Page 49 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

thirty-three

Asher

These numbers matter for the past six days. Each decimal point represents her fight to return to me.

Vanessa stirs slightly on the medical bed, her eyelids fluttering but not opening fully. I note the time and response in my log immediately.

"You know we have machines that do that automatically, right?" Remy's voice comes from the doorway.

I don't look up. "Machines fail. I don't."

Miguel—Kuya Miguel to Vanessa—steps into my view, reviewing charts on a tablet. His white coat is rumpled from another night on the pullout chair across the room.

"Her bloodwork is improving," he scrolls through the results. "Toxin levels are down to trace amounts. The seizure risk has dropped significantly."

He looks at me directly. "We need to move her, Asher. She's stable enough now, and recovery will be better in a more comfortable environment."

My grip tightens on the pen. "Where?"

Miguel exchanges a glance with Remy. "We were thinking—"

"My place." The words come out sharper than intended. "She stays with me."

"Asher," Remy begins, his diplomatic tone already irritating me, "the medical wing has—"

"My security is better than headquarters. No blind spots. Complete perimeter control." I finally look up at them, daring either to challenge me. "And she lives there already, anyway. She'll be more comfortable."

Miguel studies me for a long moment. He balances medical concerns against the resolve fixed in my expression.

"It would help her recovery to be somewhere familiar," he concedes. "But we'll need to transfer equipment."

"Done." I stand, tucking the notebook into my pocket. "I'll arrange transport. Twenty minutes."

I move to Vanessa's bedside, allowing my fingers to brush against hers. The terror of nearly losing her remains raw, a constant presence behind every thought. But I've channeled it into something useful: careful planning, constant observation, absolute control of every variable in her environment.

"I've got you, little bunny," I whisper, low enough that only she might hear. "Just keep fighting."

Miguel begins disconnecting monitors for transport, replacing them with portable equivalents. "I'll need to stay with her for at least the first twenty-four hours."

I nod once. "Second bedroom is ready now."

Stepping into the hallway, I'm already mapping the best route from medical to the parking garage, weighing potential vulnerabilities, contingencies for every scenario. My movements are mechanical, efficient, but my attention keeps pulling back toward her room, toward her pale form on that bed.

My bedroom has become a medical recovery space. The place where my weapons once hung now supports IV bags and monitoring equipment. My carefully made bed now holds Vanessa, pale and fragile against the dark sheets.

The steady beep of the heart monitor marks time like a metronome. I've positioned three separate screens showing her vitals along the wall where my rifle case used to stand.

The supplies sit in perfect order: medicine bottles arranged in sequence with timestamps marked in seconds, a navy logbook tracking every drop of water that passes her lips with the same exactness I apply to bullet trajectories.

The soft rustle of sheets draws my attention. Vanessa's eyelids flutter, her breathing becoming irregular. I'm at her side instantly, my hand finding hers.

"Where...?" Her voice is barely a whisper, her dark eyes unfocused and wild with fear. "I can't… my head… everything's so slow..."

"Listen to my voice. Count your breaths with me." I keep my tone steady, my thumb making small circles on her palm. "In, two, three. Out, two, three."

Her pupils dilate with panic. Her face shows the struggle—that brilliant mind of hers, normally operating faster than a bullet leaves my rifle, now bogged down in thick mental fog. For someone whose thoughts normally move quicker than anyone else's, this mental slowness must be terrifying.

"My thoughts… they won't…" She struggles to form the words, fingers twitching in mine.

"I know, little bunny. The medication is slowing everything down. It's temporary." I check the digital readout on the nearest monitor, tracking the half-life of the sedatives in her system.

Miguel steps closer, checking the IV line. His eyebrows rise as he watches me stroke Vanessa's hair back from her forehead.

"Her hydration looks good. Last dose of seizure meds was at six this morning, about an hour and a half ago," I inform him without taking my eyes off Vanessa.

He nods, making a note in her chart. "You're doing great, sis. Better than expected."

Vanessa's eyes drift toward his voice, recognition flickering briefly before panic sets in again. "Can't think... can't think..."

"Count with me," my voice firm but gentle. "One, two, three..."

