Page 142 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
"I'm asking for you. Not the sniper, not the ghost. Just you."
Something snaps in his control. His mouth crashes against mine with desperate intensity, backing me against the wall until the cool surface presses against my shoulder blades. Every kiss feels like an apology and a claiming all at once.
His hands slide down to my waist, lifting me until my legs wrap around his hips.
"This isn't smart." He breathes the words against my throat.
"Since when do I do smart?" My fingers tangle in his hair, pull him closer. "Smart would be staying away from mysterious snipers who treat emotions like tactical liabilities."
He pulls back to look at me, his dark eyes searching my face like he's memorizing every detail. The vulnerability there takes my breath away—raw, unguarded, terrified.
"You could have anyone." His thumb traces my cheekbone with heartbreaking gentleness. "Someone safe. Someone who wouldn't put you in danger just by existing."
"I don't want safe." Cupping his face in my hands, I force him to hold my gaze. "I want you. All of you. The good, the bad, and the completely infuriating."
His forehead drops against mine. For a long moment, we just breathe together, sharing the same air in the quiet kitchen while fog swirls outside.
"I love you," I whisper against his lips.
The words hang between us, naked and honest and impossible to take back.
Asher goes completely still. His breathing stops, his hands freeze where they rest on my waist. Every muscle in his body locks up like he's been turned to stone.
When he finally pulls back to look at me, his expression is unreadable. Completely blank in a way that makes my stomach drop. Whatever I expected, this careful emptiness isn't it.
The silence stretches until it becomes its own living thing, filling the space between us with everything he can't or won't say.
Outside, thunder rolls across the bay, and I realize the storm isn't just in the sky anymore.
thirty-seven
Asher
The crosshairs settle on the eastern entrance as I exhale slowly, the rhythm of my breath measured against the light patter of drizzle on my position.
Numbers flow through my mind automatically: 457 yards to target zone, 3.2 knots northwestern wind drift, 78% humidity affecting trajectory by approximately 0.3 millimeters. My finger rests just outside the trigger guard, body perfectly still despite the cold seeping through my tactical gear.
I love you.
Her words pierce my concentration like a round through armor. I blink them away, refocusing on the scope.
"Frost in position. Visibility at 89%. Wind at 3 knots northwest." My voice comes out flat, stripped of the turbulence swirling beneath my controlled exterior.
I scan methodically across each team position, confirming placement. Cole at the northeast corner. Jax covering the service entrance. Kade near the main approach in the unmarked vehicle. Everything in perfect alignment except the echo of Vanessa's words hammering against my skull.
The bipod of my rifle sits rock-steady on the concrete lip of the rooftop, my breathing so shallow it barely disturbs the crosshairs. Years of training center my mind, but her face keeps floating into view—the raw vulnerability when she said those words and the silence that followed.
Static pops through my comms.
"Echo systems online. Facial recognition tracking active. Security feeds looping on my mark in three, two—" Vanessa's voice comes through, slightly too quick, the way it does when she's nervous or excited.
My chest tightens involuntarily. Something primitive inside me wants to abandon position, find her in the surveillance van, protect her after what happened at the gala.
Instead, I adjust my scope a fraction of a millimeter, compensating for the increasing precipitation.
"Confirmed, Echo. Maintain current position."
The mission parameters crystalize in my mind: observe, protect, eliminate threats if necessary. The calculations stay clear in my head, but her confession hits different, heavier than anything I can measure or solve.
