Chapter 62

MADDISON

Ebony was terrified, tears streaming down her face, but I insisted we stay put. Our apartment was our sanctuary, our safe haven, and the thought of leaving it, of venturing downstairs with no way back in while Asher was missing, was far from appealing.

Addison bit her lip nervously.

“What if the building catches fire? We’re so high up?”

Ebony, who had been sitting on the couch I’d pulled her to earlier, murmured, “I’m already on fire.”

We hadn’t moved from the TV. We sat together because we could, but I doubt any of us were really watching the screen.

Instead, we were each wrestling with our own inner demons, letting them replay in our minds, consuming us. Some demons were worse than others, but they were all demons nonetheless.

The sound of water jets outside our apartment door made my heart pound, but even then, I decided we wouldn’t leave, despite the three of us huddled together in fear. We had no way back in, no phones to contact Asher, and no idea where he was.

This was safe; outside was not. And even though Addison wanted to argue, she knew my word was final.

Just like it was back at Sanctum. These girls have been my responsibility since I was dumped there; the need to protect them has always been my priority.

I fuck people for them. I drug people for them.

I fight as hard as I fucking can so they don’t have to. And as I stew over that in my mind, Asher walks in the door.

He’s covered in blood, his chest a mottled mess of color that doesn’t belong. Our eyes meet briefly before he storms past us into his bedroom.

“Asher,” I call after him, turning to Ebony and Addison. “Stay here.”

I follow him, calling out again as the door closes behind me.

He strides into his bathroom, his steps determined, his eyes burning with anger.

“What happened?” I ask, scanning the bathroom for a first aid kit.

I’m not sure if I’ll find one, but he seems like the type to have one. He ignores my question, turning on the faucet and stripping off his jeans and underwear.

I can’t help but admire his body. His chest is muscular, and his abs lead my gaze down to his cock. Even flaccid, it’s impressive. The kind that makes you wonder if it will fit, the kind that can make you scream if used right.

I chastise myself for staring so openly, but luckily, he’s rinsing the blood from his nose and upper lip under the water. I watch as the red liquid trickles down and pools on the floor.

“Asher?” I ask again, finally finding a small first aid kit in a clear box under the sink.

“Maddison, fucking leave and let me wash,” he snaps at me.

But I don’t listen. When do I ever listen to reason? Instead, I bring the box over and sit on the toilet next to the shower.

I watch Asher clean himself, lathering up body wash before scrubbing his body vigorously. The water rinses away the suds to reveal the same bruised and battered body I saw when he first walked in.

His ribs and abdomen are bruised, as are his neck and shoulders, though not as badly. His face is a mess—jaw, nose, lip. There might be a black eye forming, but it’s hard to tell in this light.

“Who did this to you?” I ask when he turns off the water and steps out.

“Do you ever know when to leave well enough alone?” he retorts.

“I could ask you the same.” I shrug, reaching for him. I stand and make room for him to sit on the toilet, a towel wrapped around his waist.

His eyebrow arches as I examine the black eye I’d been unsure about earlier. He holds the first aid box on his lap for me as I start to tend to his wounds.

I dab the antiseptic solution onto the raw wounds on his face. He flinches, and I can’t help the tiny, triumphant grin that sneaks onto my face.

“You know, it’s not nice to laugh at someone else’s pain,” he points out.

“I’m aware,” I retort, “but I’m a bit twisted, Asher.”

“Is that so?” he questions, releasing his grip on the box between us. His fingers latch onto my thigh with a force that would send a normal girl running.

It unsettles me, but not in a negative way.

The lingering steam clings to every inch of my skin.

The urge to shed my clothes and straddle him is almost immediate as I let the thought linger in my mind.

I shouldn’t want to sleep with him; I shouldn’t be this aroused by him. But the undeniable desire to be with him has been there from the start.

It’s only grown stronger since that day he pulled me against him in Sanctum.

And here, it can flourish without restraint.

His fingers creep up my thigh, his hands now cradling the curves of my butt. The box slips from his lap as his other hand follows suit.

I try to focus on cleaning his wounds, but his magnetic pull is too strong, especially when he growls my name in a tone I’ve never heard from him before.

“Drop the damn gauze, Maddison,” he commands, fumbling with the button on the jeans I borrowed from Addison.

I freeze, my hand hovering in mid-air as he slips his fingers inside my panties. His fingers plunge into me without hesitation. His palm expertly stimulates my clit in a way that leaves me breathless.