Page 30 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

twenty

Vanessa

T he ride back to Asher's house happens in tense silence. His knuckles turn white against the steering wheel, jaw clenched so tight I'm surprised his teeth don't crack. His anger fills the car like heat, pressing against my skin and raising goosebumps despite the warm air blasting from the vents.

I stare out the window, the city lights blurring as rain falls. The droplets race down the glass, creating patterns my brain automatically tries to track. My thoughts fragment and reassemble, but keep coming back to the possessive way Asher inserted himself between me and Jax.

The controlled look in his eyes. The territorial hand at my back that felt like a brand.

Part of me bristles at being treated like property. A bright flare of indignation that refuses to be smothered. Another part, a deeper, wilder part, responds to being claimed in such a total way. The contradiction prickles across my skin with awareness.

By the time we reach his house, my nerves feel like live wires, exposed and crackling.

We enter his home in silence. The minimalist space feels different tonight.

Less like a command post and more like a predator's den.

The low lighting casts long shadows, and the steady patter of rain against the windows creates intimacy, like we've been sealed inside an equation with only one possible solution.

I slip my jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair, then adjust it three times until it hangs exactly right.

Asher doesn't move to turn on more lights.

He paces, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back.

His movements are too controlled, too measured.

Like he's barely containing something dangerous.

"You let him touch you."

His voice is terrifyingly calm, each word formed and spaced like bullets in a magazine.

"Excuse me?"

I turn to face him fully, fingers tapping rapidly against my thigh.

"Jax. You let him put his hands on you."

The muscle in his jaw ticks visibly. A metronome of restraint.

I cross my arms, defensive heat rising in my chest.

"He touched my back for two seconds during a demonstration. That's hardly intimate."

"You smiled at him."

"I smile at everyone! I smile at the barista who gets my coffee order wrong. Are we really doing this right now? Because if you think I'm some possession you can—"

"You know that's not what I mean."

Asher stops pacing, his dark eyes locking onto mine like a sniper finding his target.

Heat floods my chest, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

"Explain it to me, Asher. Explain why you think you get to decide who touches me."

He stalks closer, each footstep deliberate.

"I don't like seeing his hands on what's mine."

The possessive claim sends contradictory shocks through my system. Outrage and arousal battling for dominance.

"Oh, so I'm 'yours' now? When did I sign that contract?"

My sarcasm hits its mark. Something flickers across his features. Surprise, maybe even amusement, before the dangerous mask slides back into place.

"You want this," He grumbles in a voice so low that it sends tremors through my body.

He moves closer still, backing me toward the wall without touching me. His positioning is perfect, close enough to intimidate, far enough that I'd have to move toward him to initiate contact.

My back hits the cool surface.

"We slept together."

I try to keep my voice steady while my heart hammers in my ribs.

"That doesn't make me your property. This isn't the eighteen hundreds, and I'm not wearing your class ring."

"Your body knows what it wants." His voice drops lower, dangerous.

My traitorous heart speeds up. "But that doesn't give you the right to—"

"To what? To care that another man put his hands on you?" His words come out measured, controlled. "To want to break his fingers one by one for touching what's mine?"

The last word comes out as almost a growl.

"I make my own choices, Asher." I press my palms flat against the wall behind me, needing something solid.

"I decide who touches me."

His eyes narrow, tracking the movement of my hands like he's reading wind patterns.

"Your pulse is racing."

My breath catches. "That's not the point."

"It's exactly the point."

He leans closer, his breath warm against my face, smelling of mint and coffee.

"You're attracted to Jax."

"What? No, I—"

"Don't lie to me."

His voice cuts like a blade, calibrated for maximum impact.

"I saw how you looked at him. Analyzing. Assessing."

"I assess everyone! That's what I do! I notice patterns, details, connections—damn it, I counted forty-seven freckles on the barista's face yesterday. It doesn't mean I want to sleep with him!"

I push at his chest, needing space.

The moment my hands connect with his chest, something changes in Asher's eyes. Raw and claiming, like a predator marking territory. His hand snaps up, wrapping around both my wrists in a grip that's firm but controlled.

