In a dimly lit office tucked away in the back of a worn-down business park in Seattle, a man sat behind a heavy mahogany desk. The wood was old, carrying the faint scent of polish and time, a relic of better days. It stood in stark contrast to the mess strewn across its surface—crumpled papers, dog-eared photographs, a cheap ballpoint pen leaking ink onto a legal pad.
His head was bowed, light brown hair falling forward as he sifted through the wreckage of another broken marriage. Another husband caught in the act. Another wife left with nothing but proof and heartbreak.
His emerald eyes flickered with something sharp—anger, maybe, or just exhaustion. He had spent years chasing killers, standing over corpses in the dead of night, yet somehow, cheaters still managed to crawl under his skin.
“All those years in homicide,” he muttered, reaching for the half-empty bottle of Lagavulin in his desk drawer, “and this is what I end up doing.”
The amber liquid sloshed as he poured a measure into a chipped glass, the smoky burn settling in his chest like a familiar weight. The case was closed, another file ready to be handed off. And yet, something about it lingered.
He glanced at the clock. 9:00 p.m. Another late night. Another excuse to avoid the silence waiting for him at home.
With a slow exhale, he rubbed a hand over his face, the weight of the day pressing against his skull. What’s even left to go back to? A cold bed. A wife who barely looked at him anymore. A house that felt less like home and more like a holding cell, where every conversation was a carefully measured exchange—polite, distant, meaningless.
He swallowed the last of his drink, the burn doing nothing to chase away the unease twisting in his gut. With a sigh, he grabbed his coat and stepped out into the night.
The townhouse on Bermuda Street was dark when he pulled into the driveway. The rain had started, a slow, steady rhythm against the windshield, blurring the streetlights into hazy gold smears. He sat there for a moment, listening to the world breathe around him, before finally shutting off the engine.
Inside, the air was warm, carrying the lingering scent of red wine and something floral—Rachel’s perfume, familiar but fading. A single lamp cast long shadows over the couch where she sat, legs tucked under her, a glass of wine dangling from her fingers.
The nearly empty bottle on the table told him everything before she even spoke.
Rachel barely glanced up as he stepped inside, her fingers tracing slow, idle circles around the rim of her glass. Her dark hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands falling forward as she stared at nothing in particular. The glow from the lamp cast sharp angles across her face, making the tiredness in her eyes impossible to ignore.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Asher said, forcing a small smile as he shrugged off his coat. “How was your day? I missed you.”
Rachel exhaled, slow and measured, before taking another sip of wine. “It was fine. Delaney’s already in bed.” Her voice was calm, but there was something underneath it—something worn thin, fraying at the edges. Then, without looking at him, she added, “You’re late again. Hate being home that much?”
The words were a slap disguised as an afterthought.
Asher stiffened, his jaw tightening for half a second before he forced himself to breathe. “Just finishing up a case,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Caught the guy cheating. Embezzling money for his new mistress… real piece of human trash.”
Rachel let out a small, humorless laugh, tilting her glass in his direction. “What about the wife? You know there are always two sides to every story, right?”
Something about her tone made Asher’s stomach twist.
His response was sharper than he intended. “And what reason could he possibly have to justify lying, cheating, and tearing his family apart?”
For the first time, Rachel looked at him directly. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes—those tired, distant eyes—held something he didn’t want to see.
“Maybe…” she said quietly, setting her glass down with deliberate care. “Maybe she wasn’t fulfilling him. Maybe she didn’t provide the life she promised. There could be a lot of reasons, Asher.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
He studied her face, searching for meaning behind them, but Rachel had already turned away, reaching for the wine bottle to pour herself another drink.
A cold knot formed in his chest. Doubt—uninvited, unwelcome—slipped into his thoughts like a whisper he couldn’t shake.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said, though the words tasted bitter. He stood, forcing himself to move past it. “I’ll check on Delaney and shower for bed. Love you.”
Rachel hummed something under her breath, barely acknowledging him. Her attention was already elsewhere, her fingers tapping absently against her glass.
Asher lingered for a second longer, waiting for something—anything—but there was nothing left to say.
So he turned and walked away.
The hallway leading to Delaney’s room was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt almost sacred. Asher moved carefully, his steps soft against the hardwood, the weight in his chest easing—just a little—the closer he got.
