Page 44 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
twelve
Vanessa
The motorcycle rumbles to a stop beneath me, my arms still locked around Asher's waist like it's the only stable thing left in my universe. My heart hammers against my ribs. The adrenaline crash hitting me hard now that we're no longer racing through the city.
A house looms before us, all hard angles and darkened windows. Not a single light visible from outside. Smart.
"Stay close," he orders, dismounting in one fluid motion before helping me off.
I wobble slightly, my legs jelly after everything that just happened. "I've got someone's blood on my sleeve," I mutter, picking at the dark stain.
Asher doesn't respond. His eyes scan the perimeter before he guides me forward, one hand on the small of my back, the other holding his weapon at the ready.
At the entrance, he positions me partially behind him while he punches a code into a keypad, then another, then a third. My eyes widen as I take note of every detail automatically.
"Three keypads, biometric scanner, reinforced door frame. This isn't a house, it's a panic room with furniture," I blurt out.
His jaw tightens. "That's the point."
A green light flashes, and the heavy door slides open with a pneumatic hiss. Asher ushers me inside before methodically securing each lock behind us.
The interior is... bare. Clean lines, minimal furnishings, and a color palette that appears to consist only of black, gray, and more black.
My fingers tap restlessly against my thigh as I take in my surroundings. I can't help it that the tension in my body translates into movement. I drift toward a sleek kitchen counter, running my hands along its cool surface.
"Is there anything in this place that isn't gray or black?" I ask, picking up a perfectly placed coffee mug and turning it in my hands.
Asher takes it from me, returning it to its exact position. "Some of us prefer functional over decorative."
My body won't stop moving. I bounce slightly on my toes, looking at everything: exits, windows, the apparent lack of personal items. I move from the counter to a bookshelf, fingers trailing across perfectly organized titles.
"Your books are alphabetized by author's last nameandcolor-coded." I can't help the note of fascination in my voice.
"Don't touch—" he starts, but I've already moved back to the kitchen.
A row of knives hangs on a magnetic strip, each blade precisely distanced from the next. I reach out, fascinated by their military-grade precision.
My fingers barely brush the handle of a santoku knife when Asher's hand closes around my wrist. His grip is gentle but unmistakably restraining.
"Please don't touch the knives." His voice is somehow both soft and steely. His face is inches from mine, and I can feel his breath warm against my cheek.
My pulse jumps, and it's not from fear. "Sorry. When I'm stressed, I touch things. Process information through my fingertips."
His eyes hold mine for a beat too long before he releases my wrist. "Just... ask first."
"I usually ask before touching things," I mutter defensively as he releases my wrist. The ghost of his touch lingers warm against my skin. "But sometimes my brain moves faster than my manners."
Asher's eyes narrow slightly.
"Sit." He points to a barstool at the kitchen island.
"I'm not a dog," I protest, but perch on the edge of the stool anyway, my legs swinging restlessly.
Asher moves to a cabinet above the refrigerator, retrieving what looks like a tactical first aid kit. Not the basic red cross kind—this is military-grade, with compartments labeled in a neat, angular script.
"What are you doing?" I ask, suddenly noticing the sting in my arm.
"You're bleeding."
