16. Ivy
Ivy
M y head and body ache like I’ve had way too many drinks.
My mouth is dry, and my eyes feel like they’re glued together.
I eventually manage to crack my lids enough to see I’m in a dark room.
Dread fills my stomach as I realize this isn’t my room or my bed.
Where the fuck am I? I start breathing heavily as panic grips my throat like a vise.
The last thing I remember is that guy Lester was trying to talk to me while I drank some water because my head was spinning.
“Water is next to you.” I jump at the sound of the voice, my heart rate picking up speed until my brain registers that the voice is familiar.
“Hawke?” I ask carefully. He shifts in the seat he’s sitting in beside the bed. I can just make out his bulky silhouette in the dark.
“I’m here, baby,” he says gently. Ordinarily, I’d reprimand him for using a nickname like that on me, but right now, I’m just relieved he’s here. “This might hurt a little.”
A side table light turns on, and my eyes immediately close, affronted at the brightness.
He quickly dims it and then hands me a bottle of painkillers.
I try my hardest to push myself up, but I just feel like shit.
Everything aches. He holds out a glass of water.
That’s when I realize I’m in his bed. I try to put pieces together, but it’s just blank.
Why am I here? I don’t remember seeing him at the party.
The party…
I swear I only had a couple of drinks. I’m so confused right now, and when I reach for the water, my hands are so shaky that I drop the glass and spill it all over the floor.
I want to cry. I don’t know why, but I just do. I’m overwhelmed. The pain, the unknown…
“It’s okay,” he says quietly as he leans over to pick it up. He’s looking at me like I’m some wounded animal, and I fucking hate it. What happened to me? “I’ll get you some more.” He walks into his bathroom to fill the glass with more water.
I run my hands through my hair. I look under the blankets, comforted a little, when I find I’m still wearing my dress.
“Why am I here?” I ask when he returns. I reach for the glass again, but my hands won’t stop shaking, so he puts it to my lips. My eyebrows furrow in confusion, but I feel so out of sorts that I let him.
“Drink.” I do as he says and take a sip. It immediately moistens my mouth, bringing relief, but it also brings on an unsettling wave of nausea in my stomach. I take another two mouthfuls and pull away.
“Did you accept drinks from anyone?” he questions, now sitting at the edge of the bed. The mattress dips to the side under his weight.
Dread fills me because there’s usually only one reason people ask that question. And I know the truth of it even when it’s unsaid. I was drugged.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
Blank. It’s all blank. All I remember is walking into the party. Having a few shots. And it becomes hazy after that. Then nothing.
“Drink,” he says again as if distracting me from my spiraling thoughts.
This might be the gentlest I’ve ever seen Hawke.
But underneath his cool demeanor is a rage I’m too scared to draw attention to.
I’m used to his brother being quiet and calm.
But Hawke is full of expression. Not right now, though. He’s as terrifying as he is gentle.
Sure, I’ve seen him pick fights, but those times feel different from now. This is a palpable tension, reminding me just how dangerous he truly is.
“You know better than to do that. Did you forget where you come from?” he scolds.
“Please don’t reprimand me right now,” I quickly bite back as I try to keep the tears away. He looks up then as if seeing me for the first time, and I see the remorse in his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I just—I feel so useless right now.” He blows out a breath.
“This isn’t your fault,” I assure him as I put my hand on his shoulder. The motion of me stretching toward him must be too much for my stomach to handle because the water I drank comes up just as quickly as it went down. I vomit all over his arm and the side of the bed.
I sit back, mortified.
The big oaf doesn’t even move, unfazed, as he brushes back my hair. I try to tell him to stop. That it’s gross, but I vomit again. I’m gasping as I fight back and forth with whether my stomach is settled.
“I’m sorry,” I whimper as I wipe my mouth.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says as he pulls back the covers and swiftly scoops me into his arms. His sea breeze-scented cologne hits my nose, but it’s overpowered by the smell of my vomit on his shirt.
He carries me into the bathroom and places me gently beside the toilet, where I’m quick to vomit again, clinging to the bowl.
I hear water running, but before I can lift my head to look, I’m throwing up again with slight relief that at least it’s in a toilet and not all over a six-foot-two mountain of a man.
He brushes back my hair, and just when I think I have nothing left to throw up, I’m heaving again. I wish I hadn’t drunk that water, even though at the time, it was the best water I’d ever tasted.
When my vomiting eases, he slowly unzips my dress.
I don’t even bother pushing him away because I know, for once in his life, he isn’t trying to fuck me.
I feel like a rag doll as he reaches under my arms and lifts me as if I weigh nothing.
Other men struggle to lift me, while Hawke does it so effortlessly.
He holds me up with one hand and slides the dress off so I’m only in my underwear.
My head feels like it’s bobbing from side to side, and the room seems unbearably hot.
He proceeds to take off my underwear and then carries me toward a claw-footed tub where the water is running.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and if I had the strength to open my eyes all the way, they would bug out of my head at the sight of me.
There’s dried vomit on my cheek, my hair is a disaster, and I’m pale yet flushed.
I look like death warmed over, and honestly, I don’t even recognize myself right now.
He lowers me into the bath, and the water, though only coming up to my waist feels like heaven, relaxing me almost instantly. “Don’t drown yourself,” he says, then turns to the sink. He grabs his toothbrush and puts toothpaste on it.
His actions seem automatic. As if he’s done this a million times before.
He holds out the toothbrush, and I take it from him, my arms feeling like Jell-O. I brush my teeth and scrub my tongue, and when I’m done, I hand it back to him and watch as he throws it in the trash.
