CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE #3
“No. You decided it was a goddamn violation!” I lunge toward him, clamping on to his collar rough enough to drag him forward. “What if they find her, Ty? Rape her? Sell her? Kill her? What about those fucking violations?”
His eyes brim with anxiety, and I don’t even care how close to home that hits. All the more reason he should’ve supported the idea instead of fighting me on it. But too caught up in Ivy’s feelings, I heeded his warning that she’d hate me for it .
Fucking pussy.
“I was trying to protect her sense of autonomy and your relationship. She wouldn’t have forgiven you for that,” he snipes as I release his shirt.
“Fuck that!” I spit, pacing. “She’d be hating me in the safety of my arms right now.
That I could live with.” I guzzle my drink with a kick to the bar cabinet.
The miniature door flies off the hinges.
The screech and the burn of the scotch are mildly satisfying.
I’d like to rip every inch of this plane to shreds.
“You’re three sheets, Chief.” Liam snickers. “Take a nap.”
Maybe I’ll tear him to shreds. I pour another glass—not bothering with ice—analyzing the man who’s been a brother to me for nearly a decade. A lifetime in our case.
“Celeste was right.” I swirl the amber liquid with a festering venom. “Everything you said to Ivy was true. That’s why it had to be you.”
His eyebrows dart up, but instead of disputing my allegation, he stares at me.
My voice is drenched in serene ire as I drop into my seat. “Say it, Graves. I deserve to know what the hell I’m dealing with.”
“You’re not dealing with anything. Ivy and I are cool. End of story.” He swigs his beer, eyes boring into mine.
“Coward,” I bark.
He lurches out of his chair, landing a foot from mine. “What do you want me to say? Huh, Chief? Want me to tell you I wish she were mine? That I love the feel of her in my arms, the sound of her musical laugh, the smell of her raspberry hair?”
I rise, meeting him eye to eye for the spearing truth that will impale me.
“That I’ve thought and dreamed about—”
“Don’t you fucking dare!” I warn, poking him in the sternum, left of his wound.
At the same time, Gage hisses, “Fucking hell, Liam,” and Ty throws his head back with a, “Fuck, man. ”
The four of us square off while soaring over the Atlantic.
Liam scrubs a hand over his face, scratching at the scruff.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t love her like you do, like you always have.
Not enough. And she doesn’t want me to. It was always you.
It’s why I stepped aside. She deserves you.
There were moments, opportunities. Chemistry.
” I growl at the thought, but he ignores me, casting a hand through the air.
“But if you were in the room, her eyes were glued. Like she told me at the park, she couldn’t look away. Still can’t.”
He sighs, stumbling backward to his chair, nearly as intoxicated as me.
“I love you both. That’s why I took a bullet before I ever got shot.
I didn’t want to do it.” His explanation becomes thick with emotion.
“Honestly, I thought she’d never speak to me again, which would’ve killed me anyway, but then—”
“Yeah,” I acknowledge. She chose him too—a monumental gesture in Liam’s world. “That’s my Little Storm. Fierce.” I swallow my contempt. The brutality of his loss is enough. “Especially for us.”
After sleeping off my drunken misery, I’m able to contact Suzanna.
Ivy does have a recent painting. She agreesto text me a picture until I can pick it up.
I have a storage room full of Ivy’s art.
Some used to hang in the house—my bedroom, above the fireplace, in the hallway.
I kept them hidden until Tom called me out on my obsession with his daughter.
That conversation freed me to display them, which he found hilarious.
No one but Tom knew whose they were. It was something tangible of hers, something I could keep.
Until she moved in. The trade-off was well worth it.
My phone vibrates in my hand, but it isn’t Suzanna. It’s also not a call I’m thrilled to field. I answer after a cleansing breath. “Hello, Natasha.”
“Where the hell is she, Gavin?”
“How did you know she was gone?” I ask, hoping Ivy dropped a breadcrumb with her mother .
“She left me a note.” Her voice quivers.
“Read it to me,” I demand, and to my surprise, she doesn’t argue or snarl.
“Dear Mom. You gave me twenty-three beautiful years of love and freedom. I won’t forget that. Even now. Ivanna.” She sighs. “She hasn’t spoken to me since she got released, and now … this is a goodbye. Where is she?”
