8. Ivy
IVY
H e sleeps like the world isn’t shifting inexplicably around us.
Like I didn’t dream about stabbing him in the throat all night. Like I didn’t wake up in his arms, muscles locked, breath held, waiting for him to strike.
But he doesn’t.
He just sleeps on his side, one arm draped over me like I’m his and have always been. When I fell asleep, he was definitely not touching me. And his fingers absolutely weren’t that close to touching my pussy.
I shift out from under his arm, carefully, quietly, and sit on the edge of the bed waiting for him to wake up or realize that I’m not where he left me.
The suite is still dark, quiet, and far too perfect. Like a showroom with ghosts. Everything is soft. Elegant. And yet I’ve never felt more… brutal. Untethered.
I should be making a plan. Testing doors. Breaking windows. I should be fighting like hell to get away from this man who took me away from my life.
But I don’t move. I just stare.
Because I’ve seen something he didn’t mean for me to see.
Last night, after he touched me and broke every line I thought I had left, he didn’t throw me away like trash to be disposed of. He didn’t retreat into cold calculation like I expected.
He held me.
Watched me. Dressed me. Fed me. Touched my hair like I was breakable. Like I was precious.
He looked at me like I was already his bride. Or his sacrifice.
And that’s what’s finally breaking me.
Not the violence. Not the fear.
The tenderness in his touch. In his eyes.
Because whatever this is, it isn’t about sex. It isn’t about power. Not for him.
It’s about possession .
He waited. Controlled himself. Stalked the edges of desire without taking what he wanted.
Why?
Because once he has me… maybe he thinks I won’t matter anymore.
Maybe he’s afraid I’ll lose the shine that drew him to me in the first place.
That’s how obsession works. I’ve read the psychology. I’ve seen it up close in the men who used to grab my arm too tight at the diner. In the way my mother clung to any man who looked her way.
Obsession feeds on distance.
Keep him at an arm’s length and he’ll stay obsessed. Needing more and more until nothing satiates his hunger. Until he destroys me in an attempt to possess me.
So I’ll end it.
I’ll ruin the fantasy.
I’ll give him what he hasn’t taken and watch the fire go out in his eyes.
And then I’ll be free.
Because if he sees me as just a woman, not a dream… maybe the spell will break.
Using my body to survive?
It won’t be the first time.
But this time, it’ll be my choice .
I slide back onto the bed slowly, careful not to make a sound.
He’s still on his side, back to me. One hand tucked under his jaw, the other resting palm-up on the sheet like he’s offering me the world.
He doesn’t flinch as I shift closer. Doesn’t stir when I trail a single finger down the line of his spine.
Not yet.
I let my fingertip drift just below the waistband of his pants. His skin is warm. Firm. Unshakable.
But I’m not.
I am a live wire, buzzing with the weight of what I’m about to do. Electric in my need to control this. To take my power back in this fucked up situation.
I lean in, close enough to breathe his intoxicating scent. Amber, spice, and something richer underneath. Something dangerous. Like oil beneath a match, just waiting for ignition.
“Roman,” I whisper into the shell of his ear.
His breath catches, subtle but there. He’s awake now.
He doesn’t move.
“Good boy.”
I swing a leg over him and straddle his hips, placing my hands on his bare chest. His skin is flawless, golden in the early morning light. Too perfect. Too sculpted.
He still hasn’t opened his eyes.
But he’s not sleeping. We both know the truth. He’s waiting, letting me have this sense of power.
“You always watch,” I murmur, rolling my hips once against him. “You like control. I get it. But what happens when you don’t have it? When someone strips your precious control out from under you?”
His chest rises slowly beneath me.
Still not speaking.
Still letting me lead.
My hands trace up his arms, over his shoulders, then back down to the sharp cut of his abdomen. I scratch lightly. Just enough to test. Just enough to provoke.
Still… nothing.
I lean down, my lips hovering just above his.