In one smooth motion, he pins my hands above my head against the wall. His body still doesn't touch mine, but I can feel the heat radiating from him, smell the mint and sandalwood of his skin, count the seconds in the pulse visible at his throat.

"You want this." His voice is rough, certain. "Stop me if you can."

My breath comes in short gasps. The challenge in his eyes fires up my blood, rebellion and want tangled so tightly inside me they become one feeling I can't pull apart. I should tell him to back off, to release my hands, to stop acting like he owns me.

But I don't.

I remain silent, watching his pupils dilate as he registers my choice.

"Mine."

The single word holds more power than any lengthy declaration.

Asher closes the last distance between us, his mouth claiming mine in a bruising kiss that steals my breath.

His body presses against me, hard muscle pinning me to the wall as his free hand grips my hip.

The constant buzz in my head—the endless calculations, connections, patterns—quiets to a single circuit: Asher plus me equals yes.

"Christ."

The curse breaks from him as I bite his lower lip, and satisfaction rushes through me at cracking his control.

His mouth moves to my neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin.

"You have no idea what you do to me." His voice is rougher now, less controlled than his usual clipped delivery.

"I'm getting a pretty good idea."

I gasp when his teeth find the junction where my neck meets my shoulder, biting down hard enough that I know he's leaving a mark.

He growls against my throat, his breath hot and uneven. Sweat beads along his hairline despite the cool room, and when he lifts his head to look at me, his usual perfect composure shows hairline cracks.

"Your body knows what it needs."

His hand slides up to cup my throat, thumb tracing my pulse point. "This is about you, about what I can do to you, not what I get from you."

The admission sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs. My heart skips as his eyes track the reaction he can undoubtedly feel beneath his fingers.

This is new.

No one has ever made it about just me. The thought skitters across my brain before his touch scatters it completely.

"Prove it." The challenge slips out before I can stop it, and his pupils blow wide.

"Dangerous words, little bunny."

His pet name for me comes out as a possessive rumble, and something in my chest tightens at hearing it in this context.

He releases my throat, his hand moving to the hem of my shirt. In one swift motion, he yanks it over my head, my arms briefly freed before he pins them back against the wall. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps that have nothing to do with the temperature.

"Look at you." His gaze travels over my exposed skin like he's mapping territory, noting every detail with sniper focus.

"Perfect. And mine."

His mouth descends, teeth closing around my collarbone with exactly the right pressure. I cry out, the sound echoing off his walls, and heat spreads through my chest at his satisfied expression.

"Asher."

His name breaks from my throat as his tongue soothes the bite mark before moving to create another one lower, along the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. A secret claim that will be hidden beneath most clothes but visible in tank tops.

"You need this."

His words vibrate against my skin as he works his way across my collarbone, leaving a deliberate pattern of marks.

"Need what?" But I know what he means, and the stubborn part of me refuses to give it easily.

He's marking me. Actually marking me like I belong to him.

I should be angry. I'm a strong, independent woman. But it sends another wave of heat between my legs.

He lifts his head, eyes boring into mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "This. Someone who puts you first."

"That's pretty presumptuous of you."

The sarcasm earns me a sharp nip to my shoulder. I gasp, my body arching toward him despite my defiant words.

"Your body doesn't lie."

He chuckles, the sound dark and possessive.

"Your pulse says otherwise." His thumb finds my racing heartbeat again, and I bite back a whimper at the contact. "Look how you respond to me."

His free hand skims down my side, tracing the curve of my waist with maddening lightness. Every nerve ending comes alive under his touch, hyperaware of each callus on his fingers, each deliberate caress.

God, he's good at this. Too good.

"You're shaking."

The observation comes out clinical, but his breathing is harsh and uneven, betraying his own affected state.

"So are you." I manage, noticing the slight tremor in the hands that can hold a rifle motionless for hours. That tremor is because of me. The realization sends power coursing through my veins.

Something flickers across his features—surprise, maybe vulnerability—before the mask slides back.

His hand slides down, fingers finding the button of my jeans with expert ease.