(Asher pov)
The apartment was quiet when I returned that evening, the city lights below casting a soft, golden glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She was asleep in the living room, curled under the light throw she insisted on keeping despite my protests. The subtle rise and fall of her chest, the soft curve of her lips in a gentle, almost imperceptible smile, made my chest tighten. I had never expected a simple glance at her in sleep to unsettle me, yet here I was, standing at the threshold, watching, protecting, wanting and restraining all at once.
Breakfast untouched, the note slightly crumpled on the counter—it was as if she had read it and left it behind. My jaw tightened. The video from this morning still pressed at the edges of my mind, a silent threat that someone had intruded into her world. And yet, seeing her now, so serene, I felt something else—a burning need to ensure nothing and no one ever hurt her again. My hand brushed the edge of the counter, fists clenching, then relaxing. Calm, strategic, protective—this was not just about me asserting control; this was about ensuring her world remained hers.
Noah had found him. The man who had recorded her had been traced thanks to the employee's diligence, his own precise calculations and loyalty making him indispensable in moments like these. I had not expected such efficiency, yet I found myself grateful—grateful for Noah's reliability, though my jealousy had flared earlier, twisting in my chest at the thought of him touching her, comforting her, even with the best intentions.
I made the call before confronting the stalker. The line was direct, sharp, my voice low but steady. "Where are you?" I demanded, though I already knew his location thanks to Noah.
A dull, unrepentant voice answered, clipped, evasive. "I'm where I need to be."
I could feel my pulse spike, a dangerous warmth crawling along my spine. "Do you understand the gravity of what you've done? You've violated someone's life, someone under my protection. If anything spreads from this moment, there will be consequences. And you will not walk away quietly."
He laughed, low, uncertain, like a predator sensing the trap closing. "You'll have to catch me first."
I didn't hesitate. The next moments were deliberate, precise. Words sharp, movements measured. "I am not asking," I said, my voice an edge, cold and dark. "I am giving you a choice. Cooperate, or everything you think you know about survival will end here. You will answer for your actions."
Noah stood beside me, steady and watchful, the weight of responsibility heavy in his posture. Together, we cornered him. His resistance faltered under our combined authority, his bravado cracking. And yet, when I pressed him, when I demanded names, his lips remained sealed. I let my frustration flare silently; the mystery of who had sent him was beyond me for now, but my need to protect her could not wait.
The drive back to the penthouse was quiet, tension hanging between Noah and me, thick and unspoken. Every turn of the car, every shadowed streetlight, felt like a rehearsal for the next confrontation, the next protective measure I would need to employ. My mind was split—half on the practical, strategic side of containment, half on the way I ached for her, the way every small thought of her brought heat to my chest and a dangerous softness to my control.
I arrived home, found her still asleep. She had moved to the couch now, a soft blanket draped across her, and the faintest hum of a dreamed melody escaped her lips. The vulnerability, the quiet peace, the unguarded moment—it struck me harder than any argument, any strategic calculation. She belonged in my care, yes, but I realized it was more than duty. It was personal. Unshakably personal.
I knelt beside her, hesitant, mindful of the boundaries, the contract that dictated restraint. My fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a gentleness I rarely allowed myself to show. She murmured something in her sleep, a sound soft and sweet, and I found my lips brushing her temple unconsciously, a near whisper of contact that made my chest tighten. This was wrong, I reminded myself, and yet… how could I stop the pull of wanting her close, wanting her safe, wanting her entirely?
The rest of the evening was a careful balance—watching over her, letting her rest, preparing a quiet meal for when she woke, leaving small notes that whispered reassurance without words. Even as the stalker's threat lingered, I found myself thinking only of her comfort, her warmth, the way her laugh had echoed in the video, and the ache it had caused me to see someone else touch her, even gently, in ways I would rather have reserved for myself.
When she stirred, half-awake, I simply smiled, offering her the meal with a casualness that belied the storm beneath my skin. She looked at me, sleepy eyes brightening, and something shifted—a connection beyond words, beyond contracts, beyond careful restraint. Every glance, every shared silence, became charged, the air between us thick with unspoken desire, tempered by the invisible lines we both tried to respect.
Evening stretched on. I found myself lingering by her side, watching her sleep, noting the smallest movements, the faint smile returning in dreams. The world outside could threaten, record, misinterpret, and scandalize, but here, in this apartment, she was mine. The thought struck me as sharply as any blade: not in ownership of a contract, but in a deeper, more irrevocable sense.
And as the city settled into night, I let myself drift near her, fingers brushing lightly over her hand, heart thrumming with a dangerous, forbidden rhythm. Whoever had filmed, whoever sought to intrude—none of it mattered when she was here. Safe. Breathing. Smiling. Mine in ways that no law, no rule, no contract could define entirely.
Tomorrow would bring confrontation, clarification, and perhaps justice. Tonight, it was enough to simply watch her, to ensure she slept peacefully, and to acknowledge silently that the protective line I drew around her had blurred with something infinitely more personal.