She follows weakly, her breathing gradually steadying as she focuses on the simple task. Relief floods my system as her vitals stabilize on the monitors.

Miguel watches our interaction, his professional demeanor softening. "I'm impressed. You've got the touch with her."

I don't respond. My attention remains entirely on Vanessa as she drifts back toward sleep, her fingers still intertwined with mine.

"I'll be back in two hours." Miguel moves toward the door, then pauses. His hand squeezes my shoulder in a gesture of understanding.

My muscles tense reflexively at the unexpected contact. I hold perfectly still, uncomfortable with the casual physical touch, yet somehow understanding the intent behind it.

The hours pass in careful observation. Checking vitals, adjusting her position, ensuring she stays hydrated. By afternoon, Vanessa's color has improved slightly, and her breathing has steadied into a more natural rhythm.

"Think you're ready to try the living room?" I ask when she stirs more alertly.

She nods weakly, and I help her sit up slowly, watching for any signs of dizziness.

The afternoon light shifts through my windows as I help Vanessa to the living room, my arm steady around her waist. Her body feels hollow, like she's lost substance during her illness.

My living space has been transformed. Blankets and pillows disrupt my usually organized furniture, medical supplies arranged on the coffee table.

"I can walk," she insists, but her knees buckle slightly.

I tighten my grip. "You can. But you won't."

She doesn't argue further, which tells me exactly how weak she still feels.

I ease her onto the sofa, where I've created a nest of blankets.

Everything is positioned for her comfort.

Pillows at the best angles for spinal support, water and medicine within reach, blankets folded to provide warmth without blocking movement.

"The couch looks different," Vanessa mumbles, settling against the pillows.

"It's still the same couch." I hand her a cup of broth, watching as her fingers tremble around it.

Her hands shake so badly that liquid sloshes over the edge. Without comment, I take the cup from her, sitting beside her on the couch. I hold it to her lips, angling it so she can drink without choking.

"I hate this," she whispers after swallowing. "Being useless."

My thumb moves along her wrist, finding the steady beat beneath her skin. "You're recovering. It's not the same thing."

The familiar sound of boots on hardwood announces Kade's arrival before the door opens. He enters with a manila folder tucked under his arm. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of us.

"You look better," he tells Vanessa, though his gaze shifts to me, studying.

I move behind Vanessa, arranging pillows to better support her back. My fingers linger in her hair, brushing it away from her face. The touch flows as easy as breathing until awareness hits and I withdraw my hand.

Kade clears his throat. "The test results came back. This wasn't random. The chemical was designed to target brain chemistry receptors."

Vanessa's body stiffens.

"Targeted?" Her voice is stronger now, interest cutting through the medication fog.

"The compound was engineered to create maximum disruption for someone with your brain chemistry." Kade places the folder on the table, avoiding comment on how I'm now rubbing Vanessa's shoulder without thinking.

"ADHD," she murmurs. "They knew."

I move to sit beside her, checking her temperature with the back of my hand against her forehead. "We need to figure out who got their hands on her medical files."

"Already on it." Kade's eyes fix on the case files rather than on how my fingers have drifted to Vanessa's wrist.

Vanessa leans forward slightly, her eyes showing the first real clarity since the attack.

"Slate would know. He's helped me manage my meds before." She winces, struggling to organize her thoughts. "But the masked man—at the gala—"

I place my hand on her knee, steadying her. "Don't push yourself."

I help Vanessa lean back into the cushions. Four days since we brought her back from the brink, and her color's still wrong. The toxin ravaged her system, but her mind is fighting back.

"Let's go through it again." Kade spreads the photos across my coffee table.

Vanessa's fingers play an invisible keyboard on her thigh, a nervous habit when she's processing information. Her body might be weak, but her mind is racing.

Everything on my coffee table sits at exact right angles. Evidence photos of the gala, test reports, and blueprints of the venue. I've arranged them in order of importance, maintaining order in a chaotic investigation.

"The masked man entered at 10:47 pm." I point to the security still. "Tatiana met him in the east corridor seven minutes later."

