Page 32 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

twenty-one

Vanessa

I stare out the window, watching raindrops race each other down the glass. My fingers drum against my thigh in rapid succession, creating a rhythm that matches my racing thoughts.

Two days stuck inside this house. Two days of rain. Two days of trying not to climb walls.

"Two days trapped inside is my personal hell," I mutter, bouncing on my toes.

Across the living room, Asher looks up from his laptop. His dark eyes track my movement with that sniper's precision that never seems to turn off.

"Your restlessness is making it difficult to focus." There's no real bite to his words though, not like there would have been a week ago.

I pivot on my heel, surveying the living room that's suddenly different in small but significant ways.

My purple Star Wars mug sits next to his tactical black one on the coffee table.

My hoodie is draped over his ergonomic chair.

My laptop—covered in colorful stickers—looks like an alien invasion among his sleek, minimalist tech.

"Is R2-D2 dispensing the correct coffee ratio today?" I ask, nodding toward the sleek coffee maker in the kitchen.

"R2 performed admirably," Asher replies, his mouth quirking slightly at one corner—the Asher Cross equivalent of a belly laugh.

I blink rapidly, surprised he's playing along. That surprise transforms into a warm flutter in my chest.

"You know why I named it R2-D2, right?" I walk over to the kitchen, running my hand along the sleek, expensive machine. "It beeps in distinct tones like it's actually communicating, and it's the perfect sidekick bringing life-saving fuel."

"Logical association." Asher returns to his laptop, but I catch the smallest smile before he looks down.

My body decides pacing isn't enough. I need to move, to do something with this energy buzzing under my skin. I start doing small hops in place, my sock-covered feet barely making a sound on his hardwood floors.

Asher watches me for exactly thirty-seven seconds before closing his laptop with a decisive snap. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"If you need something physical to do," he stands with his customary fluid grace, "I can teach you some basic self-defense. You clearly need to burn off energy."

My hopping stops immediately. "Self-defense? Like... hitting people?"

"Like creating space to escape if someone grabs you." He's already moving furniture with efficient movements, creating a clear area in the center of his living room.

"I'm more of a 'hack their bank account and ruin their credit score' type of defender," I point out, but I help him push the coffee table against the wall. He doesn't comment on how I immediately straighten the table to perfect right angles with the wall, matching his own tendency toward precision.

The rain intensifies outside, drumming against the windows and roof, creating a strangely comforting soundtrack that makes the room feel like our own private world. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, fog obscures what is usually a stunning view of the Bay Bridge.

Asher stands before me, his posture perfect as always. "I'll show you how to escape if someone grabs your wrist," he explains, reaching for my hand.

His fingers wrap around my wrist, firm but not painful. His skin is warm against mine, callused in places that speak of years handling weapons and scaling rough terrain.

"When someone grabs you like this, most people instinctively pull back." He demonstrates by tightening his grip as I reflexively tug. "That's exactly what they want. Instead, you need to—" He guides my arm through a twisting motion I immediately lose track of.

"Now you try." He takes my wrist again.

I attempt to recreate the movement, but my arm jerks awkwardly. I try again. And again. By the fifth attempt, I'm grinding my teeth.

"I don't get it." I blow a strand of pink-streaked hair from my eyes. "My brain understands the physics, but my body won't cooperate." I make another attempt, my movements jerky and over thought. "My superpower is my brain, not... this." I gesture at my body with frustration.

Asher steps behind me, his chest nearly touching my back. He positions my arm in front of me and places his hand over mine.

"You're overthinking." His breath is warm against my ear. "Feel the movement."

He guides me through the motion again, slower this time. I try to focus, but all I can think about is his proximity, the way his body radiates heat.

"Again." He steps away.

I try once more, failing just as spectacularly.

Asher studies me for a moment, his dark eyes calculating. Something shifts in his expression—a subtle softening around his eyes that I'm not sure anyone else would notice.

"Let's try something different." He recognizes my mounting frustration. "Not everyone needs to be a fighter."

He repositions himself behind me. "Here's what matters." His arm wraps around my waist in a hold that's both restraining and oddly comforting. "If someone grabs you—" his grip tightens slightly, "—you don't need fancy techniques."

