CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE #2
Ivy shrugs, lips curling into a contemplative frown. “So, we won’t put it anywhere deep. Just below the skin, somewhere like behind our ears, so if we had to, we could easily cut it out.”
She’s flipped sides, it seems, now a staunch advocate—a genius one, of course. Whichever way her wind blows is the winning argument.
The Little Storm has already won this battle, and Gage knows it. He’s simply too prideful to concede. But the faster he does, the easier it will be to win the war of protecting her. What we all want.
He hedges, so Ivy leans forward, elbows braced on her knees, fingers clasped, eyes on the Big Guy.
“I’ll bake you whatever you want for a full month. No limit on requests, although I do have some new recipes stored up here.” She taps her index finger on her temple.
“Every day? Anything I want?” His intrigue is comical. She’s not gifting him anything. She’s been baking up a storm in the wee hours of the night since Tom died, but this is for him , I guess .
“Yep,” she says. “Any pastry, pie, cookie, or cake you can dream up. I’ll give it a go.”
And just like that, his face softens into the putty her sweets-offering molded.
He raises his glass in agreement, so Liam decks him in the shoulder, barking, “Now, who’s the fucking pussy? You sold your anonymity for goddamn pastries!”
Gage guzzles the last of his bourbon. “Doesn’t make me a pussy. It makes me shrewd. I’m the only one here who got something in return, dipshit. You gave it up for nothing.”
We all know that’s not true. We caved for Ivy—her peace of mind and the consent to shroud her in an extra provision of protection—which is the opposite of nothing. But we’ll let the Big Guy have his win.
There’s a crackling tension in the truck, like the static crinkling the air before a strike of lightning. It’s all so palpable that none of us speak.
It isn’t due to the tracking issue. The doctor stopped by before we left, and in fifteen minutes, we were all linked to one another.
But the rest of our meeting was fruitless.
Ivy and I are at a crossroads over this execution nonsense.
I’m irate KORT laid this on her. It isn’t the privilege they see it as—not for her.
It’s a shackling. She hesitantly revealed that she believes they want to see her in action as further proof of her competency.
I assured her I can work around that, but it didn’t matter.
She refuses to share her plans. Unacceptable. The guys backed me up, which pissed her off more, so all of us are quietly seething, releasing jagged breaths to the cadence of the windshield wipers scattering the freezing rain.
Ivy’s been bestowed the honor of killing, in any manner she chooses, the women responsible for hunting her, women who masterminded years of terror.
My team and I may have thwarted them, but they robbed her of freedom all the same—freedom she’ll never have.
And most recently, they nearly stole her life, which makes this my prize too. Maybe even more so.
They tried to take my wife from me.
My fingers cramp at the thought, molars grinding the enamel off.
This woman is my everything, my existence—the reason for every breath I take.
My Little Storm.
Mine.
Personally, I want to see them suffer through a gory and excruciating disembowelment, but even staring down the barrel of my pistol while they sniveled and pissed themselves would be satisfying.
As long as I’m doing it. Ivy is built for many things, stronger than most, but it’s her benevolence, her humanity, that makes her so much better than the rest of us.
For the virtuous, every kill chips away at their essence.
She’s a little like Ty in that way. It’s why he prefers the position of sniper—so he can remove himself.
Disassociate. He isn’t weak. In fact, his ability to analyze all the angles from his perch in the sky is much like how he handles his fragile abuse victims. Scrupulous.
Never overlooking a scar. But that meticulous nature can be a detriment when ripping out someone’s tongue.
Sometimes, it has him tunneling rabbit holes—wondering who first wronged the asshole before him.
That viewpoint is rooted in his own inner war.
He told me once that he had been one decision away from becoming a monster after his mom and sisters were murdered. He could either burn the fucking world, breathing the tormenting fire eating him from the inside on anyone in his path, or join the Navy and let his kills mean something.
Freedom for others.
There have been times when we had to torture some scumbag to obtain life-saving information, that I’ve witnessed Ty wrestling—tamping down the demon who so wants to gain purchase over the compassion he fights to preserve.
Every close encounter inflames his inner beast, so I try to keep him in roles that encourage his gentler side to shine.
Ivy has a similar inner battle. I won’t allow her to make choices that will permit her demons to procure a part of her soul.