The door was cracked open, a sliver of warm, golden light spilling into the hall. Inside, his daughter sat cross-legged on her bed, a book open in her lap, the glow of fairy lights casting soft shadows along the walls.
“Daddy!” she whispered excitedly, her face lighting up as soon as she saw him. “You’re home!”
A tired but genuine smile tugged at his lips. “I am. And someone is still awake past bedtime.”
Delaney giggled, her small hands clutching her book a little tighter. “I was just waiting for you. Can you read me a chapter? Just one?”
Asher sighed dramatically, crossing the room and sinking onto the edge of the bed. “Just one?” he echoed, feigning suspicion.
Delaney nodded eagerly, her dark curls bouncing with the motion.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, angel. Let’s see what the Starlight Prince is up to tonight.”
She beamed as he took the book from her hands, flipping to the marked page. The story was familiar—one he had read to her a dozen times before. A prince wandering the vast night sky, searching for a lost star, guided only by the faint glow of hope.
Delaney leaned against him as he read, her small hand resting lightly on his arm. The warmth of her touch, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way she hung onto every word—it was enough to quiet the noise in his head, if only for a little while.
By the time he reached the end of the chapter, her eyelids were already drooping.
“Sleepy?” he murmured.
She shook her head, but it was sluggish, the protest weak. “Not really.”
He smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Nice try. Get some sleep, angel.”
Delaney yawned, her hand curling around the edge of his sleeve. “I love you, Daddy.”
His chest tightened. “I love you too,” he whispered. “Always.”
She was asleep minutes later, her small form curled beneath the blankets. Asher lingered for a moment, just watching her, memorizing the peaceful rise and fall of her breath.
This. This was what mattered.
With a quiet exhale, he stood, brushing a hand over her hair one last time before slipping out of the room.
Asher eased Delaney’s door shut, exhaling softly. The warmth of her goodnight still lingered—her small hand in his, her sleepy "I love you, Daddy." It should have been enough to settle him. But as he stood in the dim hallway, the weight in his chest pressed heavier than before.
He walked back toward the living room, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself to shake off the tension. Rachel was still curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, glass of wine resting against her palm. The flickering light from the television painted shifting shadows across her face.
For a moment, he just watched her. The woman he had spent ten years beside. The mother of his child. The person who, not long ago, had been his best friend.
He stepped forward. "I’m heading up," he said, voice quieter than he meant it. "You coming?"
Rachel barely glanced at him, her thumb idly scrolling across her phone. “In a bit. I want to finish this episode.”
Asher hesitated. He could already feel her slipping away, but part of him still refused to let go. He moved closer, lowering himself onto the couch beside her.
“You sure?” His voice dropped slightly, a hint of something warmer beneath it. He reached out, fingers brushing against her thigh, slow and deliberate. "It’s been a while."
She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean in either. Her focus remained on her phone, her thumb still moving.
Asher swallowed. "Rach." His fingers traced a little higher, lingering. "Come to bed with me."
She sighed—not annoyed, not angry, just tired. "Ash… not tonight."
A sharp, quiet beat of silence stretched between them.
He forced a chuckle, trying to keep it light. "You used to like it when I kissed your neck like this." He leaned in, pressing his lips softly against the curve of her shoulder, breathing her in.
Rachel stiffened ever so slightly. Not much, but enough.
"Can we not do this right now?" she muttered, finally setting her phone down—but only to pick up her wine instead.
Asher sat back, the rejection settling in his stomach like a stone.
"Right," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "Guess I’ll see you upstairs."
She nodded absently, already turning back to the television.
Asher stood there a moment longer, watching her, waiting for something—anything—that might change the way this night felt.
Rachel never looked up.
He exhaled through his nose and turned away and headed off to bed, another night sleeping alone it seemed.
Hours Late Asher jolted awake, his breath ragged, body damp with sweat. His heart pounded against his ribs, the remnants of some half-remembered nightmare clinging to him like a phantom.
He blinked against the darkness, disoriented for a moment, before his eyes landed on the alarm clock. 3:10 a.m.
A slow exhale. He ran a hand down his face, wiping away the cold sheen on his skin. The sheets beside him were still smooth, undisturbed. Rachel hadn’t come to bed.
He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. The house was silent, but something felt off. An unease he couldn’t quite place gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, a weight pressing against his chest like a hand he couldn’t see.
