Page 134 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
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.
