Page 158 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
The temperature drops. When Asher uses that tone—the same one he probably used right before pulling triggers tonight—people listen whether they want to or not.
"She's the most brilliant person I've ever worked with. She sees patterns that others miss, solves problems that would break most people's minds." He pauses, letting that sink in, his hand settling on my lower back with possessive heat. "The coffee shopjob? That's just how she chooses to spend her mornings. Her real work happens when the rest of the world is asleep."
His thumb moves along my back through the sweater fabric, marking me as his in a way that sends lightning through every nerve.
"Vanessa helps people. She saves lives with that incredible brain." His eyes lock on mine, dark and intense and full of truth he can't fully speak. Truth about the kind of monsters we hunt in the shadows. "She's exactly where she's supposed to be, doing exactly what she's meant to do."
The room has gone completely silent. Even the cousins have stopped fidgeting.
"Your restlessness isn't a flaw to be fixed. It's your superpower. The way your mind works, the way you see connections no one else can—that's not something to be ashamed of."
His fingers press against my spine, grounding me in ways that make my pulse race for entirely different reasons.
"You're not too much. You're not broken. You're not disappointing anyone who matters." The words cut through years of internalized shame like a blade. "You're perfect exactly as you are."
Tears blur my vision before I can stop them. Not the messy sobbing kind, just overwhelming relief spilling out because someone finally sees me. Really sees me.
"The family just wants what's best—" Dad starts.
"What's best," Asher cuts him off with respectful firmness that still carries an edge, "is supporting someone who's already changing the world in ways you can't imagine. Vanessa, you don't need to be fixed or redirected or doesn't need to be fixed or redirected or made to fit into boxes that were never built for someone like her."
He turns those dark eyes back to me, and my heart stutters to a complete stop.
"I love your restless mind. I love how you talk to your computers like they're teammates. I love that you see patterns in chaos and make the impossible look easy." His voice gets softer, more intimate despite our audience. "I love that you care so much about strangers that you'll work all night to help them. I love your terrible sleep schedule and your Star Wars obsession and the way you bounce your leg when you're thinking."
My chest feels like it might explode from sheer emotion.
"I love every brilliant, chaotic, beautiful thing about you. And I'm done pretending that conventional success means more than the life you've built helping people."
The kiss is soft, reverent, completely inappropriate for my family's living room. But absolutely perfect. His lips move against mine like a promise, like a declaration, like claiming something precious and dangerous all at once.
When we break apart, applause erupts around us. My ridiculous family finally getting the show they've been waiting for.
"Well," Dad says after a long moment, clearing his throat. "I guess we don't need to worry about whether he's serious."
Mom wipes at her eyes with her napkin. "Such beautiful words. You're good for our girl, Asher."
"She's good for me too," he murmurs, forehead still touching mine, his thumb still tracing patterns on my spine that make me want to melt into him right here in front of everyone. "Better than I deserve."
For the first time in my entire life, my mind goes completely quiet. No racing thoughts, no fragmented code sequences, no anxiety spirals. Just perfect stillness centered on this moment, this dangerous man who sees beauty in my chaos.
"I love you," I whisper against his lips.
"I love you more than order," he whispers back, and there's something dark and promising in his voice. "More than control. More than safety."
And surrounded by my chaotic, loving, impossible family, with the taste of his dangerous promise on my lips, I finally understand what it means to be enough.
forty-two
Asher
Twelve colorful throw pillows. Seven Star Wars figurines. Twenty-three neon sticky notes marking my belongings with her handwriting.
I stand in the doorway watching the invasion. Sunlight streams through windows, catching the chaos that is Vanessa. She stretches on her tiptoes, reaching into my kitchen cabinet for the matte black coffee mug that's lived seven inches from the edge of the second shelf for four years.
"What are you doing?"
"Reorganizing." She doesn't turn around. "Your kitchen setup makes my brain itch."