Then, faint and distant, a glow flickered from downstairs.
His brows knit together. She’s still awake?
He swung his legs over the bed and stood, moving carefully as he stepped out into the hallway. The air felt colder out here, the hardwood cool beneath his feet. He descended the stairs slowly, avoiding the spots that creaked.
The living room came into view.
Rachel was still curled up on the couch, her bare legs stretched out beneath her, a blanket draped loosely over her lap. The oversized sweater she had been wearing earlier was gone. Now, she wore only a black thong, her bare skin illuminated by the soft blue glow of her phone.
Asher’s steps faltered.
She hadn’t noticed him. Her focus was elsewhere, her expression unreadable as she angled the phone slightly away, tilting it just enough to capture the curve of her exposed breasts.
Then—snap.
The quiet shutter sound sent a cold spike through his chest.
His breath hitched, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
A second later, her fingers glided across the screen, typing a message. Then, with a small flick of her thumb, she sent it.
Asher swallowed hard. Slowly, his own phone buzzed to life in his palm as he checked it, hope flickering for a fraction of a second.
Nothing.
No message. No picture.
His stomach twisted.
Because that photo hadn’t been for him.
A cold numbness settled into Asher’s chest, spreading like a slow poison.
He stood frozen in the shadows of the staircase, watching as Rachel stared at her phone, waiting. Seconds stretched into eternity. Then, a small smirk flickered across her lips—brief, but unmistakable. A quiet laugh under her breath, fingers tapping idly against the glass.
She was enjoying this.
His jaw tightened. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else. He should have confronted her—should have demanded answers right then and there. But as he stood there, fists clenched, something inside him cracked.
This wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a misunderstanding.
She wasn’t pulling away because she was tired, or distant, or stressed.
Rachel had already left him. She just hadn’t said the words yet.
Asher turned away, moving back up the stairs before she could notice him. He forced himself to keep his steps steady, forced himself to swallow down the bile rising in his throat. His hands shook as he pushed open the bedroom door.
The moment he was inside, he locked it.
His phone screen stared back at him—nothing.
The silence was deafening.
The air felt thick, suffocating, like he couldn’t get a full breath no matter how hard he tried. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
For the first time since the suspicions had taken root, he stopped making excuses.
He stopped hoping.
Asher threw himself into his work. He let the long nights drag into early mornings, let the constant cases fill the silence that followed him home. Anything to keep his mind from circling back to her.
But it wasn’t enough.
The truth had lodged itself deep, a parasite gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He could feel it festering, the weight of it poisoning every second he spent pretending nothing was wrong.
So he stopped pretending.
Late one evening, Rachel stood at the door, purse slung over her shoulder, adjusting her earrings in the hallway mirror. "Can you watch Delaney tonight?" she asked, her tone casual.
Asher glanced up from the report he wasn’t actually reading. "Where are you going?"
She shrugged. "Out. Just drinks with some friends."
Lies.
He could see it now—how easily it slipped from her lips, how effortlessly she avoided his gaze. The same way she had been avoiding it for months.
He smiled tightly. "Of course. Have fun."
She was out the door before he could change his mind.
Asher exhaled, the muscles in his jaw aching from how hard he’d been clenching his teeth. His hands tightened into fists before he forced them to relax.
He reached for his phone.
"Vicky, I need a favor."
Vicky Hayes, his former homicide partner, answered on the second ring. "That bad, huh?"
Asher exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yeah."
There was a pause, then the sound of movement—papers shuffling, the distant hum of a police scanner in the background. She was probably still at the precinct, working a case. She always worked late.
"Delaney?" she asked, her tone shifting slightly—softer, more careful.
"Can you watch her for a couple hours?"
A longer pause this time.
"Asher," she said slowly, her voice laced with something between concern and warning. "Tell me you’re not about to do something fucking stupid."
He ran a hand through his hair. "I just need to check on something."
Vicky scoffed. "Yeah, okay. And I just need to stop for one drink before heading home. We both know how that usually ends."
"Vick."
"Jesus, Ash." She sighed, the static crackling slightly as she adjusted her phone. "You know, most guys in your situation just get drunk and cry into a cheap beer. But no, not you. You get all quiet, and then you do shit. Stupid, impulsive, possibly illegal shit."
Asher’s grip on the phone tightened. "Are you going to help me or not?"
