Page 36 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

twenty-four

Vanessa

" Y ou can't just shut down like this." My words are barely audible over the rain hammering against the windows. The steady rhythm matches my heartbeat—too fast, too hard, like it might burst through my chest.

Asher sits on the couch, a statue carved from ice. His eyes track the raindrops sliding down the glass instead of looking at me. His silence is worse than shouting.

My fingers tap against my thigh. One-two-three, one-two-three, as I pace back and forth across his living room. The space feels smaller than before, the walls closing in with each second he refuses to speak.

"I need to understand why you reacted that way." My voice cracks. "You almost broke my arm pulling me back."

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

I snatch my phone, checking my security program yet again. Fifth time in the last three minutes. The data hasn't changed. Nothing's changed except the growing pressure in my chest.

"Fine. Be that way." I move faster now, my sock-covered feet sliding slightly on his hardwood floor. My arms gesture wildly as frustration builds. "I was doing my job. The signal was weak, and I needed to—"

"Your job," Asher finally speaks, his voice cutting like a knife with each syllable, "was to follow protocol."

"Protocol wouldn't have gotten us the information!" My hand sweeps through the air, knocking something off the mantle with a soft thud.

"Protocol keeps you alive."

"I was perfectly safe! Five feet of roof space isn't going to—" I spin toward the sound, my heart dropping as I see the picture frame face-down on the hardwood floor.

"Shit! I'm sorry." I rush over, dropping to my knees and carefully turning the frame over. The glass has a spiderweb of cracks across it, but the photograph inside remains intact.

I freeze, staring at the image. A young woman with Asher's eyes smiles back at me, her arm thrown around a younger version of him. The woman in the photo shares Asher's features, but gentler somehow.

Those same intense dark eyes stare back at me, that identical strong jawline, but on her they look elegant rather than intimidating. Her glossy dark hair tumbles past her shoulders, framing a face that's unmistakably connected to the man behind me.

She's beautiful, with a warmth in her smile that makes my chest tighten. I can't believe I've never noticed this photo before.

"Who is she?" I whisper, something cold settling in my stomach.

Asher rises from the couch with that silent precision of his, moving to where I kneel. He lowers himself to sit on the floor next to me, close enough that our knees almost touch. He reaches for the frame, his fingers barely brushing mine as he takes it.

"My sister," he says, voice suddenly hollow. "Sarah."

The name hangs in the air between us like a confession.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the living room, followed by a boom of thunder that rattles the windows. The lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.

For three heartbeats, we're plunged into darkness. My breath catches in my throat.

Then soft blue emergency lights activate along the baseboards, casting strange shadows across Asher's face. The corners of his mouth pull downward as he stares at the photograph in his hands.

"You never mentioned having a sister." My fingers start tapping against my thighs—faster now, more frantic as pieces try to connect in my mind.

Despite my anger from moments ago, something deeper pulls at me now. The photograph's glass may be cracked, but I sense I've stumbled onto something more broken.

"Had," Asher corrects, the word barely audible.

That single syllable carries such weight that I physically flinch. My free hand reaches for his blindly, fingers interlacing. His skin is cool against mine, and surprisingly, he doesn't pull away.

My other hand continues its nervous pattern against my leg—tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap—as my brain tries to process what he's not saying.

"What happened?" The question comes out as barely a whisper.

Asher's fingers tighten around mine. His breathing changes—slower, more controlled, like he's fighting to maintain composure.

"Murdered." The words come out detached and clinical, stated like a mission report. "By someone who was supposed to love her."

My tapping stops completely. Every muscle in my body freezes as the implications hit me like a physical blow. The data points connect instantly—his overprotective behavior, the calculations about falling, his visceral reaction to my risk-taking.

Oh God.

Asher pulls his hand free and stands abruptly, the movement sharp and sudden. He walks to the windows, his back to me, shoulders rigid with tension.

"I wasn't there," he continues, voice growing more distant.

I scramble to my feet, my socks sliding on the hardwood. My hands flutter uselessly at my sides before I shove them into my pockets to stop the trembling. "Asher—"

"I was at a shooting competition. Perfect score. Perfect fucking accuracy." His laugh is hollow, bitter. He braces one hand against the window frame. "But I missed what mattered."

