Chapter 6 #2
“Ivanya.”
I grab the pillow he assaulted me with and shove it over my face. Maybe if I suffocate myself, I won't have to deal with whatever this is. “Why are you like this? Why are you here? Why are you in such a disgustingly good mood at dawn?”
The pillow gets tugged away. He's closer now, propped on one elbow, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's almost solved.
“Don't have to see my family.”
I blink. “What?”
“Thought I had to fly out this weekend.” He shrugs, but something flickers behind those ice-chip eyes. Something he's trying very hard to bury. “Plans changed.”
“That's… good?”
“Very good.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes. “Means I get to stay here and annoy you instead.”
There's more. I can feel it sitting between us, heavy and unspoken. The way his shoulders are just slightly too rigid. The way his jaw keeps flexing like he's grinding his teeth.
“Asher.”
“Hm?”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” Too fast. Too light. “Family stuff. Boring. You wouldn't care.”
“You're right. I don't.” I roll onto my side, facing him. “But you're in my bed at six AM looking like someone kicked your puppy, so clearly you care.”
His expression shutters. That fast, that complete—like watching a door slam.
“I'm in your bed because you were having a sex dream about a fictional character and I felt personally offended.” He tugs at a strand of my hair. “We need to discuss your taste in men.”
“My taste in men is none of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business.”
The words hang there. Too honest. Too raw.
He realizes it the same moment I do, because he's suddenly very interested in the ceiling.
“Go back to sleep, Venom.” His voice is softer now. Almost gentle. “I'll make breakfast.”
“You don't cook.”
“I'll order breakfast.”
I should kick him out. Should demand answers. Should do anything except what I actually do, which is close my eyes and let the warmth of him seep into my bones.
“If you tell anyone about the Thor thing—”
“I'm telling everyone.” I can hear the grin in his voice.
Rolling out of bed, I snatch the first pair of clothes I see and drag my ass into the shower. Since my dream has been so rudely interrupted, there's no point now.
I wash up quick and squirt a thick tube of paste on my toothbrush, swiping through my notifications.
A new email pops up as I rinse and spit.
From: N.
To: M
Subject: Tonight's Assignment - POSTPONED
The schedule for tonight at the Southside warehouse has been flagged for elevated risk. New intel suggests the target doubled his security detail after last week's incident in Pilsen. Without Leon running backup, I'm not comfortable sending you in solo.
We'll reschedule when he's back. Non-negotiable.
Stay sharp. Stay safe.
—N
I stare at the email, toothbrush frozen mid-motion, foam dripping down my chin.
“Non-negotiable my ass,” I mutter, spitting into the sink.
My phone is already dialing before I finish rinsing. I wedge it between my ear and shoulder, yanking open the bathroom door to grab clothes from my closet.
Nonna picks up on the second ring. “Before you say anything—”
“You can't bench me.” I rifle through hangers, pulling out a pair of worn Levi's. “I've been prepping this for two weeks.”
“And Leon's been out of pocket for three.” Her voice is calm. Measured. The way it always gets when she knows I'm about to argue. “You think I don't know what you're doing? Taking extra jobs, pushing harder, running yourself ragged?”
I shimmy into the jeans one-handed, hopping on one foot. “I'm fine.”
“You're spiraling.”
“I'm working.”
Silence stretches between us. I can picture her—wherever she is—pinching the bridge of her nose the way she does when any of us test her patience.
I grab a ribbed tank from the drawer, pulling it over my head. The fabric catches on my still-damp curls and I have to wrestle it down.
“The target's security doubled,” Nonna says finally. “Six men minimum, rotating shifts, plus the new cameras on the east entrance. Without —”
“I'll improvise.” I let my hair fall loose, dark waves tumbling down my back. “I always do.”
“Improvising is what got you that scar on your hip.”
My hand instinctively brushes the raised skin beneath my jeans. A souvenir from a job that went sideways in Miami. Leon had pulled me out. Barely.
“That was different.”
“Was it?” I hear movement on her end. The creak of a chair. “You were reckless then too. Thought you had something to prove.”
“I don't have anything to prove.”
“Then why are you fighting me on this?”
Because I can't sit still. Because every night I'm not working is a night I'm thinking about things I shouldn't. People I shouldn't.
I don't say any of that.
“Because the target is moving product through that warehouse in seventy-two hours.” I keep my voice steady, professional. “Girls, Nonna. Young ones. If we wait for Leon, we lose the window.”
More silence. I pace the length of my closet, bare feet silent against hardwood.