A beat of silence.
"Of course I’m going to help, dumbass," she muttered, like he should’ve known better than to ask. "But don’t make me regret it."
"Thanks, Vick."
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
"Yeah, yeah. Just… don’t go full homicide detective on this, alright? Whatever you’re thinking? Dial it back."
She didn’t wait for him to answer before hanging up.
Asher stared at his phone for a moment before tossing it onto the passenger seat.
He wasn’t dialing it back.
Not tonight.
The Sunset Inn was the kind of place people went when they didn’t want to be found.
The neon sign buzzed above the cracked parking lot, flickering between half-lit letters. A place that smelled like cigarette smoke, cheap liquor, and regret. A place that didn’t ask questions.
Asher sat in the driver’s seat, gripping his phone with white-knuckled fingers. The app was still open, the blinking red dot confirming what he already knew.
Rachel had been here for fifteen minutes now.
She wasn’t just stopping by. She was comfortable.
He had installed the app a couple days ago—just a cheap, almost-too-easy tracker hidden under the guise of a battery optimizer. It didn’t show texts, didn’t give him access to messages, but it didn’t need to. It bypassed the GPS toggle, running as a background process no matter what she did. Even if she turned her location services off, it didn’t matter.
Wherever she went, he knew.
He had tried not to check. He had tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, to hold onto some shred of self-respect.
But then tonight happened.
The moment she had walked out that door, he had opened the app. Just to see. Just to be sure.
It hadn’t taken long.
First, the drive downtown. Then, the long stretch on the highway, leading him here—to a motel on the outskirts of DuPont, far enough away to be unnoticed, close enough that she didn’t have to try too hard.
His pulse pounded in his ears as he stared at the screen, watching the red dot pulse against the map. Room 101.
It wasn’t even a suspicion anymore.
It was confirmation.
His stomach twisted, rage simmering beneath the surface, but his mind stayed cold. Focused. He hadn’t come here to guess.
He had come here to see it with his own eyes.
Rachel had made a choice.
And now, he was making his.
He killed the engine, stepped out into the rain, and started toward the door.
He didn’t hesitate.
The door to Room 101 stood in front of him, a chipped brass number barely hanging onto its surface. The rain dripped from the edge of the roof, pooling into dark patches on the pavement. The air smelled of damp concrete, cigarette smoke, and something stale—like sweat and desperation.
Asher stood there for a moment, jaw tight, rain soaking into his jacket. She was right on the other side. He could feel it. He could hear the faint, muffled hum of voices—not one, but two.
His fingers curled into fists.
Rachel had always been careful with her lies. Careful with her words. But this? This was sloppy. This was real.
His phone was still open in his hand. The app blinked steadily—15 minutes, now 16.
She wasn’t here to talk.
She wasn’t here by accident.
Something inside him cracked.
Asher lifted his foot and kicked the door in.
The cheap lock gave way instantly, the door slamming against the wall with a deafening crack.
Inside, Rachel gasped, scrambling backward off the bed.
She was half-dressed—her jeans unbuttoned, her bra straps loose on her shoulders.
The man beside her—a stranger, some asshole in his late 30s,—was still sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, wide-eyed, his hands frozen halfway to his belt buckle.
The whole room smelled like perfume and sweat.
The bastard blinked at him. "What the fuck—"
Asher hit him before he could finish.
The punch landed square against the man’s jaw, the impact sending him sprawling back against the nightstand. Glass shattered. A lamp toppled over. The guy groaned, dazed, but Asher didn’t stop.
Rachel screamed, grabbing at his arm. "Asher, stop!"
He shoved her off without looking. His focus was on the man—the stranger—clutching his face, struggling to push himself up.
"You need to leave," the guy slurred, blood trickling from his split lip.
Asher grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against the wall.
"You think this is funny?" His voice was low, steady—deadly. "You think I don’t know what’s been going on?"
Rachel was crying now. "Please, just—just let him go, Asher! You’re going to kill him!"
Asher didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.
Instead, he pulled the guy forward, then drove his fist into his stomach.
The air left the man in a choking wheeze. He crumpled, coughing, eyes wide with panic now. Not so smug anymore.
"Asher!" Rachel shoved him with both hands this time, forcing herself between them. Her hair was messy, her makeup smudged. "Please, stop!"
