Page 28 of Descent

“Skyla?” Wesley calls out. “Everything okay?”

I don’t respond or even move a muscle. I feel a body come up behind me before I smell Asher’s cologne. He reaches down, lifting it up before opening it.

“Fingerprints,” I say as he tears into it.

His hazel eyes are hard and filled with anger.

“He has yet to make a mistake. I doubt he has this time.”

He has a point.

I watch over his shoulder as he opens it, pulling out a photograph. I feel another body come up behind us and I glance to see Wesley, watching us with a deep frown.

“What’s going on?”

Turning back to the picture in Asher’s hand, my heart stills as I stare at it.

It’s a picture of us from today in the dining hall after he stabbed Bridgette, when he was holding my face. It has sharpie drawn over it, a noose around Asher’s neck and a veil over my head. There isn’t a letter this time, though. Instead, his words are written across the bottom in bold, chunky letters.

HIS WIFE?!

How did he possibly take the picture, print it, draw on it and drop it off before we got here? How is he always one step ahead, one move faster? I swallow roughly as my eyes come to Asher’s.

“He knows where we live,” I say.

Asher nods as he glances to Wesley.

“The stalker?” Wesley guesses.

I watch as Asher’s eyes narrow. “What do you know about it?”

“I know what Ronan deemed necessary to keep Skyla safe.”

Asher watches him for several seconds, like he’s assessing if Wesley is a threat. He turns back to me, crumpling up the photo and pulling a lighter from his pocket. He sets it on fire, holding on to it until the very last second before letting the charred pieces flutter to the ground.

“Fuck him. I’m not scared,” Asher says, as he practically stomps his way into the house.

He might not be, but I am.

Chapter Twelve

Skyla

Before Wesley left, he insisted on sweeping the house. Honestly, I was relieved he offered. Did he go inside? Or did he just leave the photograph on the doorstep? Who knows, but I sure as hell didn’t want to find out at night that he was hiding under my bed the whole time.

Thankfully, the house was clear. Wesley even offered to stay behind until Ronan got there. The way he said Ronan’s name confirmed my assumption, that he suspects something is up with him. But it’s not like I’m going to be the one to out us. I told him it wasn’t necessary and before he could even argue, Ronan was calling me, demanding I tell him everything.

Now, Ronan and Liam are both at the house and we are sitting downstairs in the living room. Asher is in the kitchen, pouring himself his third drink of the day. I never noticed how much he drank before. Probably because we didn’t live together, but honestly, it’s a concerning amount. I’m surprised he’s not already drunk with how full those scotch glasses are.

No one says anything as we sit in silence, until the front door is practically blown off its hinges and a furious Vincent stormsinside. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, his hair wet from sweat when he turns to face us. Scratch that, not wet with sweat. Blood.

There is blood splattered across his entire face and arms, his eyes practically bulging out of his head as he screams.

“Why the FUCK am I the last to know about anything? I leave town for half a goddamn day, and everything goes to shit?” he shouts at no one in particular, before he turns his eyes on Asher.

“Putnam, I swear to fucking god if you don’t bring that bitch to heel—”

“Trust me, one more misstep and that fork is going straight in her fucking neck,” Asher practically bites out before tossing his drink back.

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