Chapter 62 Ivy
IVY
The hospital smells like bleach and false reassurance.
Everything is too bright. Too clean. Too loud in the wrong way—machines beeping, nurses moving fast, voices clipped like they’re trying not to scare anyone.
This place scares me. If Sebastian wasn’t here, I’d be going out of my mind. I hate hospitals. I saw this place more than I ever wanted to when my mom had cancer.
Sebastian sits in the chair beside my bed, one hand wrapped around mine. His knuckles are scraped. A bruise blooms along his cheek. His arm is in a sling. He keeps staring at the door like it might fly open and Silas might come through it.
It won’t happen. He was shot. And even though he isn’t dead, he’s going to be in a lot of trouble for what he did.
That’s what the lawyer said when he returned with Drew.
But Sebastian’s body doesn’t believe that yet.
A nurse comes in with a clipboard and the kind of smile people use when they’re about to deliver instructions.
“Okay, Ivy,” she says gently. “Your scans look good. No concussion. You’re sore, you’re bruised, but you’re medically stable.”
Sebastian’s thumb rubs over my knuckles. “What about her shaking?” he asks.
The nurse glances at him, and I can tell she’s clocking him. The tension in his shoulders. The way his gaze never stops scanning. The way he’s holding my hand like he’s afraid I’ll fall through the floor.
“That’s a stress response,” she says. “Trauma. Adrenaline crash. We gave her something to help her settle.”
Sebastian’s jaw flexes.
I squeeze his hand, because I can feel him spiraling and I refuse to let him disappear into that place.
“I want to go home,” I say.
“You can go home,” the nurse says. “But you can’t be alone tonight. No driving. No stairs if you can avoid them.”
“She’s staying with me,” Sebastian says. Not an offer. A decision. “She won’t be alone.”
The nurse pauses, then simply nods like she’s learned not to fight men who look like they’re held together by a thread.
She continues. “And if you experience dizziness, vomiting, severe headache, shortness of breath—”
“She won’t,” Sebastian says, like he can prevent symptoms through sheer will.
The nurse pauses, then continues anyway, because she’s done this before. She continues rattling off the instructions, but I’m only half listening. I just want out of here, the bleach and stale air making my skin crawl.
When she leaves, the room goes quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent lights.
Sebastian stares at our linked hands, his grip firm enough to border on painful.
“Hey,” I whisper.
His eyes lift to mine. Something in them makes my chest tighten. He looks like a man who almost lost his religion.
“You’re not going to like what happens next,” he says.
I blink. “What happens next?”
He leans in slightly, voice low. “You’re going home. And I’m going to take care of you.”
My mouth opens and he holds up his hand, giving me a look.
But I’m not scared of him.
“Sebastian—”
“Ivy.”
That one word is enough to shut me up. Not because I’m afraid of him. Because I can hear the fracture in his restraint. The way he’s holding himself together by a thread.
I swallow.
“Fine,” I say, like I’m granting him a favor. “You win.”
His gaze flickers—something dark and relieved. “Good.” He squeezes my hand. “That means no making coffee. Or breakfast. Or cleaning. Only resting.”
I nod because arguing is futile.
An hour later, Sebastian carries me through the hospital corridor while I pretend my ribs don’t hurt every time I inhale.
I nearly giggle at my thoughts. Ivy Hart: kidnapped, restrained, and rescued.
Also Ivy Hart: being bridal carried out of the hospital by a man who looks like he’s ready to kill the entire world for daring to breathe near her.
The medicine may have made me slightly loopy. Although I’m aware enough to see the nurses watching us leave with sympathy in their eyes. Because of what we endured or because Sebastian was being a tyrant and they know he’s going to make sure I do nothing except lie in bed like a slug, I’m not sure.
Sebastian doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. Not even me. That pretty much tells me I’m going to be living the bedridden slug life.
Outside, the afternoon air feels sharper than it should. The sun is bright. The sky is offensively blue, like nothing happened. Like my fear and kidnapping weren’t real.
Sebastian adjusts his hold on me as he reaches the car, and I cling to his shirt without thinking. He refused the wheelchair. Mostly because I freaked out. I remember them wheeling my mom around—
I squeeze my eyes closed. Don’t think about that right now.
When I open them, Sebastian is staring at me. His throat bobs.
“I’ll tell you later. Right now, I don’t want to think about…” My voice shakes. When I speak again, it’s low enough that only he can hear me. “… my mom.”
He nods, his eyes shining with sympathy. He opens the passenger door and carefully settles me into the seat like I’m an explosive device. Then buckles me in like I might fly away if he doesn’t.