He guides my elbow back toward where his ribs would be if I were actually struggling.

"Hit here," he directs, positioning my elbow against a sensitive spot between his ribs, "and run."

I execute the simple move, jabbing my elbow back with more force than necessary.

Asher grunts but gives me a rare smile. "Good. That's exactly right."

"That's it?" I ask, surprised at the simplicity.

"That's it," he confirms, his hands lingering on my shoulders. "Your goal isn't to win a fight. It's to create space to escape."

His voice drops lower, taking on that possessive edge that makes my stomach flip. "Though ideally, you wouldn't need even this. You're not going anywhere without me nearby."

I turn to face him, suddenly aware of how close we're standing.

"So, your plan is to follow me everywhere?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "That's a little stalker-ish, even for you."

"Not stalking. Protection," he corrects, his expression serious. "There are still people looking for you."

His eyes drop to my lips for the briefest moment. A muscle in his jaw tics. One of those tiny tells that I've learned means he's fighting for control. The realization that I have this effect on him sends a thrill through me that rivals any coding breakthrough.

But the reminder of danger sends a chill through me despite the warmth of the house. Asher notices, of course he notices everything, and squeezes my shoulder once before stepping back, putting deliberate distance between us.

"I need to shower," his voice slightly rougher than usual. "Try to avoid rearranging my kitchen while I'm gone."

I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. "I would never. I just... optimized your spice arrangement."

"Alphabetical order works perfectly fine."

"Frequency of use is much more efficient," I argue, but he's already heading toward the bathroom, shaking his head.

I wander back to my workspace, fingers itching to code, when I remember the small package Asher had handed me before we left headquarters yesterday.

"For later," he'd said, his eyes dark with promise. "Wear it during surveillance. Let's see how well you multitask."

The memory sends heat spreading through me as I settle in front of my laptop. I'm soon lost in code, the surveillance data from our last operation needing my full attention.

I'm not sure how long I've been coding when Asher's hands land on my shoulders. I jump, startled.

"Vanessa," his voice is patient. "You haven't moved in three hours."

I blink, disoriented. The program I've been refining for the surveillance data is nearly complete, but the last time I checked the clock, it had been just after my self-defense lesson. Now it's, I glance at the screen, nearly 4:30.

"That's not possible," I argue, but the stiffness in my shoulders suggests otherwise.

"You need to eat." Asher's tone leaves no room for argument. He saves my work with practiced keystrokes and closes my laptop.

Before I can protest, he lifts me from the chair. I squeak in surprise as he carries me to the kitchen island and sets me on one of the high stools.

"Stay," he commands, like I'm an enthusiastic puppy.

He moves around his kitchen with military efficiency, retrieving ingredients from the refrigerator and pantry. Even making a simple meal, he moves with the deadly grace that makes my mouth go dry. Every motion is calculated, nothing wasted. He sets a glass of water in front of me.

"Drink," he says, turning back to the counter where he's already dicing vegetables with machine-like precision.

"You know, most people ask rather than command," I point out, but I drink the water, anyway.

"Most people don't forget to hydrate for hours at a time," he counters without turning around.

I study him as he works. His kitchen is arranged with the same unwavering order as everything else in his life. Ingredients are meticulously organized; cooking utensils hang in perfect alignment.

"What are you making?" I ask, spinning slightly on my stool.

"Stir-fry. Protein, vegetables, complex carbohydrates." He measures rice with precise movements—one exact cup, not a grain more or less.

I slide off the stool and move to his side. "Can I help?"

He pauses, knife hovering over a red bell pepper. "Can you follow specific instructions?"

"Sometimes," I answer honestly. "Depends on the instructions. And my mood. And whether Mercury is in retrograde."

His eyebrow arches slightly. "You can chop the garlic."

I take the knife he offers and grab several cloves, smashing them with the flat of the blade the way my mother taught me.

"What are you doing?" Asher's voice is sharp with surprise.

"Prepping garlic," I explain, peeling the crushed cloves. "My Nanay taught me this trick. Smash it first, and the skin comes right off."

"That wasn't in the recipe."

"You have a recipe for stir-fry?" I laugh. "It's not baking. You just throw things in until it tastes good."