Lightning flashes again, illuminating tears swimming in his eyes that he refuses to let fall. The blue emergency lighting makes his profile look ghostly, haunted.

The parallel hits me like a sledgehammer. Sarah, trusting someone who hurt her. Me, taking risks that could get me killed. Both of us putting ourselves in danger while the person who loved us wasn't there to stop it.

That's why he grabbed me so hard. That's why he calculated the fall time.

I take a tentative step toward him, my fingers worrying the hem of my sweater.

"She had your eyes," I whisper, my voice breaking.

Thunder crashes outside, making me jump. When it fades, the rain sounds deafening in the silence between us.

Asher turns away from the window, moving to the fireplace. He grips the mantle with both hands, knuckles white. "She was smarter than me. More social. People actually enjoyed being around her."

I move closer, close enough to touch him, but not quite daring to. My fingers tap against my thigh instead. "She looks happy in that picture."

"I taught her how to shoot when I was fourteen. Dad insisted." His jaw clenches so tight I can see a muscle jump beneath his skin. He releases the mantle and runs both hands through his hair. "Lot of good that did when it mattered."

The pieces of Asher—the real Asher—begin falling into place in my mind. Not the controlled sniper, not the calculated lover, but the broken brother who failed to save the person he loved most.

I reach out tentatively, my fingertips barely grazing his shoulder blade. He doesn't pull away, so I let my palm settle there, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles.

"Her boyfriend?" I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it.

"Three years older. Dad hated him from the start." Asher's voice drops to barely audible. He turns to face me, and I can see the devastation in his dark eyes. "Called him controlling. Possessive. But Sarah was eighteen, thought she knew everything."

My hand slides from his shoulder to rest against his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath my palm. The similarities make my stomach clench.

Asher starts pacing now, moving from the fireplace to the window and back again, his steps measured but agitated. "I should have listened when she called me that week. She sounded... different. Scared, maybe. But I had the fucking competition to focus on."

Lightning flashes again, and I see the full devastation on his face. The raw pain there makes my chest physically ache. I follow his movement, staying close but giving him space to pace.

"You couldn't have known," I offer, but his bitter laugh cuts through my words.

"That's what everyone said. The grief counselors, the chaplain, Kade." He stops pacing abruptly and faces me, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Doesn't change the fact that she's dead, and I wasn't there to prevent it."

His obsession with weather patterns, the backup systems, the three different escape routes mapped from every location. The excessive preparation for every scenario suddenly makes devastating sense.

I close the distance between us completely, my hands reaching for his face.

"When you stepped onto that ledge today," he admits, his voice breaking as my palms cup his cheeks, "all I could see was Sarah.

All I could think was 'She's going to fall.

She's going to die. And I'll be too far away to catch her. '"

The raw vulnerability in his voice silences my usual mental chaos completely. My thumbs brush away tears he doesn't realize he's shed.

"I'm not Sarah," I whisper.

"I know that." His hands cover mine, pressing them against his face. "But knowing it and feeling it are different things."

He steps back, pulling away from my touch, and sinks onto the couch. His elbows rest on his knees, head in his hands. I follow, settling beside him but angled toward him, one leg tucked beneath me.

"What exactly happened?"

Asher's breathing becomes more labored. "He isolated her from friends first. Then family. Made her believe we didn't understand their 'love.'" The last word comes out like poison. "She stopped calling as much. Stopped coming to family dinners."

I reach for his hand, interlacing our fingers. The pattern he's describing sends ice through my veins—classic manipulation tactics I've seen in trafficking cases.

"The night it happened, neighbors heard them fighting. Screaming. Then silence." His free hand grips the back of his neck. "They found her three hours later. He claimed it was an accident, that she fell down the stairs."

"But you don't believe that."

Asher pushes off the couch, his body unable to stay put while these memories tear through him. He moves to where the broken frame lies on the floor, picking it up with careful hands.

"Seventeen separate injuries. Coroner said the pattern was consistent with repeated blows. But his lawyer was good, and there were no witnesses."