“I’m working on it. We—”
“You’re working on it?” she sneers. “You promised she’d be safe. Tom told me to trust you, and in spite of all my reservations, I went along with this preposterous ruse because I trusted his judgment, and, in turn, yours. But so help me, if something happens—”
“We have strong leads,” I assure her. “I’ll get to her.”
Silence crackles through the line until she clears her throat. “Tom left me a letter to give her if things went sideways. I planted it, nervous she wouldn’t take it from me. I assumed it would make things better. He’s always known how to, but …”
It’s not surprising he’d offer her a contingency plan, but I’m disappointed I don’t know the finer details. “Any idea of what was in it?”
“No,” she says. “His instructions said it contained everything she needed to understand and act .”
Not giving Natasha the details was for her own protection. It sounds like he presented Ivy with an escape route. And she took it.
I pour myself three fingers of scotch, just enough to take the rapidly building edge off. “Thanks. That helps.”
“How much danger is she in?”
Too much. “Natasha, your daughter’s life means more to me than my own. I won’t stop until we find her and bring her home.”
“She thinks I betrayed her.” She sniffs—a mannerism attesting to the fucking mess she is. Natasha Kingston doesn’t broadcast emotions.
“I’ll fix it,” I vow. “I’ll be in touch.”
Natasha has been as much of a victim as anyone in all of this. Tom left her a letter with his living will, explaining most high-level details. She knew Ivanna had come to them through a delicate situation, but after her pregnancy losses, all she cared about was keeping the baby in her arms.
In his letter, Tom told her, when the time was right, I’d reach out to take Ivy, which was exactly what I did.
The surprise I wasn’t prepared for was his emergency plan—the letter instructed Natasha to threaten Ivy’s inheritance with a marriage requirement should an urgent need for extraction occur.
He knew that would set her off and send her running into my arms, provided I positioned myself in precisely the right place to catch her.
Natasha shared the plan with me the same day I arranged Celeste’s excursion.
It was a pat on the back from Tom—a reminder he believed in me, trusted me with his most cherished treasure.
At the time, only Ty recognized my infatuation with Ivy.
That was why I took him with me for our first run-in, although her suggesting marriage so flippantly was a shock to us both.
Tom knew his daughter brilliantly, and Natasha never wavered in her trust of his plan, although she was pissy with me.
All things considered, I didn’t take offense.
She did her part to send Ivy my way, and I put the decoy in place at the hospital, giving us a fixed point to monitor for her hunters.
We had armed guards on the room at all times, doctors from The Order who accepted there was a hit on Tom’s daughter and helped, and the decoy was a trained marksman herself.
It was never supposed to be used for the trial, but when KORT laid out the plan, I breathed a sigh of relief because Ivy would be in our sights.
Safe. And Natasha, happy to have her daughter back, willingly played her part even though it meant deceiving Ivy.
We both prioritized her safety.
I expected Ivy to rage, wanted her to so KORT could witness her brilliance. There was no doubt she’d work tirelessly to uncover the truth—exactly what they were looking for—but even I’m astonished by the prowess she used to send us on a wild goose chase.
They linked our trials together, essentially pitting us against each other as punishment for our marriage—me erasing us and her uncovering us. I’m not aggrieved in the slightest that my wife came out on top. I’m enraged that my grief over her anguish allowed me to miss her schemes.
We’ve always kept emotions out of our jobs, certain it could alter focus and compromise safety. Wisdom. Loving Ivy is the very reason she slipped out of our clutches.
Seconds after I end the call with Natasha, Suzanna’s text pings with Ivy’s painting. My heart stills as I study her depiction of the four of us, capturing unique characteristics of each. So talented. Our smiles are more imperious than necessary, but that’s my perceptive girl.
Glancing at her clue again, I catch the vital words.
Look to the one who’s missing to clear the path.
Liam. She thinks Liam died. As my eyes scan over him, his belt floats out of the picture—or rather, what’s on it.
A goddamn ruby.
How the fuck did she get that?
I weave my fingers through my hair, a tremble rumbling in my chest as I whip my glass, the shards shattering, scotch spraying. “Jesus! Fuck!”
Three sets of alarmed eyes search mine.
“She’s got the ruby necklace,” I explain. “And I’d say she knows it’s registered.”
What she might not know is that she won’t only be leading us to her. That necklace is like a bat signal for her hunters.