His lashes flick, but he doesn’t give in.
God, he’s good.
But I’m better.
I kiss him. Softly at first—light pressure, a dare. Then harder. My mouth opens, claiming what he’s refused to take.
That’s when his hands grip my thighs.
Not rough. Not forceful.
Just… steady.
Grounding.
His eyes open.
Dark. Dilated. Devouring.
I smile, lips brushing his.
“There you are.”
He stares at me, breathing hard.
“Ivy,” he warns, voice rough like gravel.
“What?” I say sweetly. “You’re not scared, are you?”
His hands tighten slightly. His eyes flash.
“Of you?” He breathes deeply. “I’m not afraid to admit you fucking terrify me. But you’re mine, Ivy. Climbing through my mind and body like a vine I’ll never be able to obliterate.”
I bite my bottom lip and lean down again, letting my body press flush to his. I drag my mouth down the edge of his jaw, to his throat. His pulse pounds beneath my tongue.
“You’ve been patient long enough,” I whisper. “Haven’t you?”
He exhales like a man trying to survive a war.
I drag my hips forward again. “Or maybe… you’re just a coward and you are too afraid to take what you want.”
That’s the moment the last thread of his restraint starts to snap.
Good.
Because I want him to break.
His hands slide up my thighs. Slow. Reverent.
But his eyes, the fire burning in them doesn’t worship.
They possess.
“I’m warning you,” he says again, voice low, wrecked, like gravel pulled through silk. “This doesn’t end the way you think it does.”
I run my nails down his chest, leaning over him until my breath is on his mouth.
“Then don’t think,” I whisper. “Just feel.”
I kiss him again—harder this time—and he lets me.
Lets me take.
Lets me move his hands where I want them.
Lets me pretend.
Pretend that I have the power.
His lips part beneath mine, tongue tangling with mine, a groan vibrating in his throat as I rock against him. My hands roam, greedy and unapologetic. I want to take everything before I feel anything.
Because this isn’t about desire. It’s about control.
My control.
I’m grinding down on his dick, straining through his pants like he can will them away.
And still… he doesn’t touch me.
Not yet.
He studies me like I’m something fragile and feral all at once.
“I’m not a man you can manipulate,” he says quietly.
I raise my chin. “I’m not a woman you can own.”
His mouth curves. Almost a smile.
He leans up, his abdomen flexing with the power it takes to lift himself up and not displace me from his lap. He moves until he’s brushing his lips against mine, ghost-soft.
“Sweet girl. I already do.”
I slap him.
The sound cracks the room open.
He doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t pull away.
He leans in again, slower this time, and kisses the corner of my mouth.
“Hit me again if it helps,” he says. “I’ll still give you everything I own. Everything you need or want is yours.”
I want to scream. Want to crawl out of my skin.
Instead, I pull him back to me in a frantic kiss.
It’s desperate. Messy. Furious.
He undresses me like he’s unraveling a secret. Touches me like he already knows every scar on my body. But he doesn’t thrust up into my body.
He leaves me there, completely naked while his pants stay on.
Until my hand slips down and I’m the one undressing him. Slowly, making sure to draw out the torture for both of us. Needing him to break first.
He doesn’t.
His hard length slaps his stomach as soon as I free it, and my core clenches at the sight of pre-cum at the tip. With a smile more for myself than anything else, I wrap one hand around him as much as I can and shift my hips until his length is rubbing against my clit.
“God.” He groans. “You’re so perfect. So fucking perfect, Ivy. Made just for me.”
I’m trembling, soaking, and ready to cry if I can’t have an orgasm, and soon.
Impatient and needy, I slide down onto him with a hiss.
That’s when he finally takes me, and I was so wrong.
This isn’t possession.
It’s devotion.
Slow. Deep. Unrelenting.
He makes love to me like he’s praying.
And I explode around his body, pressing my forehead to his chest as I ride out the shaking mess that’s taken control of my body.
