Page 50 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

thirty-four

Vanessa

I hit Slate's number and turn to Asher while it rings.

"Why are you acting like I'm made of glass when—"

"Nessa! Perfect timing, I just finished this insane—"

Slate's face fills the screen on the second ring, cutting off both my question to Asher and his own enthusiastic greeting when he sees my expression.

My leg bounces underneath my closed laptop, nervous energy radiating through my entire body. The afternoon light filters through partially closed blinds, casting shadows across the living room where we've been avoiding each other for three days.

Asher straightens from where he's been obsessively cleaning his already spotless Glock. His dark eyes narrow, watching me with that calculating intensity, but he doesn't make a move to stop me. Smart man.

He shifts slightly, positioning himself where he can observe without being easily visible on camera.

Even now, he's thinking tactically. Does he ever turn it off?

"Cut the shit."

My fingers fly across my laptop, sending him three files simultaneously. The familiar blue glow of multiple screens reflects in his wide eyes as his monitors light up with incoming data.

"Explain these."

The enthusiasm drains from his expression as he processes what he's seeing. Behind me, the soft click of Asher setting down his weapon echoes through the silence. The living room falls silent except for the buzz of my equipment and blood rushing through my head.

Slate's fingers stop their constant drumming for the first time since I've known him.

"What am I looking at?"

"Your encryption signature embedded in Tatiana Ivanov's trafficking network."

The words taste like poison on my tongue.

"The same protocols you taught me are being used to move women across state lines."

The color bleaches from his face. "That's impossible."

"Is it?"

I lean forward, my laptop screen reflecting in his horrified eyes.

"Your authentication methods, your key generation patterns. They're woven through the entire fucking system. Sloppy implementation, but unmistakably yours."

Behind me, Asher shifts closer. Not close enough to enter the camera frame, but near enough that his presence burns along my spine. His breathing has gone shallow, controlled. He starts to reach toward me, then his hand drops back to his side.

He does that a lot lately. What's he fighting?

"Tatiana Ivanov."

I turn my screen to show her photo. Platinum blonde hair, ice blue eyes, that calculated smile that probably made Slate feel like the most important person in the room.

"Tell me about her. Now."

Slate's throat works soundlessly for several seconds. When he finally speaks, his voice comes out broken, smaller than I've ever heard it.

"I met her after her last boyfriend passed away. She was brokenhearted. Said she'd been following my work in the cyber community, and she needed help with secure communications."

My stomach clenches. The timing makes perfect sense now. A calculated predator swooping in when he was vulnerable.

"She approached you specifically?" Each word scrapes my throat raw. "Why?"

"Said she needed secure communications for high-profile clients."

His gaze goes distant, lost in memory.

"She was incredible, Ness. Made me feel like I wasn't just some freak with a computer. Like my work mattered."

Heat builds behind my eyes. The monitor on my wrist, the one Asher insisted I wear during recovery, beeps softly as my heart rate spikes. Asher takes another step closer, his hand hovering near my shoulder before he catches himself and pulls back.

Why won't he just touch me? What's holding him back?

"What exactly did you give her, Slate?"

His face crumbles like a house of cards.

"Everything. Custom security protocols. Untraceable communication channels. Off-grid monitoring systems."

His voice drops to a whisper.

"She'd touch my arm when I explained things. Lean in close and say I was brilliant."

The room tilts sideways. My tracking programs. The ones I showed him for identifying vulnerable women online. The very systems I'd built to help survivors escape their situations.

"The vulnerability assessments I designed for the survivor network. The target identification methods. Did you show her those?"

Slate's eyes widen with dawning horror.

"She asked specifically about how to find potential victims online. Said it was to protect them before traffickers could reach them."

His words come out in a rush now, each confession hitting like a physical blow.

"I believed her, Ness. She made me feel special and wanted and I thought she cared about me—"

"Stop talking."

The command comes from behind me, Asher's voice carrying enough menace to make us both freeze. When I glance back, his face could be carved from ice, but his hands have curled into fists.

Something's cracked. The careful control he's held for days is fracturing around the edges.

"People died because of what you built. Women are dead."

A single tear tracks down Slate's cheek, illuminated by the blue glow of his monitors.

"I know. God, Nessa, I know. I can see it now. Every question she asked, every system she wanted modified. She was using me to plug holes in her own network."

My fingers dig into my palms until my nails draw blood. The pieces fit together with sickening clarity. Every program I'd shared with him, every method for finding vulnerable targets, twisted into hunting tools.

"Nessa, please," Slate whispers through the screen, desperation bleeding through every pixel. "Let me help you take them down. I can fix this, I can undo what I built, I can—"

I hit disconnect.

The screen goes black, taking Slate's devastated expression with it. The sudden silence roars in my ears, broken only by the sound of my laptop snapping shut harder than necessary.

My systems. My code. My programs finding vulnerable women and delivering them straight into traffickers' hands. Every brilliant solution I'd created to help people had been weaponized against them.

My legs give out.

The hardwood floor races toward my knees as every barrier I'd built inside my head crumbles at once. The impact sends shockwaves up my thighs, but the physical pain barely registers against the tsunami of guilt crashing over me.

"I built the systems."

The words tear from my throat like shards of glass.

"My work helped them hunt those women."

Strong arms wrap around me before I can collapse completely. Asher's scent fills my lungs as he pulls me against his chest. For a moment, the icy control he's maintained for days cracks completely.

"No."

His voice reverberates through his ribcage, rough with something that might be pain.

"You didn't do this."

But his arms tighten around me with barely restrained violence, his grip intense enough that it should probably scare me.

He's holding me like he wants to pull me inside his chest where nothing can hurt me. Like he's claiming me as his to protect.

Instead of fear, something deep in my chest flutters back to life.

"I created the programs. Every pattern recognition system they used to find victims came from my brain."

My fingers claw at the fabric of his shirt.

"You were helping people."

His hand fists in my hair, anchoring my head against his chest.

"They twisted your work. That's not the same thing."

My body convulses with sobs I can't control, but his arms become a cage around my broken pieces. Holding them together when they want to scatter to the wind. His heartbeat drums under my ear—steady, fierce, alive—while mine fractures into chaos.

The careful distance he's maintained dissolves completely as his lips press against my temple. Not gentle. Claiming.

He's marking me. His responsibility, his to protect, his to comfort. The heat of his mouth burns against my skin.

"I've got you."

There's an edge to his words. A promise that sounds more like a threat to anyone who might try to take me from him.

"I've got you, little bunny."

His endearment—the one that used to make me roll my eyes—now sounds like a prayer.

Like he's reminding himself what he's protecting. What's his to guard.

And despite everything—despite the betrayal and guilt and horror of what I've learned—that dangerous possessiveness makes something deep in my chest flutter back to life.

Because Asher Cross doesn't make promises lightly. And when he claims something as his, he protects it with lethal precision.

Even from himself.