Rose Pov
I woke up to the bed beside me empty. Cold. My heart skipped a beat. Asher wasn't there. I breathed in the faint scent left behind, a mix of his aftershave and something indefinably him, and a strange warmth spread through me but I didn't dwell on it. I stretched lazily, thinking I might still sneak a few more minutes sniff him in, when...
crash!
A sound from downstairs jolted me upright. Glass shattering, the thud of heavy objects, somebody was here. My pulse went into overdrive. I leapt off the bed, snagged Asher's oversized shirt from the floor, and pulled it over me. Not enough to cover fully, but enough to move. My gun was already in my hand; reflex, not thought. Every lesson my father drilled into me, every fight, every close call, came rushing back. I could take whoever this was down before they even realized what hit them.
I ran what of my room and down the hall ready to strike.
Footsteps echoed from the kitchen, low grunts and the sound of a jar being wrestled open. Then a grunt that made my stomach twist. Asher. My Asher.
I bolted toward the kitchen, gun raised, eyes sharp, ready to shoot the intruder—ready to kill anyone who dares to hurt him.
When I burst in I was stunned, he was shirtless, jeans hanging low on his hips, my eyes ran over his body hungry. It took all of my will power not to drag him back to bed. A low grunt interrupted my thoughts. I look at him and he was struggling with a stubborn jelly jar. What?
"What the fuck? Why are you—why the hell are you holding a gun?" His voice was part shock, part amusement, and I swear it felt like his eyes were literally saying you're crazy, not that I will deny it.
"I know your chaos and all, but baby, please… let's have breakfast in peace," he added, smirking as if the world could melt around us and it wouldn't matter. Baby I have never felt so happy in my life over a mere endearment but him saying it sounds like the most beautiful melody, ha! he can call me mad and I won't even be pissed.
I dropped the gun on the counter, heat rising in my cheeks. I snatched the jar from his hand and twisted it open with ease. "If you need help with jar cases, I'm always available, Mr. Detective," I mocked, but my heart was dancing like a drumbeat, with him it always is.
Before he could reply, I changed the subject. "What are you making?"
"I wanted pasta," he said, "but guess what?"
"What?" I asked.
"Somebody's fridge was emptier than a deserted island," he replied, "so we're sticking with toast." And with that, he shoved a piece of toast into my mouth and kissed my head softly. "Go shower," he murmured.
I smiled mischievously. "Wanna come?"
He grinned, eyes flashing. "Is that an invitation?"
I toyed with the hem of his shirt—the one I wore—biting my lip. "That is… if you catch me."
His eyes darkened in that dangerous way that made my stomach flip, his voice low and deadly-sweet, like he was the devil himself tempting me. "Run, Rose."
And I ran.
The halls of the mansion stretched endlessly before me. Each step echoed on the polished marble floors. The house was empty; I had sent all the workers away yesterday to reduce the risk of crossfire in case things went south. It was just us. A perfect playground.
I darted through corridors, past guest rooms, glancing at paintings and statues in passing. The ballroom rose above me, vast and echoing, chandeliers glinting in the morning sun. I ran across the polished floor, spun into the parlor, and veered into a smaller hallway, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
I slipped into a room that looked like another guest suite. The walls were lined with elegant cream wallpaper, soft lighting casting shadows across the room. At the front, a painting of a woman in red holding a wine glass and dancing through a field drew my attention. I knew it well. It was a painting I got from my father well to him I stole it. It was a painting of my mother Lily Salvatore. My fingers brushed against the glass frame and I pushed it little button behind the frame, the painting swung open like a door.
A secret passage, one my father had built secretly, known only to my mother, me, and the maid who cleaned it regularly. Perfect. Safe. I slipped inside.
The passage was narrow, lined with hidden shelves and hooks, the smell faintly of old wood and lavender. At the end, a mini safe room—more like a private bunker—waited. A small bed, shelves with books, a lantern glowing softly. I sank onto the bed, relief washing over me like a tide.
I pulled a book from the shelf and flipped it open. On the first page, written in red ink, a name: Salvatore. My father's name. A claim left behind, just like mine would be someday. My fingers traced the letters, savoring the ownership he had left in his world.
I immersed myself in the book, reading as though it were new, even though I'd read it a million times. Every line, every word, familiar and comforting. Then, a chill ran down my spine, cold like a bucket of ice. Danger. I knew it immediately.
My pulse didn't spike—fear had no place here—but instinct sharpened. Footsteps. A growl. And then darkness filled the passage.
I looked up, my heart hammering in a way I didn't want to hide. And there he was. His presence was a shadow, but somehow brighter than the sun. Eyes glowing faintly in the dim light, every inch of him danger and desire all at once.
His voice was low, dark, and commanding. "Found you."
A shiver of exhilaration ran through me. Relief, joy, obsession—all of it tangled together in a delicious knot. I had been hiding, running, teasing… and he had found me.
Madness is what people call this but I don't care.
A grin stretched across my face, heart pounding wildly. Never had I been happier, never had I felt such pure, thrilling anticipation. I knew what would come next. And I couldn't wait.