Me, on the other hand? I’ll stare those bitches in the eye and lodge a bullet in their brains without a second thought for what they did to my wife.
And I’ll sleep all the better because of it.
No one will ever look at my girl cross-eyed and live to tell the tale.
Maybe that makes me soulless. Maybe that makes me a villain in her story instead of a hero. I can live with that.
A hero sacrifices for the greater good, saving the world before the girl.
But the villain? That woman he craves, who lights up the sinful, blood-lusting, Hell-damned embers of his fractured soul—he’ll sprinkle the forests and mountains and fields with gasoline, strike a thousand matches, and dance with her amid the flames.
That’s why Ivy is perfect for me. She’s not afraid of fires.
She sets her own.
But I’ll gladly burn in Hell before I let my stormy angel become a devil too.
Gage and I went round and round with her over it, but she insisted she had her own idea, one she wasn’t sharing. After two hours of fucking the brat out of her, she had the audacity to stick with that answer.
My dick was so sated that I’d lost my edge by then, which is precisely when I realized that the Little Storm had played me.
Again.
When we load onto our plane, bound for the induction ceremony in Chicago, Ivy yanks my tie and hauls me into the bedroom. I quirk my eyebrow, curious if the tension in the truck convinced her to share her plans, but my cock twitches in the hopes she’ll play me once more.
She hangs her purse on the bathroom door hook and turns back to me, her face twisting as though she’s nervous.
But then she smiles, biting her lip in that impish way that unhinges me.
As she sits on the bed, she smooths out her royal-blue dress—a seamless mannerism, full of her natural elegance.
She’s still my obsession, still the vision I can’t peel my eyes from.
“You like it when I’m submissive,” she says, her gaze luring me toward her.
The color of her dress casts her eyes in this enchanting glow, a piercing cobalt.
“And I love being that for you. It’s oddly liberating.
All those weeks without you—clicking the pieces together, clawing my way through the fog—made me realize how capable I am.
That was empowering, to be steps ahead of you—the best erasers and identity miners in the world—to coax you to chase me.
But you know what I wanted more than that? ”
“What?” I ask in a low rasp that has her chest heaving, a tantalizing peek of cleavage teasing me as I tower over her.
“For you to hold it all, to be in charge.” A puff of air falls from her lips as her focus drops to her shoes—or mine right before them.
“I may be about to seize a powerful position, but you are the only destination where I don’t have to feel on , Wells.
With you, I’m free. Everywhere else is like a shadowy prison, especially now. ”
My chest tightens with both pride and concern at that confession. I cradle her chin in my palm, lifting her misty eyes to mine. “Do you want to postpone? I’ll tell them we’re not ready.”
“No.” Her dark, fanning lashes flutter with a subtle headshake. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
She rises off the bed, strokes her fingers over my lapels, and walks away.
Pacing. Until she turns on her heel so gracefully that it’s like she’s floating.
“I can’t relinquish the execution to you.
I know you want to handle it, to take it from me, slaughter them.
Gage outlined some terrifyingly graphic methods for consideration.
I get it. It’s a tangible way to save me, and I love you for it.
But I need to do this my way. For myself … and for my father.”
She says father so tentatively, as though it transports her to another place. There’s something more behind it, but I don’t want to push her when I can sense the fragility .
I already thought I’d lost this battle. Rankling her two hours before the ceremony isn’t worth it. “Okay.”
Relief washes over her petite frame, her shoulders dropping, head lolling back a bit. “I bought something for us.” Her eyebrows waggle with a coyness that has my balls tightening. “Remember that battle we had over you guarding me, when I said you should buy me a leash?”
Fuck me. Where the hell is she going with this?
“At La Lune Noire,” I confirm, shoving my hands in my pockets in an effort to mask my feverish titillation.
“Right.” She struts back toward me, the alluring sashay of her hips making me salivate. The oval mirror hanging above the bed supplies a glorious backside view. “You said that was exactly what I wanted—to be on your leash.”
My head bobs as I attempt to mask my enthusiasm regarding this topic and remain composed. “I remember.”
