Page 59 of The Last Strike

Abi picked up her phone to call him, only to see she had a message from Asher that had been sent three hours ago.

She hadn’t seen it! She hadn’t heard her phone chime indicating a message had arrived. She quickly opened it, feeling sick.

I need to go and look at something. I’ll be back in a few hours.

She felt awful for not replying because this message had clearly been an olive branch.

She had typed on the screen to reply when the door opened and Asher walked in. He stopped when he saw her, then his eyes dropped to her phone.

He raised an eyebrow and walked straight past her.

Abi stood, following him.

“I just read your message, I didn’t see it.”

He didn’t respond as he unbuttoned his shirt.

“Asher, please talk to me.”

He sighed as he threw his shirt in the laundry hamper and turned to face her. He didn’t say a word, and she hated the tension between them. But Abi didn’t know where to start.

“I’m sorry about last night,” she said quietly.

“What are you sorry for?” he asked, his voice cold but controlled.

Her mouth opened, then closed. She couldn’t find the right words.

Asher nodded, turning away.

“Asher, that’s not fair,” Abi said.

“What is not fair, Abi, is that I supported you even when I fucking hated the Lamberi idea. But when I need the same from you, I’m on my own.”

She saw the pain in his eyes and realized this was more serious than she’d realized. She saw in that moment that Asher didn’t just see it as a betrayal—he saw it as an abandonment.

“You’re right, I didn’t, and I’m sorry for that. But I’m terrified, Asher,” she said, her voice quivering. His face finally softened. “I’m terrified of losing you, of losing our life together. I don’t want this life without you, Asher. I’m sorry for what I put you through during that meeting with Lamberi, I truly am—I didn’t realize how that would feel until now.”

“Would you do it again? If the situation arose today, would you make the same decision?” he asked.

She hesitated a moment too long.

“I see. It’s okay for me to live with the fear of losing you, but not the other way around?” he asked, his eyes going wide. “This war is killing me! I can’t think; I can’t sleep. I have the entire weight of Santina on my shoulders, and now that I’ve convinced the other kingdoms to fight with us, I have the weight of needing us all to succeed, otherwise we’re all dead. I can’t fight with you, Abi. I need your support. I need someone to stand beside me, I need someone in my fucking corner!” he yelled, instantly holding out his hand as if apologizing.

He swore under his breath as he turned away, pinching the bridge of his nose. Abi thought he was going to storm out, but he didn’t.

“If something were to happen to you, make your mother the next in line—at least until I can learn what to do,” Abi said. “I need some time to prepare for the role.”

He looked at her, his anger gone, but the sadness was clearer than a cloudless sky. “How much time did I have to prepare? A few months. I had a few months to prepare before my father was murdered, and I was thrown into this role. I wake up terrified every day, I second-guess every decision, and I go to bed at night terrified I’ve made a mistake. And when I see hundreds of soldiers are dying by my command, how do you think that feels?”

Everything he said was true. Asher had not been fully prepared for the role—he hadn’t experienced the usual grooming process reserved for a crown prince. But there was something about Asher, something that came naturally to him. Something Abi knew he didn’t see in that moment. Asher was born for this role; she had never been surer of it.

But Abi wasn’t. The idea of leading without Asher felt like drowning in a flood of dread. The idea of losing Asher was asphyxiating.

“Why you?” Abi asked. “Why do you have to be involved in this? Why can’t someone else lure Khalil?”

“Because his pride—to see me die at his hand—is probably the only thing that will be motivation enough. Khalil will not take the risk otherwise,” Asher said. “It’s like asking Lamberi to meet at the restaurant without him sighting you first—it would never have worked. James has designed a very similar strategy for Khalil.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Abi said, her voice strangled. “I’m not okay with this,” she murmured with a heavy sigh. She turned her empty hands over, like it was an indication of the state of her mind: no alternatives, no hope.

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