Asher POV
She asked what I was making. I told her the truth—pasta dreams crushed by an empty fridge. Toast it was. I shoved a piece into her mouth, kissed her head, told her to shower.
She smiled.
Then she challenged me.
"Wanna come?"
My grin came naturally. "Is that an invitation?"
She played with the hem of my shirt—the one she was wearing—eyes daring me. "That is… if you catch me."
Something dark woke up inside me.
"Run, Rose."
The house was too quiet.
Not peaceful—quiet the way a room goes silent right before a gunshot.
I knew the moment she ran that this wasn't just play. Rose didn't run without intention. Every step she took was calculated, every turn chosen for a reason. She wanted to be chased—but more than that, she wanted to know if I could find her.
That knowledge burned hotter than anything else.
I followed the echo of her bare feet across marble, my pulse syncing to the rhythm of the hunt. The mansion stretched endlessly, all sharp lines and open spaces, sunlight slicing through glass walls. It was modern, brutal, elegant. Like her. Like a weapon disguised as a home.
"Run, Rose," I murmured to the empty hallway, the words tasting like promise.
I moved fast but not reckless. I let her think she had time. Let her believe she was ahead of me. The chase wasn't about catching her quickly—it was about letting the tension coil so tight it hurt.
She darted past guest rooms. I caught the flutter of movement, the whisper of fabric, the scent of her trailing behind like a breadcrumb trail meant only for me. My instincts were locked in, every sense sharpened.
She wanted me feral.
I crossed the ballroom and slowed.
The air shifted there. Changed.
This was where she'd chosen to pass through. The ceilings soared high, chandeliers throwing fractured light across the polished floor. It was a room made for spectacle—for declarations, for bloodless wars disguised as celebrations.
I smiled to myself.
Of course she would run through here.
I followed her into the parlor, then down a narrower hallway. Her footsteps vanished.
That's when I noticed it.
The room at the end. The painting.
A woman in red. Wine glass lifted. Dancing like the world hadn't already burned around her.
I stopped.
Something in my chest went still.
Hidden spaces leave scars on people. I'd learned that early. You don't build secret rooms unless you expect to need them. You don't hide unless you grow up knowing nowhere is truly safe.
I stepped closer.
The frame wasn't flush. The wall around it bore faint marks—wear that didn't belong to a decorative piece. My fingers brushed the edge.
Click.
The painting swung inward.
A passage opened like a held breath finally released.
"Well," I murmured, equal parts impressed and undone, "there you are."
The passage was narrow, private. Old wood beneath newer stone. Lavender lingered in the air—faint, deliberate. Her scent layered over it, warm and alive.
I descended slowly.
This wasn't a breach. It was an invitation.
The space opened into a bunker—compact, deliberate, personal. A bed. Shelves. Books worn soft with rereading. A lantern casting low light like a confession whispered in the dark.
And there she was.
Sitting on the bed like she'd been waiting.
Rose Varela looked up at me with eyes too bright, too eager, too alive for someone pretending she hadn't wanted this exact moment. Her pulse was visible in her throat. Her lips curved—not in fear.
In delight.
Something inside me snapped into place.
This was it. This was the point of no return.
The door shut softly behind me.
She felt it.
I watched the realization ripple through her—how the room shrank, how the air thickened. How the game ended and something far more dangerous began.
"You're good," I said quietly, my voice lower than it had any right to be. "You almost lost me."
She smiled wider.
Almost.
I stepped closer, slow and deliberate, letting her feel every inch of distance closing. Letting the weight of my presence press into her senses. Her breathing changed. I noticed everything—the way her fingers curled into the sheets, the way her spine straightened like she was bracing for impact.
I stopped just out of reach.
Control.
This wasn't about taking.
It was about choosing not to.
"Did you think I wouldn't find you?" I asked.
Her eyes gleamed. "I hoped you would."
That did it.
The relief hit me first—sharp, overwhelming. Finding her safe, alive, exactly where she wanted to be. Then the hunger followed. The possessive, violent need to anchor her to me so deeply she'd never question where she belonged.
And then the fear.
Because this—she—was already my weakness.
I reached out, not touching her, just enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin.
"Do you know what you do to me?" I asked, softer now. Honest.
Her breath stuttered.
"I wake up every day expecting to lose you," I continued. "And every time I don't, I feel like I stole something from fate."
I finally touched her—fingers under her chin, tilting her face up until she had no choice but to look at me.
"I don't chase things I don't intend to keep," I said. "And I don't find what I plan to let go."
Her pulse jumped under my thumb.
She didn't look scared.
She looked claimed.
"I love that you run," I admitted. "I love that you hide. Because it means you trust me to come after you."
I leaned in, forehead resting against hers. Our breaths mingled. The world narrowed to this space, this heat, this impossible gravity between us.
"But hear me, Rose," I murmured. "If you ever run because you're afraid—if you ever hide from me—I'll tear this world apart to get you back."
Her hands rose, gripping my arms—not pushing away.
Anchoring.
That was my undoing.
I kissed her then—but not hungry. Not rushed. A slow, devastating kiss meant to seal something ancient and irreversible. A promise more than a desire.
When I pulled back, my voice was rough.
"You're safe," I told her. "You're found."
She smiled like the darkness itself had whispered her name.
And as the lantern flickered, the world beyond the bunker ceased to exist.
I didn't need light to know what came next.
I only needed her.