Page 45 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
I look down at my forearm where my sleeve is torn, revealing a three-inch gash I hadn't even registered. "Oh."
Asher places the kit on the counter and arranges supplies: antiseptic, gauze, butterfly bandages. Each item positioned with calculated intention, like pieces on a chess board.
"I'm fine. It's barely a scratch." My fingers drum against the granite countertop in an erratic beat.
"Hold still," he commands, his voice dropping an octave as he takes my arm. His touch is surprisingly gentle as he rolls up my sleeve, exposing the wound.
My stomach flips at the contrast. This dangerous man with blood still on his knuckles, handling me like I'm made of glass.
"Do you always go into terminator mode when someone touches you?" The words tumble out before I can stop them.
His hands pause mid-motion, eyes flicking up to meet mine. "What?"
"That guy, the one who grabbed me. You didn't just neutralize him. You..." The image flashes in my mind: Asher's fist connecting again and again, long past what was necessary.
Something dark flickers across his face. "He put his hands on you."
The antiseptic stings as he dabs it across my cut, but I barely notice. My brain is too busy processing his words, the way he takes control that sends my heart racing.
"I've had worse paper cuts from manila folders." I try to pull my arm away.
His grip tightens just enough to hold me in place. "Stop. Moving."
"That's like asking water not to be wet," I mutter. "Stillness isn't really in my repertoire."
A muscle in his jaw twitches, frustration or amusement, I can't tell.
"Try."
His hands move with precision, cleaning my injury like a professional. There's something different in how he touches me though. A slight pause when he puts the bandage on, his thumb gliding over my inner wrist right where my heartbeat races.
I track his movements—the way his shoulders flex beneath his tactical shirt, the controlled precision of his breathing, the almost imperceptible softening around his eyes when he looks at the wound.
"You're asking a lot of questions for someone who was just targeted by a professional hit team." Asher applies the last bandage with just the right amount of pressure.
"Your security protocols were good. Not great," he continues, not looking up from his work. "These men weren't random. They were professional."
Heat flares in my cheeks. "My security was excellent. I've been running under the radar for years."
"Until now."
I can't argue with that, so I don't.
"Come with me," Asher commands, gathering the medical supplies with one swift motion and a precision that speaks of too much practice. He moves toward what I assume is the living room, clearly expecting me to follow without question.
I hesitate for exactly two seconds before my curiosity wins out.
The living room matches the kitchen's minimalist aesthetic—dark furniture, strategic lighting, and massive windows with a view of the Bay Bridge that must cost millions. But what catches my attention are the monitors dominating one wall, displaying maps and surveillance feeds of my building.
"You've been watching me," I breathe, stepping closer to the screens. "Hypocrite." Various algorithms track movement patterns in and around my loft—the same kinds of programs I use, but with military-grade enhancements I recognize from government systems I've previously...investigated.
Asher ignores my accusation, pulling a phone from his pocket. His fingers move quickly across the screen before he places it on the coffee table, activating speaker mode.
"Saint, secure line," he states, positioning himself where he can watch both me and the door.
A smooth voice answers immediately. "Confirmed secure. Status?"
"We've got rid of the intruders," Asher reports, eyes flicking to me as I fidget with the bandage on my arm. "Same signature as the Paradise Elite security team."
