Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
ASHER
I wipe blood from my mouth, sneering at my fucking wife. Beating the piece of shit who let her take tequila off him does jack shit to ease the rage burning through me.
She gives a short laugh, lifting her chin.
My jaw tightens. “You think this is funny, Venom?”
Nothing outside of her exists in this moment, and I almost trip when I notice what she’s wearing.
Black lace clings to her tits, leaving nothing to the imagination. That paired with underwear so sheer I see the shadow of what’s mine beneath it, turns my vision fucking red.
Here she is, lounging in a bed like a queen holding court, surrounded by men who have no idea how close they are to dying.
She props herself on her elbows. “You look like you murdered someone.” Her gaze drags down my chest. “Did you murder someone, husband?”
I step over the threshold, glass crunching beneath my boots. “Not yet.”
My lip twitches. “But the night’s still young.”
One of the idiots lifts his hands and inches off the mattress. “Hey, man, I’m…”
I move before he finishes.
My fist closes around his collar, hauling him off the mattress. His feet catch and skid across the concrete as I drag him toward the glass doors.
His mouth opens on a weak plea, swallowed by the static screaming in my ears.
Glass explodes when his body goes through it, rolling twice, before he stays down with a groan, clutching his stomach.
I turn back to the bed. Ivy hasn’t moved. Those green eyes find me through a veil of smoke curling around her, the joint burning down to a roach.
Amusement crawls across her face. “Feel better?”
My mouth pulls to one side as I close the distance. “Not even close.”
The other two scramble off the mattress, tripping into each other on their way out.
Sinead steps forward with a hand up. “Asher. Maybe we should—”
“—Get out.”
They glance at the glass. “The guy on the patio...”
Without breaking eye contact from Ivy, I repeat, “Get. Out.”
Movement stirs to my side before the door clicks shut and then it’s just me and her and my rage.
Silence.
“You’re bleeding on your sheets.” Her head tilts as she follows each drop.
My lip twitches into a sneer. “Not my bed.”
But my fucking woman.
My hands close around her ankles, dragging her down the bed until she hangs over the edge. I snatch the burned-out joint from her fingers, flicking it into the corner. When she catches my wrists to steady herself, I see the bandage wrapped around her hand.
“What—”
She jerks her hand away.
I plant my fists beside her head and hold her there, my hips braced against hers. Blood drips onto her collarbone, tracing the curve of her shoulder.
I tilt my head. “Did you fuck them?” Pause. “In my house.”
She laughs, sarcasm dying in her throat. “Would you rather I fuck them in your office?”
I tense.
“Over the same desk you did Camille?” She adds.
Oh, we can play that game…
“Would you rather it was you?” I say, tossing her words back at her like I didn’t wish it was.
She doesn’t answer.
I lean in until my lips brush her ear. “Should I get one of your toys back in here?” I drag a knuckle down her cheek, leaving a red smudge.
My fingers close around her throat. “Maybe get him to finish you off. Clearly he didn’t fuck you hard enough to knock the attitude out of you.”
She glares up at me like the little venomous monster she is. “You fucked her.”
My mouth snaps closed.
Her lashes fan out over her cheeks when she blinks, but there’s no real fight in her. “In front of me.”
“Get naked and make it look real.”
Camille groans, dragging a finger down my chest. “Why can’t we fuck for real? It’s not like you haven’t hit it already.”
I slap her hand away and haul her in by the throat. “Because I don’t fucking want to, that’s why. Because fucking you is about as fun as doing it myself.”
My knee drives between her thighs, forcing them apart as my hand stays firm around her throat. I shift my weight until she has no choice but to feel me.
I grind against her, trying to swallow how fucking good it feels. A low growl rolls from my chest. “You want to talk about fucking, Venom?”
Her body bends into mine, the movement so small I know she’s fighting it.
“You put on this little show.” I roll my hips, dragging her over my cock. “You invite strangers into my house.” I roll again.
Her nipples harden against my chest as she presses closer.
“…And you think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing?”
Her hands fly back to my wrist. “Enlighten me.”
She’s so fucking close, her attention shifting between my lips and my eyes.
“You’re jealous.” I slide my free hand down her side and hook two fingers into the sheer waistband of her underwear. “Furious that I fucked Camille.”
My mouth hovers over her pulse as I try to block out all the things that made me obsessed with her in the first place.
Her nails bite into my wrists. “I don’t care who you fuck.”
I lift my head, my eyes widening. “Liar.”
