Page 47 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
My stomach twists. He's right, but that doesn't make this reality any easier to swallow. I've been investigating traffickingnetworks from behind screens for years. The blood was always... digital. Abstract.
"I need equipment," I blurt out, the pressure building inside me until the words escape. "Servers, encryption keys."
My hands shake slightly. I'd grabbed an external drive in the chaos, but it's not enough. "The hard drive I saved has critical data, but I need hardware. I need—"
"What you need is to stay alive." Asher's voice cuts through mine, sharp and cold. He finally looks up, his dark eyes locking with mine. "Your digital footprint is what led them to you."
The truth of his words hits me like a physical blow. My chest tightens, and suddenly I can't find any words. All my defenses, my codes, my firewalls, my proxy servers, meant nothing against whoever found me. For the first time in years, I'm completely untethered from my digital world.
I sink onto the edge of a chair, the silence crushing me more effectively than any argument could. My fingers still against my leg. The realization washes over me in a cold wave. I have no tech, no control. I'm completely dependent on this dangerous stranger with blood on his hands and ice in his veins.
And scariest of all? Some deep, primitive part of me feels safer because of it.
Silence sits heavy between us. I should be plotting my next move, figuring out how to regain control of this situation—of my life—but my brain feels disconnected from my body. For someone who lives by processing thousands of data points simultaneously, this sudden stillness is terrifying.
Asher moves with silent efficiency across the room, sliding his cleaned weapon into a holster.
"Come with me." He breaks the quiet.
I follow him almost automatically, my body moving before my brain catches up. He turns to let me pass and guides me down a darkened hallway, his hand hovering near the smallof my back without actually touching me. The almost-contact sends prickles across my skin like static electricity.
The hallway is as spartan as the rest of the house—no photos, no personal items. Just clean lines and practicality. Even the overhead lighting is programmed to a dim setting that provides visibility without creating exposure from outside.
My skin tingles with awareness. I'm in a predator's territory. Every instinct screams this fact at me.
Asher pushes open a door to reveal a bedroom. Like everything else, it's minimal—king-sized bed with dark gray bedding, nightstands, nothing extraneous.
"You should shower and change." He moves to a dresser where he pulls out a gray t-shirt that would swallow my body. "There's still blood on your clothes."
He hands me the shirt, careful not to let our fingers touch. I glance around, the realization dawning on me slowly.
"Where are you planning to sleep?" I ask, scanning the hallway behind us. The tension in my shoulders ratchets up another notch when I don't spot any other doors that could be bedrooms.
Our eyes connect in the hallway's soft light, a current of energy passing between us. He stares at me with an intensity that's impossible to interpret.
"I have one bedroom," his voice deliberately neutral despite the implications. "You'll take it."
I open my mouth to protest.Who has just one bedroom in a whole house?Before I can speak, his expression stops me cold.
"I'll be right outside the door all night. No one gets in," his eyes darken as they travel over me, "and you don't get out."
My stomach drops, a warm heaviness spreading low in my belly at the possessive edge in his voice. I should be outraged. I want to argue. But my heart pounds wildly, and my clothes suddenly feel too tight.
"So I'm a prisoner now?" The words come out breathier than I intended.
"You're alive," he corrects. "Which is more than you'd be if I hadn't been there tonight."
His words settle in the air like smoke, thick with promise and threat.
My hands grip the borrowed fabric tighter while my brain cycles through exit strategies, backup plans, and the terrifying reality that some dark corner of my mind wants to stay right here with him.
thirteen
Asher
Isit motionless on the leather couch, back straight, every muscle coiled with tension. My service pistol rests on the coffee table within easy reach. Three hours and twenty-four minutes since I settled Vanessa in my bedroom.
Three hours and twenty-four minutes of listening to every sound from behind that door.
