Page 68 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
He catches my wrist when I move to do it again. “Hey! What was that for?” He’s frowning at me, a look of sheer bewilderment in his blue eyes.
“Are you wearing a bulletproof vest?!” I gesture to my cocktail dress. “What about me? What if that bullet had hit me?”
I move to slap him again with my free hand, but he takes both of my wrists and uses them to pull me back against him. I’m still straddling his waist, pressed into his body, so I can’t see his face. He’s shaking, which causes me to frown.
Wary, I wrap my arms tightly around him. I don’t want him to cry. Is he thinking about what would happen if I was the one that got hit? It’s unexpected but not unwelcome to learn I mean so much to him.
Then, I realize he’s not crying.
He’s laughing.
It’s a deep rumble, and in between breaths, he says, “What you’re wearing is bulletproof.” His laughter subsides, but he’s still holding onto me. “It’s sewed into the corset and skirt of your dress. It’s the same fabric the lining of my suit and button down are made of.” And then he laughs again. “And you wouldn’t have gotten shot either way. I was moving to shield you when you went all Inspector Clouseau on me and knocked me over.”
I feel a shadow over us and turn to find Xavier, who’s now hovering above us. He has a quizzical eyebrow cocked at our position. I’m still on Asher’s lap, and we’re still hugging each other.
I try to move, but he tightens his hold on me. I can’t help but let him, allowing his presence to calm me. To make me feel safe again, because at this point, no one else but him can.
It all makes sense now.
Asher has been protecting me from the start. He didn’t let me out of the penthouse until Tommy was done with my clothes. My bulletproof clothes. It wasn’t because I wasn’t dressed nicely. It was because I wasn’t dressed safely.
I swoon a little.
He wants me safe.
He jumped in front of a bullet for me.
How can I not be affected by that?
I’m only human.
I know it’s intimate, but I’m interested to know. It’s a burning curiosity and the remaining adrenaline rush that gives me the nerve to run my hands down Asher’s chest. I examine his suit thoroughly, feeling the smooth fabric beneath my fingers. I think it’s identical to the fabric of the slip lining my dress.
“How is this possible?” I ask.
“We manufacture bulletproof fabric at one of our R & D labs. I give some swatches to Tommy to make our clothes.”
“Wow. I didn’t know that bulletproof clothes exist.”
“It’s been out for at least a decade now. President Obama wore a bulletproof suit to his first inauguration in 2009.”
I don’t reply. I’m still in his arms, hugging him. I’m trying to remain as invisible as possible, because I’m not ready for him to let go. Getting shot at is surreal, and I’m still unsettled. Asher rubs my arms, fighting away the goosebumps caused by fear and replacing them with goosebumps caused by our proximity.
“What do you have?” Asher asks Xavier.
Meanwhile, I’m still clinging to him like a koala bear.
“The two perps have been tied up.”
I look past Asher and see the two guys on the ground, tied together. There’s a bit of blood on the sidewalk beside them, and one of them is slouched dangerously low. Asher’s personal bodyguard is hovering above them, leaning against their bike, which has been pulled onto the sidewalk opposite of ours.
“What do you know about them?” Asher’s arms are still around my waist.
I inch even closer, resting my chin on his shoulder, and he tightens his grip. I don’t know if he knows he’s doing this, because this position, sitting on his lap, feels so natural. Too natural.
“They have no IDs on them. I don’t think they’re mafia.” Xavier’s voice sounds concerned. “Maybe corporate?”
I want to scoff, because really? What corporation hires a hit on someone?
