"If anyone's going to throw a tantrum, it'd be you," Asher replies flatly, but there's a flicker of a smile. "But yes. If she chooses both of us, I can live with that. If she doesn't…" He pauses. "We let her go, Kayden."
I nod slowly, jaw tight. "Yeah. Sure."
But I don't mean it. Because I already know that I don't want to let her go. Ever.
Should I stay away from the beautiful nymph brushing her teeth in the other room, getting ready for bed with her skin soft and clean, her scent floating like bait in the air?
Yeah. Probably.
My brother would. He'd be noble about it. Keep his distance. Fold his hands in prayer or discipline or whatever keeps him standing so damn straight.
Will I?
Hellno.
Because yeah, I want to see her. Tease her. Hear her breath hitch when I get too close. I crave biting her again, to feel her skin shiver against my mouth. But it's more than that. It's not just the heat.
It's her voice in my head, still echoing:dead husk.
Yeah, sweetheart. You came for that husk like your body was wired for it. Moaned on his fingers. Shook when he touched you.
I came out of that damn shipping container thinking I'd shrug it all off. Treat it like a joke, like always. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. About her. About that night, like a broken record spinning heat and doubt on repeat.
Did she pity me? Was I just a lapse in her judgment she'd rather forget?
Or was there more? Something sharp and real she doesn't want to name?
I want her to break just enough to spill the truth. I want to hear her say it. That it wasn't just a moment. That she didn't hate it. That she didn't hateme.
That when she saved me, it wasn't just duty or guilt, but instinct. Maybe hope.
That she saw something worth keeping alive. Something redeemable.
I grab a potted fern from the windowsill—some stupid excuse to knock on her door. She doesn't answer. No problem.
I push the door open. Room's empty. There's humming from the bathroom—low, quiet, like she forgot the world existed for a moment. I lean against the wall in shadow and wait.
She emerges in a white robe, hair twisted up, a few strands falling loose around her face. She's reaching for something, focused, doesn't see me right away.
Then she does.
"Jesus—Kayden! What the hell? Fuck, you scared me!"
I lift a hand slowly, offering the fern like some guilty altar boy. "Peace offering."
She eyes the plant. Then me. Suspicious.
"I figured you like being outside. Growing things. This room's kind of sterile, so…" I shrug like it means nothing.
"Thanks," she says, still eyeing me like I'm a wild animal that might bite if provoked. She takes the pot and sets it on the table. "It could've waited till tomorrow."
"Could've," I agree. "But I'm not known for patience."
I don't move. Neither does she.
"You heading to the shower?" I ask, tone easy.
She shoots me a look. "What gave it away, Sherlock?"