“You've confirmed this?” she asks.
“Punk intercepted the manifest last night. Twelve containers scheduled for Port Authority on Monday.” I grab a hair tie from the vanity, twisting it between my fingers. “If he's alive when those ships dock—”
“He won't be.”
I freeze. “So you're approving it?”
A long exhale crackles through the speaker. “I'm saying… I trust your judgment. Even when it's clouded by whatever's going on in that head of yours.”
“Nothing's going on in my head.”
“Ivy.” The way she says my name—soft, knowing—makes my chest tight. “You can lie to everyone else. You can't lie to me.”
I sink onto the edge of my bed, suddenly exhausted despite the hour.
“I'm fine,” I say again, but it comes out quieter this time.
“You're not. But that's a conversation for another day.” I hear the click of a keyboard on her end. “I'm sending updated schematics. Punk will run remote support. You go in fast, you go in clean, and you get out before anyone knows you were there.”
“I always do.”
“And Ivy?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever's distracting you—whoever's distracting you—figure it out. Before it gets you killed.”
The line goes dead.
I sit there for a long moment, phone clutched in my hand, staring at the doorway to my bedroom. From somewhere in the apartment, I can hear Asher moving around. Cabinets opening. His voice, low and easy, probably on the phone with whatever restaurant he's ordering from.
Figure it out.
If only it were that simple.
I stand, shaking off the heaviness, and finger-comb my curls until they fall in loose waves. The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks put together. Normal. That's the thing about playing house. It's all just masks and scripts.
My phone buzzes. Punk, this time.
Punk: Got Nonna's ping. You sure about this?
When am I not?
That's what worries me.
I pocket the phone and head toward the kitchen, toward the sound of Asher's voice, toward another day of pretending I'm something I'm not.
The choker sits heavy against my throat. A reminder.
You're stuck with me forever.
Funny. That's exactly what I'm afraid of.
The bagels arrive warm, wrapped in white paper that's already starting to go translucent from the butter. Asher dumps the bag on the counter and starts pulling out containers—lox, cream cheese, capers, red onion sliced paper-thin.
“You ordered half of Russ & Daughters.”
“You looked hungry.” He tears into his everything bagel without ceremony, cream cheese oozing out the sides. “Also, you get violent when you're not fed.”
“I get violent for lots of reasons.”
“Name three.”
“You. You again. You a third time.”
He grins around his bite, and I hate how boyish it makes him look. How it transforms all those sharp edges into something softer. Something that makes my chest do stupid things.
I grab my own bagel—sesame, toasted dark—and start building. The domesticity of it sits wrong on my skin. Like wearing someone else's clothes.
“So.” He licks cream cheese off his thumb. “The Thor dream.”
“We're not doing this.”
“We absolutely are.” He leans against the counter, hip cocked, watching me with those glacier eyes. “On a scale of one to ten, how much did dream-me suffer by comparison?”
“There was no comparison. You weren't there.”
“Harsh.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “And here I thought I'd at least earned a supporting role in your subconscious.”
“You'd have to matter first.”
That was mean. Fuck. He's right. I do get scholar if I don't eat. Something flashes across his face—there and gone before I can name it.
His phone rings.
He glances at the screen and his entire body changes. Goes rigid. The playful energy drains out of him like someone pulled a plug.
“I need to take this.” His voice is different. Colder.
He's already moving toward the living room, but I catch the name on the screen before he answers.
Atlas.
“What?” No greeting. No warmth.
I can't hear the other voice, but I watch Asher's jaw work as he listens. Watch his free hand curl into a fist at his side.
“That's not—” He cuts himself off. Breathes through his nose. “Nah fuck that.”
More silence.
“I don't give a fuck.” The words come out low, dangerous. A voice I've never heard from him. His annoyance turns into a sarcastic chuckle that raises the hair on the back of my neck. “Mmm. Someone's got the story twisted, huh?”
He disconnects without saying goodbye, stands there for a moment staring at the black screen like he wants to throw it through the window.
When he turns back to me, that mask is already sliding back into place. But not fast enough. I saw what was underneath. Raw fury. Something wild and barely leashed.
“Everything okay?” I ask, now it's my turn to test the maniac.
“Peachy.” He shoves the phone in his pocket. “I have to head out for a bit. Later today.”
My eyes widen playfully. “Mysterious.”
“Family thing.” The way he says 'family' sounds like a curse. “I'll be back in the morning.”
I take another bite of bagel, watching him try to reassemble himself. “You know I don't actually need a babysitter, right?”