He closes the door, walks around, and gets in behind the wheel with a stiffness that makes my stomach twist.
He’s driving slowly, eyes darting around, looking for threats. Even though Drew is in his car behind us, I swear I see his hands shake, but he catches me staring at them and grips the wheel tighter, like he’s ready to battle anyone who comes near me.
The silence stretches between us, making me uneasy. I don’t like silence after trauma. Silence leaves too much room for memories.
So I do what I always do. I fill the space. “How’s your shoulder?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“Really?”
His jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “You’re lying.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“You shouldn’t have been carrying me.”
He grunts and gives me a look. I wisely keep my mouth shut, not asking anymore questions about his health.
The road curves through Hollow Creek like nothing bad has ever happened here. Same trees. Same farmhouses. Same tiny town pretending monsters don’t exist.
Sebastian’s eyes never leave the road.
“How’s Drew?” I ask quietly.
There’s a pause before he says, “He’s okay.” Sebastian exhales. “He’s still shaken. I don’t blame him after—”
“He saved us,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend.
Sebastian’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Yes.”
The word is a blade.
I don’t mention the part that’s been sitting in my chest since the officer said it. If you hadn’t fired…
If I speak that sentence out loud, it becomes more real. More permanent.
And I don’t know if Sebastian can handle it yet.
Or if I can.
We pull into the driveway, and Sebastian pulls into the garage and kills the engine.
Then he sits there, breathing hard, staring at the garage wall like it’s both a sanctuary and a trap.
I watch him for a moment.
He turns to me. I suck in a breath and regret it.
For a second, he looks like a terrified, twelve-year-old boy.
I reach for him, my fingers brushing his wrist. “Sebastian,” I say softly.
His gaze drops to my hand like it’s an unfamiliar thing. Like tenderness is a foreign language he never learned properly.
He swallows and then says, “Don’t let go.”
My throat tightens. “I won’t.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he opened the door to the rental where I’d been held by Silas.
Then he gets out and comes around to my side. He unbuckles my seatbelt and scoops me up again, like he’s decided gravity no longer applies to me.
“Sebastian, I can walk,” I protest, mostly because I need to hear him argue.
“No.”
He shuts the door with his foot and carries me toward the door.
Drew stands there. He looks… wrecked. Pale. Bloodshot eyes. Hair messed up like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours. His mouth opens like he has something to say, but then he sees me in Sebastian’s arms, and the words die.
Mr. Pickles appears, tail whipping like a possessed metronome. He lets out a sound that is not a meow. It’s more like a threat.
Sebastian ignores it.
“Hey,” Drew says hoarsely.
Mr. Pickles darts between his legs like a shadow and then immediately turns on him. He hisses. Not a cute hiss, either. This one has intent.
Drew flinches. “Jesus Christ.” He laughs, but the sound is shaky. His eyes are too bright.
Mr. Pickles bats his pant leg.
Drew jumps back. “Ow—okay—okay, I get it, Satan.”
Mr. Pickles hisses again, louder, and then plants himself on the mat like a guard dog who weighs four pounds and believes in violence.
Sebastian steps over him without breaking stride.
Drew’s gaze flicks from me to Sebastian. “Is she okay?”
Sebastian’s voice is controlled, but there’s a tremor beneath it. “She’ll be fine.”
The way he says it makes my stomach twist. The defeat in his voice is palpable. Like he should’ve prevented Silas from getting anywhere near me.
Drew swallows hard. “Yeah.”
I exchange a look with Drew over Sebastian’s shoulder. I see it in his eyes. There’s something in Sebastian’s past he hasn’t told me about. And what happened to me has brought it to the surface.
Mr. Pickles growls. I can’t help but grin. Maybe I should change his name to Sebastian Jr.
“He’s protective,” I say, because I’m still angry and shaky and something inside me is starving for control. “He’s doing his job.”
Drew gives a weak laugh that dies too fast. “Right. Guard cat.”
Mr. Pickles bats him again, like he approves of the title and disapproves of Drew.
Sebastian carries me straight through the living room, past the couch, and up the stairs to his bedroom.
He pushes the door open with his shoulder, a slight wince on his face, and lays me down on the bed like I’m something precious.
Then he steps back, staring at me like he can’t believe I’m here. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep his eyes on me.
I reach for his hand. He takes it instantly.
Mr. Pickles follows us in, jumps onto the bed, circles twice, and settles on my chest. Possessive. Heavy. Warm.
His purr vibrates through my ribs, and it hurts a little. But it also grounds me.