I’m freaked out about the blank spots in my mind, and if it weren’t for Hawke, I might’ve actually spiraled and lost my shit.
I’m a level-headed woman, but this is a woman’s worst nightmare.
What-if scenarios race through my brain, and I immediately shut them out.
No . That didn’t happen. If I’m with Hawke, that means I’m safe.
Hawke grabs a bottle of body wash and places it on the edge of the tub. “Give me your hands,” he gently orders. I do as he says, fascinated by this side of him. It’s like seeing him as a completely different person.
“How do you know what to do?” I ask. My voice comes out in a rasp, and I can tell the sound of it grates on him. For such a big guy, he looks so small right now. I’m not yet ready to ask him what state he found me in. I’m too scared of the answer.
“My mother was a drug addict. The memories I remember most are of putting her to bed and making sure she didn’t choke on her own vomit in her sleep. Cleaning her up became second nature,” he says matter-of-factly.
My heart breaks as I imagine Hawke as a child.
It’s so strange to think of him as anything but this giant.
I’d heard they’d lived on the streets before Anya adopted them, and although I’ve been tempted to dive into Ford’s and his history, I’ve always refrained from doing so.
If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me himself.
“What happened to her?” I ask. I can’t even imagine living in a home like that. I almost feel guilty for having the parents and upbringing I did.
He looks at me then as if realizing I’m curious about him.
He silently requests my other hand. I give it to him, and he cleans it just as gently as he did the first one.
“You don’t have to ever be shy to ask me questions, Ivy.
I’m an open book,” he says as he leans over to put the cloth in the water and run it over my skin.
“She overdosed when we were twelve. We didn’t have any other family to go to, and we have no idea who the fuck our dad is, so Ford and I lived on the streets.
“It was always just us. I always felt like I had to protect him, you know. He’s smarter and can hold his own, but I was always bigger than him.
I mean, I had to be all brawn if he was the brains.
” The last bit is said in a joking manner, but it hurts to hear.
I’ve never once thought of Hawke as stupid.
An impulsive, open book, yes. But never stupid.
“We lived on the streets until we broke into Anya and River’s home when we were fifteen.
” He smirks at the memory. “Anya put a gun to both of our heads when they found us, and it was River who wanted to give us a second chance. I don’t know why, but he saw something in us.
I think he also pitied us, but as I came to know them better, I learned that pity isn’t exactly something our mother feels. ”
I’ve met Anya Ivanov plenty of times, and that woman is terrifying.
He then looks up as if recalling another memory. “Ford and I also learned how to help each other out when Anya introduced us to micro poisoning to build our tolerance. She said it’d come in handy, but I thought she was paranoid. Turns out, it’s exactly what saved Ford’s life when?—”
His circles on my arm come to a stop abruptly, and I can see the moment he recedes back into himself.
“What happened that day?” I ask quietly.
Not even Billie gave me details, and I didn’t want to push her too much about it.
I know she was poisoned. Was this what it felt like for her when she woke?
I inwardly curl into myself, the terror rising at the thought of what might’ve happened during the time I can’t remember.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, immediately closing up despite just telling me I can ask him anything. A tangible weight fills the room. My curious mind wants to push him further, but the exhaustion from last night and the warmth of the water are quickly sapping everything out of me.
“How did you know where to find me?” I ask. I want to ask what state I was in and what happened, but those questions just won’t leave my lips. He looks at me then. Despite being naked, his gaze has not once wavered from mine.
He pulls out his phone and shows me the IG story Makayla posted.
I completely forgot about that. I don’t want to inquire about Hawke’s motivations for showing up at the party because, frankly, I’m just grateful he did.
When I needed someone the most, he was there.
Even when I didn’t ask him to be, he just was, like he is now.
“I didn’t post that, for what it’s worth,” I tell him.
“Oh, I know. But I’m grateful your shitty friend did,” he says, that lethal edge creeping into his voice.
“You can’t kill her, Hawke,” I say, rolling my head to the side.
“I don’t kill women,” he snaps, and it’s so startling that we just stare at one another.
“I’m sorry. I—” He cuts himself off abruptly.
“I know you wouldn’t. It’s okay. I’m sorry for saying that.” I’m certain he wants to burn the world alive right now, and it offers me a sense of safety to know that someone cares about what happens to me. I know people care. I just… It feels different with him.
I curl my knees into my stomach as he looks over me with concern. “Are you feeling sick again?” he asks.
I shake my head, exhaustion grabbing at me again. The pounding in my head begins to take over again. I close my eyes and say, “Hawke, please don’t tell any of my friends or family about this. I just want to work it out on my own first.”
I’m surprised when he takes my hand in his. I open my eyes again and look at him. “Nothing happened to you. I found you at the party an hour after the picture was posted.”
Relief washes through me. Although he can’t guarantee nothing happened to me, knowing he found me so quickly makes me feel a little better.
“Thank you for coming for me,” I whisper as I sleepily close my eyes again.
“And I’m sorry about your bed. I should go home,” I add absently, my mind slowly being pulled under a haze.
“You should sleep. Don’t worry. I’ll look after you,” he promises.
I feel him lifting me out of the bath and wrapping me in a towel. I come in and out of coherence as he puts one of his shirts over my head and helps guide my arms through the sleeves.
I can keep my eyes open long enough to realize he’s changed the sheets and blanket on his bed before he places me down gently and tucks me in. This Hawke is different. Maybe it’s all just a dream. Or a nightmare.
“Go to sleep,” he coos. But I don’t need his encouragement as the darkness takes over.