His chest was heaving, rage clawing at the inside of his ribs. He wanted to break something. To break him.
But Rachel was in front of him now, shielding the bastard, her face twisted in desperation.
And that’s when it hit him.
She wasn’t crying because she regretted it.
She was crying because she had been caught.
Because she thought he might go too far.
Because now, she had to deal with the consequences.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
"I’ve seen enough," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
Rachel reached for him again, her hands trembling. "Just let me explain—"
"No." He jerked away from her touch like it burned. "I don’t want your lies anymore."
She flinched like he had slapped her.
The rage in his chest turned cold.
Rachel’s sobs blurred into the background as Asher stepped back, shaking out his bruised fist, his breaths slow and controlled.
He turned without another word.
And he walked out into the rain.
He didn’t look back.
There was nothing left to see.
The rain had settled into a steady rhythm by the time Asher slid into the driver’s seat, the downpour blurring the streetlights into hazy smears of gold.
He barely noticed.
His knuckles ached. His jaw was tight, his breath slow and measured, but the rage was gone now—burned out, leaving only something hollow and leaden in its place.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened.
He could still hear Rachel’s voice, thick with tears, begging him to stop. Could still see the way she had thrown herself between him and that fucking bastard—not to protect Asher. To protect him.
The final insult.
His phone buzzed against the center console.
For half a second, he thought—hoped—it was her. That she would call, that she would try to explain, that she would give him something to hold onto.
But when he glanced at the screen, the name staring back at him wasn’t Rachel’s.
Vicky.
He let out a slow breath before answering.
"Asher," she said immediately, voice low, urgent. "Tell me you didn’t do something stupid."
He let his head fall back against the seat, staring at the ceiling. His pulse was still too loud in his ears. "Define stupid."
"Goddammit." There was rustling on the other end, like she was moving, pacing. "I knew it. I fucking knew it. Tell me you didn’t beat the shit out of some guy, Ash."
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Vicky sighed, exasperated but unsurprised. "Jesus, I should’ve known you wouldn’t just sit on this."
Asher ran a hand down his face, his fingers pressing hard into his eyes, trying to ground himself. "Did you put Delaney to bed?"
"Yeah," Vicky said, some of the fire in her voice softening. "She asked for you, though."
His chest tightened.
He swallowed. His voice was quieter this time, rough at the edges.
"Can you keep her for the night?"
A pause. Longer than before.
"...Ash," she said carefully. "Where are you going?"
"Nowhere," he lied. "Just need some air."
Vicky exhaled, but she didn’t push him. "Yeah. Of course. She’s safe here."
Safe.
He wished that word meant something anymore.
"Thanks, Vick."
"Don’t make me regret it," she muttered.
He ended the call before she could say anything else.
Then, without another word, he pulled out of the parking lot.
The whiskey burned as it went down, but not enough.
The dim glow of the bar lights blurred at the edges, neon reds and blues smearing against the walls. The low hum of voices, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter—it all sounded distant, muffled, like he was hearing it from underwater.
Asher rolled his glass between his fingers, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
One drink turned into two. Two into four.
By the time he pushed himself up from the barstool, the ache in his chest had dulled into something manageable. Not gone. But easier to ignore.
The bartender gave him a long look. "You good, man?"
Asher tossed a few crumpled bills onto the counter. "Yeah," he lied again. "I’m good."
He wasn’t.
But it didn’t matter anymore.
The boxes were stacked neatly by the door, each one labeled in Sharpie, the handwriting more precise than it needed to be. His entire life, packed up and ready to be left behind.
Rachel wasn’t here. She had taken Delaney out for ice cream, a gesture of goodwill—or, more likely, a way to avoid the inevitable. She hadn’t argued when he told her he was leaving. Hadn’t even tried.
That hurt more than anything.
Asher scanned the empty townhouse one last time, eyes lingering on the little things—the dent in the wall from when Delaney knocked over a lamp, the scuff marks by the stairs from his boots, the faint imprint of Rachel’s perfume still clinging to the fabric of the couch.
A life that no longer belonged to him.
He turned away and walked out the door, leaving the key behind.
The sun hung low in the sky as Asher pulled into the driveway, casting long shadows across the pavement.
It had been a week since he left.
Seven days of silence. Seven days of waking up in an empty apartment, staring at a ceiling that wasn’t his, wondering if Delaney had asked about him. If Rachel had even bothered to explain why he wasn’t there anymore.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t here for her.
