Shirley
Asher caught me just outside the bar, the night air thick with smoke from the bonfire Dante’s men had lit earlier. I had been trying to slip out unnoticed, keeping my head down, but there he was—leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting all along.
“Shirley,” he said, his voice tight, urgent. His eyes scanned the street behind me before meeting mine. “We need to talk.”
I stopped a few feet away, already wary. His tone was different tonight. No playful banter. No smug half-smile. Just… tension.
I crossed my arms. “We’ve already talked. Unless you’re finally ready to tell me the truth, Asher, I don’t have time for riddles.”
His jaw clenched. I saw the muscles twitch beneath his skin, saw the way his hand flexed like he wanted to grab my wrist, to hold me there. But he didn’
