever dared command me like this. I should be outraged.

But it's as if my body recognizes what my mind is only beginning to understand.

Without breaking eye contact, his hand releases my wrists and I sink slowly to my knees before him. The motion feels both alien and instinctive, shocking me with how right it feels. A flutter of surprise courses through me. I've never submitted to anyone, never wanted to before this moment.

The kitchen floor is cool against my skin, but I barely notice. Looking up at him from this position should make me feel diminished, conquered. But I feel... clarity. The perpetual hurricane in my mind calms to a gentle breeze.

Asher's expression shifts as he looks down at me—his control remains perfect, but something else enters his gaze. Recognition. Understanding. His hand comes to rest against my cheek.

Without planning or forethought, two words fall from my lips: "Yes, sir."

The moment they escape, shock ripples through my entire body.

Did I just say that?

My eyes widen as I stare up at him, my mouth falling open slightly. I've never called anyone "sir" in my life—not teachers, not bosses, not anyone. The words came from somewhere deep inside me that I didn't even know existed.

Heat floods my face as the realization hits: I want to say it again.

His dark eyes flare with something dangerous and possessive. "Look at me."

I lock my gaze on his, every muscle in my body going still. The command should chafe against my independent nature, but it settles over me like a warm blanket. My usual restless energy disappears, replaced by this strange, peaceful awareness.

"How does your mind feel right now?" he asks, studying my face with those sharp, calculating eyes.

"Quiet," I breathe, wonder coloring my voice. "It's never quiet."

His fingers slide into my hair, gentle but firm. "Good girl."

The praise melts through me like honey, warming places I didn't know were cold. My breathing grows heavier, and I lean into his touch without thinking.

"Stand up," he instructs, stepping back to give me room.

I rise gracefully, surprised by how steady my legs feel. Usually, after sitting for hours coding, I'm stiff and clumsy. Now my body feels fluid, responsive to his guidance.

Asher moves closer, his hands settling on my waist. His dark eyes drop to my lips, then back to meet mine. "Tell me what you want."

"You," I whisper without hesitation. "I want you to kiss me."

He leans closer, his breath warm against my lips. My eyes flutter closed in anticipation. The memory of our first kiss burns between us, and after everything—the commands, the surrender, the perfect quiet in my head—I need him to close this distance again.

A sharp, insistent beeping cuts through the air.

My laptop. The financial tracking system I programmed to monitor real-time movements.

Asher freezes, his mouth inches from mine. In the space of a heartbeat, his expression changes. The heat in his eyes vanishes, replaced by cold calculation.

His hands drop from my waist as he steps back, and suddenly he's not the man who just commanded me to kneel—he's Frost, the operative, all professional distance and tactical assessment.

I'm left standing there, watching him retreat behind walls I didn't even see him rebuild.

"Check it," he orders, voice clipped and impersonal.

The whiplash is brutal. Seconds ago, I was floating in peaceful submission, lost in his touch and the promise of his kiss. Now I'm stumbling back toward the living room on unsteady legs, my mind struggling to shift gears from intimacy to crisis management.

The financial tracking system is flashing red—multiple alerts cascading across the interface. My breath catches as the data resolves.

"What is it?" Asher asks from behind me, but his tone remains professionally detached, as if the last ten minutes never happened.

I stare at the screen, my heart sinking as the implications hit me. "The money," I whisper. "It's moving. Right now."