Vanessa's breathing shifts. I glance over, tracking her heart rate based on the pulse visible in her throat. Elevated.

She suddenly sits straighter, her pupils widening.

"The hallucinations… they weren't just hallucinations." Her fingers freeze mid-fidget. "I saw fragments of what actually happened at the gala."

My attention sharpens on her face. The evening light through my windows casts shadows across her features, but clarity breaks through the medication fog.

"What do you mean?" I move closer, shoulder touching hers.

"Tatiana was in a heated discussion with the masked man about 'loose ends.'" Her voice gains strength. "They mentioned Jenny by name."

My muscles tense. Jenny Martinez—the woman whose death started this whole investigation. The connection forms in my mind.

"She was furious about something Jenny discovered," Vanessa continues, her words coming faster. "Said the 'clean-up' was messy and drew too much attention."

Kade's eyes meet mine over Vanessa's head. The word "clean-up" triggers the same memory for both of us. Markus Steele. The man we interrogated months ago called himself a "cleaner" before Kade killed him.

Vanessa's hands start to shake, not from weakness but from nervous energy. Her knee bounces rapidly, fingers tapping against her leg in accelerating patterns. The strain of accessing these memories overwhelms her system.

I place my hand over hers, stilling the movement. Her skin feels cool against my palm. "Take a breath."

Kade pulls out his tablet, fingers moving across the screen. "I'm mapping these connections. If Tatiana ordered Jenny's death..."

Vanessa leans into my shoulder, drawing stability from the contact. I adjust my position, providing better support while maintaining a clear view of the evidence.

"The toxin—" Vanessa's voice breaks. "It wasn't meant to kill me, was it? It was designed to break my mind."

Someone knew enough about Vanessa to target her specific brain chemistry. Someone wanted her alive but destroyed.

I reach for my tablet, needing the familiar weight to ground me.

My thumb hits the window control, and the smart glass instantly darkens to complete opacity while sound dampeners activate with a barely audible hum.

The holographic display projects against the wall when I pull up the venue blueprints, casting blue light across the now-secured room.

"If we overlay the security footage timestamps with Vanessa's movements," my fingers move across the display, each tap and swipe a familiar dance, "we can establish a timeline of when Tatiana met with the masked man."

Vanessa sits cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in one of my blankets. The hollow look in her eyes has started to fade, replaced by the sharp intelligence that... I cut off the thought before it continues.

"The toxin fragments make more sense now," she says, her voice stronger than yesterday. "They weren't necessarily trying to kill me. They wanted to break my brain. To make me an unreliable witness."

Kade nods, sorting through the physical evidence photos. "A dead hacker raises questions. A crazy one who hallucinates conspiracy theories just gets ignored."

I mark points on the holographic map where Vanessa's fragmented memories align with security footage. "We need to identify the masked man. His build suggests military training."

"I remember something else," Vanessa's fingers moving in those invisible keyboard patterns that indicate her brain is processing faster than her words. "Tatiana mentioned 'the benefactor' being displeased with the attention Jenny's death caused."

My breath catches. The benefactor. The same term Steele used before Kade executed him.

"We're looking at an organization with multiple layers." I adjust the diagram to reflect this new information. "Tatiana reports to someone higher."

Vanessa shifts, her body angling toward mine as we both study the display. She reaches for my hand, fingers brushing against mine on the couch between us.

My heart rate spikes, a response I can't control. The memory of her seizures flashes through my mind; her lifeless form, the flatline on the monitor, the pure terror that ripped through my chest. I deliberately shift my hand away, glancing at my watch with calculated casualness.

"You need your medication," my voice drops to the cold, professional tone from when I first met her. "It's been four hours since your last dose."

Something flickers across her face, hurt, confusion. I pretend not to notice, standing to retrieve her pills from the medical supplies.

Kade's eyes narrow slightly, catching the exchange. He clears his throat, gathering his files. "I should get these findings back to headquarters. We'll continue tomorrow."

I hand Vanessa her medication in a small cup, maintaining clinical distance. The hurt in her eyes cuts deeper than any knife, but I force myself to maintain the space between us.

I nearly got her killed. Loving her nearly destroyed me.