Asher
When I stumbled upon Cynthia passed out on a park bench, my first instinct had been panic. Was she hurt? What was wrong?
Yet her pulse beat strongly when I checked, and her breathing was deep and steady.
No, she wasn’t hurt. She was asleep.
Here, outside, in the open, where anyone could stumble upon her.
A possessive flare shot through me. She was too exposed here. Too trusting, too vulnerable. Others could see and take what wasn’t theirs.
Just as Joseph had done.
Approaching her, I touched her cheek with the intention of rousing her.
“Hey,” I said, gentle. “Cynthia.”
She hummed in her sleep, and leaned into the warmth of my hand.
How long had she been out here? Was she cold? Her skin did feel a bit chill.
How tired had she been to fall asleep here?
I didn’t know the answ
