"I wanted to," he interrupts, and there's something in his voice that makes me actually look at him instead of the cake, that makes me meet his eyes for the first time since he came inside.
The silence stretches again, thinner this time, more fragile, like spider silk that will tear at the slightest pressure. I can feel words building up inside me—questions, accusations, apologies, everything I've been wanting to say for three days but haven't had the chance to because he made it very clear he didn't want to hear from me.
"Say what you need to say, Xavier." The words come out harder than I intended, sharp with the defense mechanism of someone who's been hurt too many times to approach this gently. "Tell me how much you hate me. Tell me I need to leave Texas. Yell at me, scream at me, get it all out. But just rip it off like a Band Aid instead of drawing it out. I can't—" My voice cracks. "I can't take the suspense. Can't sit here wondering what you're going to say. So just say it."
He's quiet for a long moment, his hands resting on the wheels of his chair, his eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. Then, with movements that are slow and deliberate and probably cost him more than he wants to admit, he reaches up and shrugs off his leather jacket.
The Raiders patch is right there on the back, worn and faded and representing everything I've lost. He drapes it over the arm of the wheelchair and meets my eyes again.
"I could never hate you, killer," he says quietly, and the nickname combined with the gentleness in his voice makes something crack open in my chest. "Now sit down and eat cake with me."
20
ASHER
The Vipercompound sprawls across three acres of industrial wasteland on the east side of the city, all chain-link and razor wire and the particular kind of paranoia that comes from building an empire on violence and knowing that empire can crumble just as violently. I've been watching it for forty minutes from my position on the warehouse roof across the street, cataloging patterns, counting guards, mapping the security rotation with the methodical precision that has kept me alive through worse situations than this.
The annual party is in full swing—music thumping loud enough to rattle windows, bodies moving in and out of the main building with the chaotic flow of people who've had too much to drink and not enough sense. Perfect cover. Perfect chaos. Perfect opportunity to slip in, grab Talia, and get out before anyone realizes what's happening.
Except nothing is ever that simple.
Jackie's voice crackles through my earpiece, barely audible over the party noise. "Team Two in position. West entrance is clear. You have a five-minute window before the next rotation."
"Copy," I murmur, already moving. The roof access is a rusted ladder that creaks under my weight, each rung a small eternity of sound that feels too loud despite the music drowning it out. My boots hit concrete and I'm across the alley in three silent strides, pressing myself against the side of the Viper building where the shadows are deepest and the security cameras have a blind spot I've memorized from the blueprints Jackie pulled.
The west entrance is exactly where it's supposed to be—a service door with a lock that takes me all of fifteen seconds to pick, my hands steady despite the adrenaline singing through my veins. Inside is a maintenance corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the smell of industrial cleaner and something underneath it that might be mold or might be the accumulated rot of too many bad decisions made in too small a space.
I move quickly, keeping to the walls, every sense dialed up to maximum awareness. The compound layout is burned into my brain from hours of study—Talia's room is on the second floor, east wing, third door on the left. Assuming she's even there. Assuming she hasn't moved since the last intelligence update. Assuming this entire operation doesn't go catastrophically sideways in the next ten minutes.
The stairs are at the end of the corridor, concrete and metal, each step measured and silent. I can hear the party more clearly now—laughter and music and the chaotic sound of people celebrating something they probably don't remember the origin of. Good. Let them celebrate. Let them be distracted.
Second floor. East wing. The hallway is empty, doors closed, most of them probably leading to storage or offices or the kind of rooms you don't ask questions about in a place like this. Third door on the left has light bleeding out from under it, a thin golden line against dingy carpet.
I pause outside, listening. Footsteps inside—light, quick, the particular cadence of someone pacing. A door slamming somewhere deeper in the building. Music still thumping, but muffled now, distant enough to work around.
I knock. Three short raps.
The footsteps stop. Silence for a heartbeat, two, three. Then: "Who is it?"
Talia's voice. Wary. Suspicious. Good. She should be suspicious.
"Maintenance," I say, pitching my voice lower, rougher. "Got a report of a leak."
"There's no leak?—"
I don't wait for her to finish. The door isn't locked—careless, or maybe she's been here long enough to stop thinking about locks—and I'm inside before she can process what's happening, one hand already reaching for her to cover her mouth before she can scream.
Except she doesn't try to scream.
She just stares at me with wide eyes, recognition and shock and something that might be relief all flickering across her face in rapid succession. "Asher?"
"We're leaving," I say quietly, already scanning the room for threats, for exits, for anything that might complicate what should be a simple extraction. "Now. Is there anyone else on this floor?"
"What—no, but—" She's backing away from me, shaking her head, hands up like she's trying to physically push back against my presence. "You can't be here. If they find you?—"
"They won't. We have five minutes before the security rotation changes. Grab whatever you can carry in thirty seconds or leave it." I'm already moving to the window, checking the sight lines, confirming the exit route I planned. "We go now or we don't go at all."
"I'm not going." The words are flat, final, and when I turn to look at her I see it written all over her face—the determination, the stubbornness, the particular kind of resolve that I recognize because I've seen it in the mirror. "I told you. I'm staying here. I'm?—"