Page 127 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
"I've lost people before," I hear myself saying, voice rough with exhaustion and fear. "But watching you fight this... watching your mind struggle and not being able to do anything..."
My vision blurs unexpectedly. Moisture tracks down my cheek before I can stop it—the same malfunction I experienced watching her seize, when terror broke through years of emotional control.
Haven't let myself feel this exposed since I was seventeen and failed to save my sister. But Vanessa strips away walls I've spent decades building.
Her free hand reaches up, fingertips gentle against my cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."
The promise breaks something fundamental inside me. Years of distance, of calculated control, of keeping everyone at arm's length to avoid exactly this vulnerability.
My thumb traces her cheekbone, confirming she's really here, really seeing me clearly. Not lost in neural static or fever dreams.
"Simple math, little bunny." I bring her hand to my lips, pressing them against her pulse point where I can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong.
"Can't function without you."
thirty-three
Asher
"Sixty-eight beats per minute. Oxygen saturation ninety-seven percent." I record the numbers in neat columns, my pen leaving aligned marks on the page. "Blood pressure 108 over 65. Temperature 99.1."
These numbers matter for the past six days. Each decimal point represents her fight to return to me.
Vanessa stirs slightly on the medical bed, her eyelids fluttering but not opening fully. I note the time and response in my log immediately.
"You know we have machines that do that automatically, right?" Remy's voice comes from the doorway.
I don't look up. "Machines fail. I don't."
Miguel—Kuya Miguel to Vanessa—steps into my view, reviewing charts on a tablet. His white coat is rumpled from another night on the pullout chair across the room.
"Her bloodwork is improving," he scrolls through the results. "Toxin levels are down to trace amounts. The seizure risk has dropped significantly."
He looks at me directly. "We need to move her, Asher. She's stable enough now, and recovery will be better in a more comfortable environment."
My grip tightens on the pen. "Where?"
Miguel exchanges a glance with Remy. "We were thinking—"
"My place." The words come out sharper than intended. "She stays with me."
"Asher," Remy begins, his diplomatic tone already irritating me, "the medical wing has—"
"My security is better than headquarters. No blind spots. Complete perimeter control." I finally look up at them, daring either to challenge me. "And she lives there already, anyway. She'll be more comfortable."
Miguel studies me for a long moment. He balances medical concerns against the resolve fixed in my expression.
"It would help her recovery to be somewhere familiar," he concedes. "But we'll need to transfer equipment."
"Done." I stand, tucking the notebook into my pocket. "I'll arrange transport. Twenty minutes."
I move to Vanessa's bedside, allowing my fingers to brush against hers. The terror of nearly losing her remains raw, a constant presence behind every thought. But I've channeled it into something useful: careful planning, constant observation, absolute control of every variable in her environment.
"I've got you, little bunny," I whisper, low enough that only she might hear. "Just keep fighting."
Miguel begins disconnecting monitors for transport, replacing them with portable equivalents. "I'll need to stay with her for at least the first twenty-four hours."
I nod once. "Second bedroom is ready now."
