Page 46 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
My stomach tightens. The connection I suspected, confirmed.
"Casualties?" the voice, "Saint", asks.
"Four." Asher's voice remains perfectly even, as though discussing the weather rather than four dead men.
The man on the other end exhales slowly. "Injuries on your side?"
"Minor laceration on the asset's forearm. I've treated it."
Asset?My nostrils flare.
"I have a name," I interject, even as Asher shoots me a warning look that I know would silence most people. "And they knew exactly where to find me—my security is multilayered. Someone had to be tracking me for days."
A brief silence follows.
"Is that Echo?" Saint asks. "The hacker?"
"Yes," Asher confirms, his jaw tightening.
"Keep her contained until we assess." The man's voice is calm but carries unmistakable authority. "We need to establish how compromised your location is."
"Understood." Asher reaches for the phone.
"Wait. How bad is the cut? Any signs of infection or need for stitches?"
Asher glances at my arm. "Clean cut, no debris. Approximately three inches. Butterfly closures applied."
My patience snaps. "I'm right here. You can ask me directly about my own body."
The call ends with Asher promising updates, and I stand there, vibrating with irritation.
I step toward him, fists clenched at my sides. "I'm not a liability to be managed, I'm the one who cracked this case open!"
I've never been great at standing still.
"Contained," I spit the word like it's poison. "Is that what you're going to do? Lock me in a closet somewhere?"
Asher doesn't answer. His attention has already shifted to a security panel near the far wall. I follow his gaze, noticing a reinforced door I'd overlooked in my initial scan of the room. His fingers glide across the keypad with lethal focus.
"Hello? I'm talking to you," I snap, following him as the door slides open with a whisper of hydraulics.
The words die in my throat when I see what's inside.
It's a small room with wall-to-wall weapons. Rifles mounted in perfect alignment, handguns displayed in glass cases, and what looks like enough ammunition to start a small war.
"Is this where you keep your personality?" I mutter.
Asher continues to ignore me, moving to a workbench where he methodically disassembles his handgun. His movements flow like water, each component separated and placed in a specific position with practiced familiarity.
I pace the living room just outside the door, my body unable to remain still as the events of the night cycle through my brain on repeat.
Four men. Dead. Because of me. Because of what I found.
I watch Asher through the partially open door as he cleans each gun part. His expression remains impassive, as if handling lethal weapons is as routine as brushing his teeth.
"You killed three men tonight and you're not even blinking," I observe, studying his stone-carved features. My fingers tap in an anxious rhythm against my thigh.
"You should be more concerned about the people still trying to kill you," he responds without looking up. The smell of gun oil fills the air between us.
