Page 51 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

thirty-five

Asher

H er whimper cuts through the pre-dawn silence.

Rapid movement beneath Vanessa's eyelids. Breathing patterns irregular. She's been dreaming longer and more intensely than normal sleep cycles suggest.

Another soft cry escapes her lips. Her fingers clutch at the sheets. Nightmares. Processing trauma. Expected but concerning.

"Can't... breathe..." she gasps. Her body tenses even in sleep.

Three hours and seventeen minutes in this chair beside the bed. Minimal fatigue. Sharp mental focus. My body holds position easily.

The problem: too many variables I can't control.

A tear escapes from beneath her closed eyelid. It tracks down her cheek, following the curve of her face before disappearing into the pillow. My hand lifts toward her forehead but stops mid-air.

Physical contact: comfort or trigger?

Positive response probability: unknown.

Chance of making things worse: significant.

I withdraw my hand.

My chest constricts. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome. Helplessness—a tactical disadvantage I've never trained to overcome.

What would Kade do? What would anyone with normal emotional programming do?

Mental operational strategy:

Objective: Stabilize asset's emotional state

Parameters: Unknown

Tactics: Uncertain

Timeline: Indefinite

Advanced combat techniques? Useless. Tactical assessment? Irrelevant. I've spent my life mapping bullet trajectories and wind resistance. None of that applies to nightmares and betrayal.

Her breathing hitches. More erratic. Heart rate climbing. Sweat forms at her hairline and neck.

I shift forward again. Reconsider intervention parameters.

Before I can decide, Vanessa sits upright with a strangled cry. Her eyes fly open, wild and unfocused. She scrambles backward until she hits the headboard. Knees pulled to her chest.

"You're safe." My voice stays low, steady. "You're in my bedroom. It's 5:43 a.m. No immediate threats present."

Her eyes sweep the room. Pupils dilated. Breathing uneven. She doesn't seem to recognize me.

"Vanessa. It's Asher. You're safe."

Eighteen seconds pass before recognition floods her features.

"Asher?" Her voice breaks. Raw and unfamiliar.

"Yes. I'm here." I stand slowly. Each movement measured to appear non-threatening. "You were having a nightmare."

She pushes her hair back with trembling hands. Her breathing hasn't stabilized. Still twenty beats per minute above baseline.

"I can't—" She swallows hard. "Water? Please?"

I move to the nightstand. The glass I prepared six hours ago, anticipating this scenario. "Here."

Her fingers brush mine as she takes the glass. The contact sends an unexpected current through my system. Concern, not tactical.

"Thank you." She drinks, spilling water down her chin. "What time is it?"

"5:47 a.m."

She nods. Sets the glass down. Suddenly throws the covers aside. I step back, giving her space as she stands on unsteady legs.

"I need to move."

I follow at a tactical distance as she exits the bedroom. Early morning light filters through the blinds in thin stripes across the living room floor. Vanessa doesn't seem to notice. She paces from the window to the door, then veers toward the kitchen before doubling back.

"Would another glass of water help?" I maintain position near the couch.

She doesn't answer. Her movements lack their usual purposeful chaos. This is different. Unproductive. Concerning. Her hands rake through her hair repeatedly, tugging at pink-streaked strands.

"Vanessa, your breathing pattern suggests—"

"I can't stop feeling it." She cuts me off. Her path becomes increasingly erratic.

"The gas. Not being able to breathe. Slate. The attack. It's all connected and I should have seen it coming. I could have prevented—" Her words dissolve into rapid, shallow breaths.

Rapid breathing. Increasing agitation. Panic attack coming.

My phone rings. Kade. Operational protocols dictate immediate response to command.

Vanessa flinches violently at the sound. Covers her ears with both hands. She drops to the floor, knees hitting hard. A sound between a whimper and a moan escapes her.

Decision matrix: answer phone versus stabilize Vanessa.

I answer. Eyes never leaving her huddled form.

"Frost." Kade's voice comes through. "Slate's agreed to help us trap Tatiana. We need you at—"

"Acknowledged." I cut him off as Vanessa begins rocking back and forth. Arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her mouth moves, forming silent words I can't interpret. "Situation developing here. Will contact with ETA."

"Is she—"

"Not stable. Will update." I end the call and move closer to Vanessa. Scan for the optimal intervention approach.

Tactical solutions don't apply. Neither do standard comfort protocols. This is uncharted territory. The uncertainty creates unfamiliar pressure in my chest.

I drop my phone on the couch. Irrelevant now.

