Page 95 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
"Who is she?" I whisper, something cold settling in my stomach.
Asher rises from the couch with that silent precision of his, moving to where I kneel. He lowers himself to sit on the floor next to me, close enough that our knees almost touch. He reaches for the frame, his fingers barely brushing mine as he takes it.
"My sister," he says, voice suddenly hollow. "Sarah."
The name hangs in the air between us like a confession.
A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the living room, followed by a boom of thunder that rattles the windows. The lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.
For three heartbeats, we're plunged into darkness. My breath catches in my throat.
Then soft blue emergency lights activate along the baseboards, casting strange shadows across Asher's face. The corners of his mouth pull downward as he stares at the photograph in his hands.
"You never mentioned having a sister." My fingers start tapping against my thighs—faster now, more frantic as pieces try to connect in my mind.
Despite my anger from moments ago, something deeper pulls at me now. The photograph's glass may be cracked, but I sense I've stumbled onto something more broken.
"Had," Asher corrects, the word barely audible.
That single syllable carries such weight that I physically flinch. My free hand reaches for his blindly, fingers interlacing. His skin is cool against mine, and surprisingly, he doesn't pull away.
My other hand continues its nervous pattern against my leg—tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap—as my brain tries to process what he's not saying.
"What happened?" The question comes out as barely a whisper.
Asher's fingers tighten around mine. His breathing changes—slower, more controlled, like he's fighting to maintain composure.
"Murdered." The words come out detached and clinical, stated like a mission report. "By someone who was supposed to love her."
My tapping stops completely. Every muscle in my body freezes as the implications hit me like a physical blow. The data points connect instantly—his overprotective behavior, the calculations about falling, his visceral reaction to my risk-taking.
Oh God.
Asher pulls his hand free and stands abruptly, the movement sharp and sudden. He walks to the windows, his back to me, shoulders rigid with tension.
"I wasn't there," he continues, voice growing more distant.
I scramble to my feet, my socks sliding on the hardwood. My hands flutter uselessly at my sides before I shove them into my pockets to stop the trembling. "Asher—"
"I was at a shooting competition. Perfect score. Perfect fucking accuracy." His laugh is hollow, bitter. He braces one hand against the window frame. "But I missed what mattered."
Lightning flashes again, illuminating tears swimming in his eyes that he refuses to let fall. The blue emergency lighting makes his profile look ghostly, haunted.
The parallel hits me like a sledgehammer. Sarah, trusting someone who hurt her. Me, taking risks that could get me killed. Both of us putting ourselves in danger while the person who loved us wasn't there to stop it.
That's why he grabbed me so hard. That's why he calculated the fall time.
I take a tentative step toward him, my fingers worrying the hem of my sweater.
"She had your eyes," I whisper, my voice breaking.
Thunder crashes outside, making me jump. When it fades, the rain sounds deafening in the silence between us.
Asher turns away from the window, moving to the fireplace. He grips the mantle with both hands, knuckles white. "She was smarter than me. More social. People actually enjoyed being around her."
I move closer, close enough to touch him, but not quite daring to. My fingers tap against my thigh instead. "She looks happy in that picture."
"I taught her how to shoot when I was fourteen. Dad insisted." His jaw clenches so tight I can see a muscle jump beneath his skin. He releases the mantle and runs both hands through his hair. "Lot of good that did when it mattered."
