Page 133 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
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.
thirty-five
Asher
Her 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.