Vanessa rocks faster. Her fingernails dig into her upper arms. Her breathing comes in sharp, ragged gasps. The sound reminds me of drowning. Lungs fighting for air that won't come.

This frantic energy, this mental spin—Sarah's death taught me what drowning in your own thoughts looks like.

I kneel before her. Eighteen inches distance between us. Close enough to engage. Far enough to prevent additional distress.

"Vanessa." The tone I reserve for high-risk operations. Clear. Authoritative. "Look at me."

Her eyes dart everywhere except toward me. Pupils dilated. Unfocused. She continues rocking, gasping. Her fingernails draw small crescents of blood on her arms.

The standard approach isn't working. Comfort doesn't apply here. Her mind is like a computer running too many programs at once. Overheating without an emergency shutdown protocol.

What worked for me, after Sarah? Structure. Boundaries. Physical concentration to override mental chaos.

I move closer. Decision made.

"Vanessa." Firmer this time. "I need to ground you. Do you understand?"

Her lips move. Words that barely escape. "Can't... concentrate... everything's... wrong..."

Her hands shake violently. Critical threshold approaching. Brain oxygen levels decreasing.

No more analysis. Time for action.

"I'll get you somewhere calmer. Then I'll give you something specific to anchor on that should help."

Her frantic movements pause. Brief, almost imperceptible, but there. The first positive sign in hours.

I move forward. Gauge her reactions with tactical attention. Without hesitation, I slide one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back, and lift her against my chest.

Vanessa Reyes, whose personality had always seemed twice her physical size, now curls into me like a wounded bird. Something protective and fierce builds in my chest. It pushes out the helplessness from moments ago.

"I've got you." I carry her back to the bedroom.

Her fingers clutch weakly at my shirt.

"Everything's falling apart." She whispers against my neck. "I can't make it stop."

I place her gently on the bed. Map my next move. The medical equipment I'd installed remains in the corner of the room. A reminder of how close I came to losing her. Not relevant to the current scenario. Focus.

"Vanessa." I kneel before her. My voice steady. "I'm going to use restraints to help you concentrate. To give your mind boundaries when it can't create its own. Do you understand?"

She meets my eyes briefly. The first deliberate eye contact since waking.

"Yes." The word barely audible but definitive.

I move to my dresser. Open the third drawer. Beneath tactical gear and extra ammunition rests what I need. A coil of black rope, soft and pliable.

When I turn back, her gaze fixes on the rope. Her face shows no fear or rejection. Her shoulders lower slightly. The first sign of relief.

"This isn't just sex." I clarify as I return to her. "This is structure."

"Please." She extends her wrists toward me.

"Lie down." My voice gentle but firm. "On your back."

She complies without hesitation. Positions herself in the center of the bed. I evaluate the optimal restraint configuration for her current mental state. Simple. Secure. Grounding without overwhelming.

I secure her right wrist to the bedpost with methodical movements. Each loop of rope distributed for comfort without risking circulation problems. The left wrist follows, bound to the opposite corner. Her arms form a wide V above her head. Secure but not strained.

"Concentrate on the rope." My voice low and steady. "Feel where it touches. Count the crossings."

Her eyes follow my hands as I work. Each breath she takes becomes slightly less ragged.

"One." She whispers. "Two."

I nod approvingly. "Keep counting."

By the seventh crossing, her breathing has slowed. I secure the last knot with a measured tug. Enough pressure to feel constant. Not enough to mark or damage.

I move to her ankles next. Guide her to extend her legs. The rope whispers against her skin as I wrap and bind. Creating matching cuffs that secure each ankle to the bottom corners of the bed frame.

"That's it." Her eyelids grow heavier. "Just the rope. Just this moment."

Her body forms an X across my bed. Secured at four points. Exposed. Vulnerable. Safe.

"How many points of pressure can you feel?" I ask.

Her forehead furrows in concentration. "Eight... no, nine."

"Good." I check each connection. Adjust tension where needed. "Attend only to those nine points."

Unfamiliar warmth spreads through my chest as I work. A purpose beyond mission parameters or tactical necessity. This isn't about possessing her. This is about creating boundaries her mind can't create for itself. Protection, not possession.

I sit back on my heels to assess. The transformation is immediate and visible.

Vanessa's face, previously twisted with panic, smooths into calm attentiveness.

Her breathing deepens and regulates. Her eyes, clear for the first time in hours, move deliberately across the rope pattern securing her limbs.

"Better?" I ask.

"Yes. My head... I can hear myself think again."