It was Friday. His night with Delaney. The only part of his life that still made sense.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw before shutting off the engine. For a moment, he just sat there, listening to the rhythmic tapping of rain against the windshield, trying to shake the gnawing tension coiled in his gut.
Something about the house felt... wrong.
It wasn’t anything obvious. The blinds were drawn, the porch light flickered faintly, and Rachel’s car was parked in the same spot as always.
But still—wrong.
His eyes flicked to the upstairs window. Delaney’s room. It should have been glowing softly with the fairy lights she refused to sleep without.
Dark.
A cold prickle crawled up the back of his neck.
Rachel forgot.
That was it. She had been distracted, busy with work, or maybe just drinking wine and pretending he didn’t exist. She hadn’t noticed the time, hadn’t told Delaney that her dad was coming.
It wasn’t the first time.
Asher sighed and grabbed his phone, pulling up his last text. I’ll be there at 7. Sent four hours ago. No response.
His jaw clenched. Figures.
He stepped out of the car, the damp air heavy with the scent of rain and asphalt. His boots crunched against the driveway as he moved toward the front door.
He knocked once. Twice.
Waited.
No answer.
A flicker of irritation burned in his chest. She better not be pulling some shit.
Asher reached for the handle and pushed.
Unlocked.
He frowned. Rachel never left the door open.
A prickle of unease slid down his spine as he stepped inside.
The house was too quiet.
Even when Rachel ignored him, there was always something—the murmur of the TV, the hum of the dishwasher, the occasional clink of a wine glass being set down.
Tonight, there was nothing.
Then the smell hit him.
Coppery. Thick.
His stomach lurched.
Blood.
His entire body tensed, his muscles locking as the realization crashed over him.
No.
His hand hovered at his hip, instinctively reaching for a holster that wasn’t there. Not a cop anymore. No badge. No gun. Just a father standing in his ex-wife’s house, praying to a God he didn’t believe in that he was wrong.
“Rachel?” His voice came out low and sharp, slicing through the silence.
No answer.
His pulse thundered in his ears as he moved forward, every step slow, controlled. The hallway stretched ahead of him, longer than it had ever felt before.
The living room came into view.
And Asher’s world ended.
Rachel lay sprawled across the floor, her lifeless eyes wide and unseeing. A crimson halo soaked into the carpet beneath her. One hand rested near her stomach, fingers curled slightly, like she had been reaching for something.
Something small.
Delaney.
She was slumped against the couch, her tiny body limp, her favorite stuffed rabbit still clutched in her hands.
The breath left Asher’s lungs in a broken, choked sound.
His knees hit the floor before he realized he had moved.
“No, no, no—” His hands trembled as they touched her face, her small cheek too cold beneath his fingers. He pressed his forehead against hers, gasping for air, shaking so hard his bones ached.
This isn’t real.
This isn’t real.
A creak of wood snapped his head up.
A shadow shifted in the kitchen doorway.
He wasn’t alone.
A slow creak of wood.
Asher’s head snapped up, his body moving before his mind caught up. His breath was ragged, his muscles locked so tight it felt like his bones might snap.
Someone was here.
The air shifted, thick with something wrong, something heavy. A shadow lurked in the doorway to the kitchen—still, watching. Waiting.
Asher’s pulse hammered in his skull. His hand twitched toward his hip, but he had nothing—no weapon, no badge, no backup. Just his own two hands and a rage deeper than anything he had ever known.
A figure stepped forward, slow, deliberate. The dim light from the kitchen cut across him, revealing the glint of a knife still dripping red.
The man was tall, his frame lean but wiry, dressed in dark clothes that blended into the shadows. A ski mask obscured his face, but Asher could see his eyes—dark, wide, gleaming with something unnatural.
A shiver ran through him.
Not fear. Not yet.
But something primal, something deep in his gut whispering that he was looking at something beyond a simple killer.
The man crouched beside Rachel’s body, tilting his head, his gloved fingers brushing through her hair in a slow, almost tender motion.
“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?” His voice was low, rough, like sandpaper scraping against glass. He sighed, almost wistful. “I told her I’d make her mine.”
Asher’s breath stilled.
The man dragged the blade lightly along Rachel’s arm, as if she could still feel it.
