Asher | Nocturna Nights ALT

The atmosphere in the Delta Iota Kappa house was tight enough to taste. Even the music downstairs couldn’t cut through it. Asher King sat rigid in an armchair, jaw clenched, whiskey glass caught between his fingers like it had personally offended him.

Rafe had been on his back for weeks—territory disputes, rival gangs, whispers of pushes into Viper turf. The Coil was heating up, and everyone expected Asher to handle it. Tension sat in his shoulders like iron.

He was one squeeze away from shattering the glass when two hands slapped down on his shoulders.

"Jesus Christ, King," Blaise drawled, leaning over him with a grin that never needed an excuse. "That Viper leader of yours has been riding your ass non-stop. You need to get laid."

Blaise Alden was an asshole—charismatic, cocky, and irritatingly correct more often than not. Asher had known him since orientation, long enough to recognize when Blaise was poking the bear on purpose.

Asher set the glass down on the side table before he actually broke it. "Easy for you to say, Blaise. How many girls have you been with this week?"

Blaise pretended to count on his fingers for a moment. Everyone in the room knew he wasn’t actually keeping track.

Before Asher could press him, a voice boomed through the house—loudest by sheer volume if nothing else. "We should all head down to Nocturna! They might let me on stage with my guitar this week!"

Asher didn’t have to turn to know who it was. Beck Wilder had enthusiasm and volume in equal measure, both of which were becoming health hazards.

"They won’t, Beck," Asher called back, unimpressed. "I’ve told you—stop trying. And besides, I don’t want to get laid."

Blaise rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. "Don’t want to get laid? The fuck is wrong with you? It’s spring break—this city’s crawling with good pussy."

Before Asher could answer, a calmer voice cut through the chaos—smooth, low, and laced with disinterest. "Ignore them, Ash. They’re idiots."

All three heads turned toward the sofa. Levi Dawson sat slouched there, book in hand, hoodie up, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose like the world’s most reluctant academic.

Three sets of eyes narrowed at once.

Asher squinted. "Are you... wearing reading glasses?"

Levi ripped them off instantly and tossed them across the room. "No. I barely even read."

Blaise shook his head, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Whatever. Come on. We’re all going out."

9:42pm - Nocturna Nightclub

They hadn’t even been in Nocturna for five minutes before the pattern repeated itself.

Asher, Levi, and Beck had claimed a booth in the back corner—dim lighting, deep cushions, and a clear line of sight to the bar. From there, they watched Blaise already at work. A girl stood beside him, laughing at something he’d said, cheeks flushed as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Blaise leaned in just enough to look interested, not enough to look invested. He made it look effortless.

Asher scoffed and gestured toward the scene. "How the fuck does he do that?"

Levi lifted a shoulder in a lazy, practiced shrug, joint between his fingers. Beck, however, was already leaning forward, eyes following the exchange with exaggerated fascination.

"No idea, man." Beck said. "I’m sure he couldn’t stick to one girl even if we bet him to."

Asher’s head snapped toward him. "What?"

Beck blinked. "I said—"

"No, I heard you." Asher cut in.

Levi’s expression shifted—thoughtful, calculating in that slow, quietly dangerous way he had when the weed didn’t dull the edges. "Not a terrible idea," he admitted. "But I’m not sure we should—"

Asher pushed up from the booth before Levi could finish. "That settles it. Leave it to me, boys."

Levi stared after him, unimpressed. "...be objectifying women like that," he muttered to himself as Asher crossed the room.

But before Asher could reach Blaise, he let his gaze wander for a second. Just a second. And that was all it took.

That’s when he saw her.

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She moved through the crowd like the music was built around her instead of the other way around. No posing. No trying. Just effortless rhythm, light spilling over her in shifting colors. For a moment, the noise of the club faded—just bass, breath, and the curl of something sharp in Asher’s chest.

Fuck.

The thought hit him before he could stop it. Before he could even pretend he wasn’t looking. Something in him clicked sideways, like a switch he didn’t remember installing.

Blaise forgotten, bet forgotten, conversation forgotten.

His course changed instinctively. Less decision than gravity. He moved through the crowd without announcing it, weaving between bodies and lights, pulled toward her with a focus that bordered on predatory.

He closed the distance without hesitation, slipping into her orbit like he’d been invited. The crowd moved around them but didn’t touch them, bass thudding through the floor and up through their bones. She was still dancing—unbothered, unaware... until he leaned in.