I think he follows me over the edge into oblivion, but honestly I can’t even process words, let alone thought, and definitely not enough coherent understanding to know if I brought him to completion or not.
At least not until he starts to move again and I can feel a mix of our releases escaping with each thrust. He flips us without pulling out of my body, wrapping my legs around his waist and taking control in one movement.
The second orgasm takes me by surprise, but he keeps going until we’re both a boneless, breathless heap in the middle of the bed.
Neither of us move right away.
We lie in silence, skin to skin, the steady thrum of his heart under my cheek. His hand strokes my back—lazy circles, fingertips dragging lightly, like he’s tracing constellations into my spine.
I should be slipping away. Quietly, efficiently. Making a plan. Reclaiming space in my mind that isn't his.
But I don’t move.
Not when he eases out of bed and disappears into the adjoining room.
Not when he returns, wordless, and pulls the sheets back from my body like I’m art he’s unwrapping.
“Come,” he says softly.
It isn’t a command.
It’s a request that he’s waiting for me to address as he holds a hand out for me.
Waiting.
That makes it worse.
I sit up slowly, legs sore, chest raw with something I don’t want to name. He wraps a robe around me, ties it with reverent fingers, then lifts me like I weigh nothing. Like I’m his, and always have been.
The bathroom is already warm. Candles flicker on the counter. The tub steams gently, water scented with lavender and something sweet I can’t name.
He sets me down beside it, kneels, and unties the robe.
“I can do it myself,” I whisper.
His eyes lift to mine. “I know.”
But he does it anyway.
Eases it off my shoulders, folding it neatly beside him.
Then he helps me into the tub. The water is perfect. Hot enough to sting at first, but it settles fast. My body sighs into it, boneless and exhausted.
Roman kneels there still, not taking anything from me. Washes my arms with a cloth.
Cups water to pour over my shoulders.
Rinses my hair with care that borders on worship.
And not once does he try to touch me the way he did before.
He just… cares.
When I finally look at him—really look—his expression is calm. Focused. But there’s a tightness in his jaw. A fracture behind the control.
“You think this means something,” I say, voice low.
“It does mean something,” he replies, without missing a beat.
“For you,” I murmur.
He dips the cloth into the water again, wrings it out.
“No, Ivy. For us .”
After the bath, he dries me gently. Dresses me in silk again. Carries me back to the bed as if I’m something precious, breakable.
I lay still beneath the covers, wrapped in warmth and luxury and something far more suffocating.
Care.
His care.
Roman disappears into the closet. I hear the soft rustle of clothes, the click of a drawer. Then he returns, no longer shirtless. He’s dressed in dark slacks, a cashmere sweater rolled to his elbows. Still barefoot, as if he wants to look comfortable. Approachable.
The illusion works too well.
He brings me tea. Places it on the nightstand. Sits beside me without touching.
Not until I reach for the cup.
Only then do his fingers graze mine.
Only then does he speak.
“I’ll never hurt you,” he says. “Not unless you ask me to.”
A shiver coils down my spine.
I don’t respond. Can’t.
He doesn’t push.
Eventually, he leaves me there. He leaves me alone, but not free.
The door shuts with a soft whisper.
I sip the tea. It’s honeyed and warm. Calming, even though my heart still drums like it doesn’t know who it belongs to anymore.
And then I feel the change.
Not fear. Not anger. Not even shame.
Want.
Want, curling low in my belly. Want for something brutal and gentle and real. Want for him.
For the way he saw me when no one else did.
For the way he touches me like I’m his to worship and destroy.
I sink down into the bed and stare at the ceiling.
My fingers tighten around the cup.
God help me.
I want more.
I should be planning my way out.
But all I can think about is how he looked at me when I fell apart in his arms. That’s the most terrifying thing of all. Because wanting him, falling for the promises that he makes in the way he touches me…all of that means that he’s just going to leave.
No one ever loves me enough to stay.