“Bet you’re fucking wet.” I push my hips down, pinning her there. “All this rage. All this hatred.”
Dragging my tongue up her throat, I regret it the instant her taste hits me, and I ain’t talking about just her skin.
“And your body’s begging for me anyway.”
She writhes beneath me, though I can’t tell if she’s fighting my hold or grinding into it, so I shift an inch anyway, forcing her to chase it.
“It’s fucking foreplay to you,” I murmur against her jaw.
She starts to sit up, drawing two deep breaths as though weighing her next move. Before she can do some crazy shit like kiss me, I press my thumb into the hollow of her throat, holding her there.
“Say it.” I keep my gaze fixed on hers. “Tell me you want me.”
Her eyelids droop, her mouth twisting. “Fuck you.”
I laugh, releasing her throat and pushing off the bed, leaving her flushed and panting.
Backing up, I tilt my head. “Camille screamed my name when she came.”
My lip twitches. “Three times.”
I don’t look back. If I do, I’ll fucking drown in her.
“Sweet dreams, Venom.”
I make my way down the hall, ignoring every fucking idiot that’s doing a mad dash for the front door. She wanted my attention? She fucking got it. Now I want nothing more than to rip hers from her too.
As soon as I’m locked in my office, I let out a deep breath.
Fuck. I probably deserved it. No, I definitely deserved it.
The Camille show was uncalled for and not exactly my style, but I know it’s what she expects of me.
It’s what she’d expect someone my age to do after being hurt by the one person he never expected to hurt him.
So I gave it to her on a silver platter.
But her retaliation wasn’t expected. Ivy’s always been too unbothered to be messy.
I drag my hand over my cheek. I’m gonna kill Atlas. Bury his ass right beside dad just to piss him off.
Tapping the monitor, I watch her storm down the hall and disappear through her bedroom.
I snicker, grabbing the discarded hoodie at my side and forcing it over my head. Instagram notifications flood my phone, all variations of the same question.
When are you hitting the slopes, Asher?
When’s the next run?
When when when.
Fucking never.
I thumb through them anyway, letting the mindless scroll flatten the jagged edges still rattling around my skull.
Some fourteen-year-old from Germany tagged me in a video of a backside double cork, captioned “thoughts?” My thoughts are that I want to put my fist through something until I feel bones crack and the rage stops fucking vibrating.
Movement flashes on the monitor.
Ivy’s bathroom. The mirror above the sink is a spiderweb of fractured glass, despite her efforts to clean up the mess.
My phone slips and hits the desk with a thud.
I lean forward and tap the screen twice to zoom, then hit rewind. The footage stutters backward, light reversing through the window of today. Then I find it. Her fist connecting with the mirror.
The angle’s shit but I can see enough. Her shoulders shaking, one hand braced on the counter while the other swings, glass exploding outward, her reflection splintering into a hundred broken versions of herself.
How fucking accurate that image is…
I check the time stamp. Right after she walked in on me and Camille.
I sit back, my hand finding the drawer without looking and pulling out the pre-rolled joint and lighter. Flame catches the tip. I drag in deep and hold it until my lungs burn, then slowly release, watching the smoke curl in lazy rings.
On screen, she’s stopped. She’s sitting there, shoulders heaving, head tipped back.
Even through the grainy feed I can see her working hard to compartmentalize.
Then she wipes her face with her uninjured hand and opens a cabinet, pulling out a suture kit.
Stitching herself back together like it’s no big deal.
I take another pull, letting smoke sit heavy on my tongue before exhaling through my nose. The rage is still there and it wants to hunt down every man who touched her tonight, but that can’t be me. That can’t be who I am, wearing the title I do now.
She finishes the stitches and tests her hand, opening and closing her fist a few times. Thirty seconds later she has her phone pressed to her ear.
Ah. So this is how we got to where we are right now.
Interesting.
Thoughts drift through the smoke and land in an empty void in my chest as she moves through her bedroom. She pauses, head snapping toward the door.
Wait. Did she know I was there?
I sit up in my chair, tilting my head and zooming out further, opening a second frame that’s outside her door.
There I am. Hand hovering a few inches from the handle.
Inside the room, Ivy’s still frozen mid-step.
My jaw tightens.
She knew I was there. Of course she fucking did.
The moment plays out from both sides of the room. My body turns, leaning back against her door as I rest my head. Regret almost had me breaking it down and coming apart. What I didn’t know was that she was right there too, with hands ready to fucking catch me.
Two sides of the same door. Of the same life. Yet neither of us can fucking open it.