The Master Suite of the Reed estate usually smelled of expensive cologne and power. Tonight, it smelled of iron and antiseptic. The lights were dimmed, casting long, skeletal shadows across the king-sized bed where Asher lay propped up against the headboard.
He looked human for once. His shirt was off, discarded on the floor like a blood-stained rag, revealing the jagged tear in his side. But even wounded, his eyes were predatory, never leaving my face as I prepped the suture kit.
"You're shaking, Chloe," he rasped. His voice was a low vibration that seemed to rattle the instruments in my tray.
"I'm not shaking, Asher. I'm calculating," I lied. I sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. I didn't fight him. I didn't pull away when his hand moved, heavy and hot, to rest on my thigh. I remained unnervingly calm. The kind of calm that comes after the storm has already destroyed everything you owned.
