Asher returned moments later, his brow furrowed. “Something wrong?”
“No,” I lied, avoiding his gaze.
The last thing I needed was for him to pick up on my tension.
He frowned but didn’t press further. Instead, he settled back against the crates, his knife resting in his lap.
The silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t as suffocating as before.
It was tense, yes, but there was something else there too, something I couldn’t name. Asher’s breathing was steady, his expression guarded but not hostile.
I couldn’t help but watch him again, my gaze lingering on the faint scar etched on his temple.
My eyes trailed to the way his fingers absently caressed the hilt of his blade, strong, precise, and strangely captivating.
And then there was his throat, smooth and inviting, the curve so maddeningly tempting.
I wondered how he’d taste, warm and rich, his pulse thrumming just beneath my lips.
He glanced at me suddenly, and our eyes met.
“What?” he asked, his voice sharp.
“Nothing,” I said, too quickly.
He huffed, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t push.
I forced myself to look away, but my thoughts betrayed me.
The memory of Bram’s warning lingered, but so did the image of Asher’s defiance, his fire.
I couldn’t afford this. Not now. Not ever.
But as I watched him out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this hunter, this infuriating, stubborn human, was going to ruin everything.
CHAPTER FOUR
ASHER/ GAEL
ASHER
The pale morning light filtered through the warehouse’s broken windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the cracked concrete floor.
Dust motes floated lazily through the air, and the only sound was my own breathing, which was slow, steady and forced.
I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to banish the stiffness that had settled in while I slept.
I hadn’t planned to fall asleep. Certainly not next tohim.
I turned my head, gaze falling on Gael’s still body.
His skin was alabaster pale, almost translucent in the weak light, his dark hair splayed around him like a silken halo.
Without breath, without motion, he looked like a corpse. A beautiful, haunting one.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was truly dead. Maybe part of me wished he was.
My hand drifted toward the knife at my belt, the familiar weight grounding me. It would be so easy. One clean strike.