It’s one of my favorite memories with her, before we became us, because I could tell she felt the same intense, magnetic pull for me that I’d been a slave to for years. And the notion of a fucking collar kept my hand sheathed around my dick several times a day until I finally thrust inside her.
“You were right.” She pins me with an impassioned gaze, heat rocketing up my spine.
Goddamn. My wife’s got me panting like an eager teenage boy without laying a finger on me.
“I don’t know about you,” she continues, voice a sultry warble, “but all I could envision after that was a collar matching my ring.”
Jesus Christ. I should throw her down and fuck her until she feels me in her throat, but I can’t bear to break this enrapturing spell. I have to see where she’s headed.
I hum, hands still stowed in my pockets while rocking on my heels. “Is that so?”
“Mmhmm,” she muses, rounding me before unhooking her purse and sauntering into the bathroom. “It was weird,” she calls out, “the hold it had on me. The image of … I mean, I’ve read about collars in books. Never a leash, but …”
“Ivanna,” I growl, cock full-mast and patience nonexistent.
She spins, looming in the doorway, a diamond-and-sapphire-studded collar adorning her delicate neck. “Do you like it?”
“Jesus, fuck, Little Storm.” I scratch my chin, fully entranced by the way her dainty throat bobs below the gems. “So gorgeous,” I murmur before I regain myself and plant my prowling ogle on her face. “I need to fuck you— now —before we land.”
She laughs, a sexy, under-the-breath simper tugging at her luscious rose-painted lips, which should already be wrapped around my cock. “That’s the plan.”
She shimmies past me toward the bed, whirling around with a flare of her gown, and holds up a finger.
“But there’s one thing I need, Chief.” Her hand rises to the jeweled collar as a haze coasts over her features.
“I’m hoping it will help me stay present.
Sometimes, textures ground me.” Those blue beauties snap up to me, imploring.
“And it’s a link to you, so that might …
I don’t know if you’ve noticed because I’m not sure if it’s worse or not, but I’ve been slipping away.
” Her lower lip quivers. “KORT, they’ll see it as a weakness, so if I start to … ”
Fuck, baby.
I rush toward her, snaking my arm around her waist and cupping her chin even though her focus is somewhere beyond me.
“I’ve got you. Look at me, Ivanna.” I wait until she obeys with a timid bat of her lashes.
“I’ve always got you. But nothing about you is weak.
Those men were blown away by your genius, so there’s nothing to prove.
You’ve been through so much. We just buried your father, Ives. Cut yourself a break.”
“I don’t need a break,” she whispers. “I need you. To feel the weight of this around my neck tonight and know that even when you’re across the room, you’re holding me. You’ll carry me through—”
I press my mouth to hers, tender nips at her bottom lip, unhurried, savoring.
When I tilt my head to deepen it, she opens for me, her inviting whimper licking into me with the velvety stroke of her tongue against mine.
It’s wholly dissimilar from our typical frantic passion.
This is a promise. A promise I’ve made before, but one I’ll continue to make until my dying breath. She’ll always come first.
She severs our connection, her fingers skimming her swollen lips, like the first time we kissed at our wedding.
“I also have a leash, for good measure.” Her eyes crinkle with a mischievous smile as she opens her fist, revealing a balled-up leash.
“Fuck me, Chief. I need your cum leaking out of me—a reminder of who owns me.”
Fuck slow and gentle. “A goddamn fantasy.” I flip her around, soaking in her shocked squeals.
“My perfect pet.” Unzip her dress and ruck it, her bra, and panties down her body in a single desperate sweep.
“My filthy slut. My good girl.” Flatten her perky tits to the bed.
And grit out, “My motherfucking queen. Mine.”
She glances over her shoulder. “Yours, Wells. Make me yours.”
Heeding her pleas, I glide into her pretty, wet cunt with a fervor.
I clip the leash onto the studded collar beneath her hair—it’s more of a visual than anything else—and piston my hips, one hand tugging her possessively, the other swirling and smacking her clit in rhythm.
She moans, crying for me to pump harder as our eyes lock in the mirror, entranced by the symphony of our tandem euphoria and the beauty of our mutual unraveling.
It’s the epitome of who we are, who we’ll be as leaders, as a couple. Ivy may be mine, on my leash, handing me control, but there’s no mistaking who holds all the power.
It’s always been her.