The heavy wooden door of our private suite clicked shut, cutting off the distant, tense murmur of the security team downstairs. Ten minutes had passed since Marcus and the men had driven out of the villa gates, disappearing into the bright, late-morning traffic of San Francisco. The sun was streaming through the massive glass windows, casting long, warm golden boxes across the hardwood floor. It looked like a beautiful, normal Tuesday morning, but inside my chest, my heart was hammering a frantic rhythm.
Asher walked slowly toward the balcony doors, his large frame stiff and unyielding. He still hadn't gone to the medical wing to let the doctors check him properly. Thick white compression cotton wrapped his bare chest tightly, holding his broken ribs in place. Every breath he took was short and shallow, the muscles in his jaw clenching hard against the sharp pain.