Something inside Asher snapped.
“You son of a—”
The man’s head jerked toward him, that same eerie, unnerving smile curling beneath the mask.
“She didn’t love you,” he murmured, his voice taking on a strange, possessive venom. “You should’ve seen the way she looked at me. Like you never existed. Like you were the mistake.”
Asher’s body moved before his mind caught up.
He charged.
The impact sent them both crashing into the coffee table. The knife came up—too fast, too practiced—but Asher barely felt the sting as the blade sliced across his arm.
All he felt was rage.
He slammed the man’s wrist against the floor once, twice—the knife clattered away. Asher’s fists came down in a blind fury, knuckles cracking against the man’s face, over and over.
More.
Harder.
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
The man laughed.
Even as blood spattered across the floor, even as his mask split at the seam, he laughed.
Asher reared back, chest heaving, his fist trembling mid-swing.
The man coughed, spitting red onto the floor before looking up at him through bloodied teeth.
“She screamed for you, you know,” he whispered. His grin widened. “When I slit her throat.”
A raw, inhuman sound tore from his throat as he drove his fist into the man’s face. Bone crunched under his knuckles, blood splattering across the floor.
He hit him again.
And again.
And again.
The man’s body bucked beneath him, but Asher didn’t stop. His vision blurred with fury, his arms burning, his knuckles slick with blood. The mask split open, revealing a shattered, swollen face beneath it.
The bastard coughed, choking on blood, but he was still smiling.
“Asher,” he slurred, his words barely more than a gurgle. “You’re just like me.”
Asher grabbed him by the throat and squeezed.
The laughter died in a strangled gasp.
The man clawed at Asher’s arms, feet kicking weakly against the bloodstained carpet, but Asher’s grip only tightened. His hands trembled, but he pressed harder, fingers digging into flesh, crushing the life out of the monster beneath him.
He wanted him to feel it.
Wanted him to know.
The killer’s movements slowed. His eyes—**those dark, gleaming, inhuman eyes—**began to dull. His mouth gaped open, chest stuttering as the last breath rattled free.
And then, finally—nothing.
Asher let go.
The body slumped lifeless beneath him.
He staggered back, gasping, his hands coated in the bastard’s blood. His heart pounded against his ribs, but there was no victory in it. No relief.
Delaney was still gone.
Rachel was still gone.
The house was still silent.
His body felt heavy. So goddamn heavy. He could still hear Delaney’s laughter in the back of his mind, soft and bright, calling for him. Daddy, Daddy, look!
His hands shook.
It should’ve been him.
It should’ve been him.
Not them.
Never them.
Asher sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body trembling. The weight of it all—the grief, the rage, the unbearable silence—pressed down on him, crushing his ribs like a vice. His hands were slick with blood, his own and theirs.
His phone sat in his pocket, buzzing faintly. He barely felt it.
With slow, unsteady fingers, he pulled it out. The screen was cracked, smeared red, but the name was still clear.
Vicky.
Asher swallowed hard, then pressed accept.
“Asher,” she breathed, her voice urgent. Scared. “Jesus, where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling all night. I—”
A long pause.
Then, softer:
“…Ash?”
His throat was tight, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hey, Vick.”
Something in her shifted. “What’s wrong?”
Asher let out a shuddering breath, glancing around the ruined living room, the bloodstained floor, the lifeless bodies of the only two people who had ever mattered.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I just—” His voice broke, rough and raw. “I just wanted to say… thank you.”
A sharp inhale on the other end. “Ash, don’t—”
“You were always there. Even when I didn’t deserve it.” His grip tightened on the gun, pressing it harder against his chin. “You’re the best person I’ve ever known.”
“Asher, don’t you fucking do this.” She was panicking now, her breath coming fast. “I’m coming to you, do you hear me? Stay on the phone. Stay with me.”
He smiled faintly, though there was no warmth left in it.
“Take care of Delaney’s things for me.”
Her voice broke. “Asher—”
“I’m sorry.”
A sharp, breathless click.
He ended the call.
No hesitation.
No second thoughts.
He closed his eyes.
Pulled the trigger.
A deafening roar.
Blood sprayed across the wall.
Asher slumped forward, his body finally still.
For a moment, the house was silent.
Then the shadows in the corner shifted—dark tendrils curling like smoke, reaching for him.
Veylor