Warm breath against the shell of her ear, voice low enough to disappear into the music. "Hey, princess."

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They hadn’t stayed long, not long at all. Long enough to drink, to dance, to pretend they weren’t both dragging ghosts behind them. Long enough to decide forgetting was easier than thinking.

By the time they reached the frat house, the night was still clinging to their clothes, smoke, neon, bass that still pulsed under their skin. Asher pushed the front door open with one hand and guided her through with the other, not even bothering to check if anyone was inside.

He’d completely forgotten that he’d left his friends back at Nocturna. No texts, no explanations, no second thoughts.

But fuck—none of that mattered right now.

What mattered was that she was here. With him. Close enough to smell the sweetness of her perfume, close enough that his pulse hadn’t slowed since the club.

He locked the door behind them out of instinct, not manners, then glanced up the staircase, three flights, narrow hallway, no cameras, no questions. The top floor. His room. Private.

He placed a hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the stairs without pushing, just enough pressure to make intention clear. He didn’t need to speak, his silence did the work for him.

Every step up felt like shedding something, noise, tension, responsibility, Rafe’s warnings, the Vipers, the Coil, the weight of the city pressing against his spine.

By the time they reached the top landing, his shoulders had dropped, his jaw had unclenched, and for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t thinking about survival.

He hurried her into his room and shut the door with more force than intention, the sound thudding into the quiet of the top floor. Before she could even take in the space, he’d turned her and pressed her back against the wood, breath hot against her cheek as he closed the distance.

His hand slid to the back of her neck, tilting her head up, claiming the angle he wanted. Then his mouth was on hers. No hesitation, no courtesy, nothing soft. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t careful. It was hungry, raw, and entirely him, all sharp edges and need and the kind of tension that didn’t ask for permission because it already had it.

He pulled back just enough to breathe against her mouth, voice rough from restraint. "Legs around my waist." It wasn’t a question. And when she obeyed, his hands closed around her thighs, grip firm enough to leave the suggestion of fingerprints through fabric. Her weight settled against him easily, instinctively, like they’d done this before, or like they’d wanted to.

He pushed off from the door, carrying her across the room without losing momentum, boots thudding lightly against the rug as he crossed to the bed. His mouth brushed her jaw, her cheek, her pulse, never lingering long enough to be gentle, never moving fast enough to be careless.

He paused, just long enough to look at her, really look at her, like he was taking inventory of every detail he didn’t want to forget. Then his fingers hooked the hem of his shirt. In one swift motion, he dragged it up and over his head and sent it to the floor without a second thought.

They were stripped bare before the thought could form. He loomed over her, one hand anchored at her throat, his cock a demanding pressure between her thighs. Fuck. Had he even asked her name? Did she know his?

He shoved it aside. Names were for tomorrow. For now, there was only this—the need to fuck the relentless, pent up tension out of his bones, into her. She had followed him here. She had to know what this was.

He entered her in one swift motion. The hand at her throat tightened, a reflexive, anchoring press, as he stilled, consumed by the sensation of her wrapped around him. A ragged curse left his lips, more breath than word. Then he began to move, a deep, claiming rhythm that drove the breath from her lungs. When his lips crashed back onto hers, the kiss was all heat and shared breath, a raw counterpoint to the pounding rhythm that pinned her to the bed.

When it was over, he fell beside her into the sudden, ringing quiet. His breath sawed in and out of his chest, a harsh rhythm in the dark room. The night’s adrenaline was gone, leaving only the weight of his limbs and the cool shock of the sheets beneath him.

They crashed hard, faster than either of them expected. Exhaustion did the work that alcohol couldn’t. Asher, for his part, slept better than he had in weeks—deep, still, unbothered. No tension in his shoulders. No coil in his spine. Just sleep.

Until morning.

He woke to the soft click of the door handle turning. She was halfway out already, hair a little messy, shoes in hand, moving quietly—as if she’d done this before.

"Leaving already?" his voice was gravel-thick from sleep, smoke, and the previous night. "And here I thought we had something special."

The line came out lazy, almost amused. He wasn’t serious. They both knew what last night was.

Asher pushed himself upright against the headboard and reached for the crumpled pack of cigarettes on his nightstand. He tapped one out, caught it between his lips, and flicked the lighter. Flame hissed, then smoke coiled upward as he watched her over the rim of his lashes.