Chapter 18
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
ASHER
My phone vibrates against the counter, and I already know who it is, so I snatch it up and head for the balcony. Cold air hits my bare chest as I lean on the railing, watching the ocean throw itself at the cliff below, relentless and too fucking dumb to quit.
Bit like me with Ivy.
“Your connection with Ivanya is becoming problematic,” they say, with a bit too much confidence.
Foam hisses across the rocks as a wave breaks apart.
“Not your concern.”
They’re weighing their next words, trying to soften whatever comes out as if it’s gonna make a difference. Spoiler, it won’t, but I’ll let them think it can because I’m generous. Or bored.
They speak again, voice dropping into that careful, measured tone. “I know it isn’t my concern.”
My jaw locks. “Exactly. So why the fuck are you calling?”
The line goes quiet before they finally answer. “Because I am requesting a timeline.”
“You can request whatever you want, but that doesn’t mean you get it.”
Static crackles through the speaker. “Are you getting attached to the girl.”
My lip twitches. “Smoke and mirrors.”
Nothing. They hate it when I talk back. They all fucking did, which is exactly why I love it so much.
“Need I remind you,” they say, spacing the words out like I can’t understand. “Just because you are who you are does not mean you get to play that same hand with us.”
I laugh, then let it die in my throat.
Us?
“How many times do I have to tell you? This, me, her… me…” I hiss, all smirk gone. “Are none of your business, and if you have a problem with that, feel free to crawl out of that cozy little hole and come tell me to my face.”
They blow out a breath. “You’re letting her compromise your judgment.”
“You wanna say that again?” I dare, grip tensing on my phone.
They don’t.
The wind picks up, salt and cold stinging my skin. Somewhere inside the house, a door opens and closes, footsteps padding across hardwood.
“She killed your father, Asher.”
I roll my eyes. “And it’s no secret he and I were never close.” My elbows drop to the railing. “In fact, I’d go as far as to say we hated each other.”
“True,” they mutter, and it’s the smartest thing they’ve said since inconveniencing me with this phone call. “But even then, he is blood. He deserves more respect than that.”
I pause. Should I bring this up? Is it gonna be worth it?
Fuck it. “Do you know who ordered the hit on him? Why he was on Mariée de la Mort’s wedding list to begin with?”
Fucker clears his throat, papers shuffling in the background.
“No, I don’t know. Why would I know?” Suspicion prickles through the line, and I wonder how the fuck they've managed to tiptoe through life convincing people they’re anything other than what they are.
I squeeze the phone. “No reason. Just wondering, is all…”
“Wondering what?” They snap. Fucking lucky they’re not in front of me.
“You know. Whether Ivy is in Le Boucher’s back pocket, since he’s the only one we know who’s fond of knocking leaders off.”
A burst of laughter. “Son, have you been snorting snow instead of shredding it? You give that woman far too much credit.”
“Huh,” I chuckle, watching her move through the dining room, stealing my fucking coffee. “Yeah, no doubt you’re probably right.”
I lean against the balcony door. “Was there anything else you needed? Or did you just wanna chat cocaine and killers?”
The pause drags. “You need to finish this vendetta. Now.”
My grip tightens, plastic creaking under my fingers. “I’m not killing her.”
They huff. “Yes, you are, because you’ve been contaminated by her, and you took an oath. A very long, ancient, sacred family oath.”
Heat floods my chest, my vision narrowing to the ocean below.
“Need I remind you, since it’s clear you have amnesia, that I don’t run by the same rules you do.
La Maison Du Mal is me and without me there would be no you, so next time you wanna call me quoting a fucking book I recited when I was four years old, I’d suggest you back the fuck up. ”
They let it sit, long enough that I think they’ve hung up. “You need to let her go, Asher. Kill her.”
My thumb taps once against the phone’s edge. “Or?”
A tired exhale hisses through the speaker. “Precautions will need to be put in place.”
I end the call before they can say another word, phone sitting in the palm of my hand. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
Precautions.
I’ve got two options and I know it. I either bend to what he wants, or…
I stretch my legs beneath the computer table, finger dragging across my upper lip. One thousand different ways this could go, and they all end the same. I just have to decide which path to take.
A knock breaks through the quiet.
“Come in.”
Ivy pushes it open, standing there in my old Winter Games shirt.
It’s faded and worn, hanging off one shoulder and landing past her knees.
She looks cute as fuck. Especially since her hair has that whole, just got fucked vibe going.
I’ve always been obsessed with her hair.
It’s so long and thick there’s more than enough to grab onto, which is a plus, since she won’t miss any if I end up accidentally tearing some out.
I smirk up at her, pushing back from the desk until the chair rolls far enough for her to see the invitation. She takes it, crosses the room without a word, and climbs onto my lap.
Her knees press into the leather on either side of my hips, her weight settling against me as my hands fall to her thighs.
She drags her fingers into my hair, thumbs pressing slow circles against my temples.
Fuck. I could get used to this. Attempted murder aside…
My eyes roll closed and I groan.
Her nails drag across my scalp. “Are you okay?”
If I gave her the honest answer, she’d probably go round two with that attempt. The thought tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I don’t bother hiding it. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
“Kind of never washed it either.” Her response shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. “Smells like you.”
I grip her thigh. “You kept your dead ex-lover’s shirt?”
“Lover?” she asks innocently, thumbs still working my tension apart thread by thread. “Or toy?”
My hand slides up under the hem of the shirt, landing on her hip. I press my thumb into the groove of it and her breath catches.
She watches me for a long moment. No venom, just Ivy. Those mint green eyes softening.
Mine.
“Who were you talking to earlier?” she asks, her gaze flicking to the laptop. Thank fuck for auto-lock or I’d be left explaining those cameras in her room.
I shrug. “Nobody worth mentioning.”
With one arm bracing her back, I stand, and her legs lock around my waist. She drags a finger over the scar at my throat while I carry her downstairs.
Typical Ivy, taking a moment she thinks I’m too busy to notice.
She still hasn’t asked about it. Figure she will eventually, and then what? What will I tell her?
As soon as we hit my bedroom, I lay her down over the white sheets. Her hands don’t leave me. They slide from my neck to my jaw, before pulling me down with her.
My lips crash against hers. I’m fucking fighting a losing battle when it comes to her. Every time I try to starve out my feelings, they come back hungrier, more savage, willing to do just about anything to get what they want.
The kiss goes slow and deep. My tongue slides against hers, drawing a low sound from her throat that goes straight to my groin.
Her fingers spread flat across my chest, my heartbeat hammering into her palm. Too fast. She’ll know.
“Ash,” she whispers, and it cracks my chest wide open.
Nothing I want to answer right now. So I kiss her deeper, tilting her chin up with my free hand so I can get the angle I want, the one where her whole mouth softens against mine.
She arches beneath me, reaching, like she’s trying to close a gap that has fuck all to do with space. Her hips lift, meeting the weight of me, and the shirt rides up her thighs.
My hand slides from her jaw to her waist, holding her there. Mine. The thought is a gut punch, and my forehead drops against hers.
For a second, everything stops. Just the two of us, suspended in the thick silence, our chests rising and falling out of sync.
With every flicker of her pulse, every blink of her dark lashes hitting her cheeks, I know exactly what she’s doing.
She sees the wreckage I hide inside, and she’s trying to fucking piece it back together.
I fight the urge to look away, to fucking run, to ignore the twist in my gut telling me I can’t do this.
Because I fucking can’t.
She catches my face in both palms, and a sound escapes me.
Searching my eyes, she pulls herself closer. Her lips feather over mine, and I suck in a breath. Too fucking gentle for something that feels like my heart getting ripped out of my chest.
Tell her.
I kiss her instead, pulling the shirt over her head. My shirt.
She lifts her arms, helps me strip it off, and then she’s bare beneath me except for black lace that’s already damp when I drag my knuckles over her. She tries to work my shirt off with her feet, giving up and coming to her knees to drag it over my head.
Her mouth finds my tattoo, and my skin burns when I feel the soft slither of her tongue trace the lines that lead up my neck.
Fabric tears when I rip her underwear away and neither of us stops, her hands already shoving at my sweats, dragging them down over my cock. We’re all desperate hands and tangled limbs, and I flatten her against the mattress with my fingers wrapped around her throat.
I shove her thighs wider with my own, dragging my heavy length straight over her slick clit, wetting every inch as her hips jerk up to chase the friction.
She reaches for me, but I catch her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. My free hand guides me to her entrance, and I groan when she throbs around my tip. Her hips tilt up, and my breath catches as I push in slow. So fucking slow it’s almost torture.
Her mouth falls open on a gasp, and I cover it with mine, swallowing the sound as I fall deeper and deeper into her.