Chapter 12
Ivy
My stomach twists as last night plays on repeat in my mind.
The way he carried her to bed. I know I'm being ridiculous because she's his fiancée, but… actually no. Fuck no.
I turn away from the window, yanking open drawers until I find what I'm looking for—a fresh bikini.
The fabric is cold against my skin as I change, goosebumps racing across my flesh.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause. My eyes are wild, unguarded in a way that makes me look away. This is what jealousy looks like on me—ugly and raw and everything I swore I'd never be.
Hair up. Messy. Strands already escaping. The coat's heavy, boots snug.
I shove a towel, last night's wine, and a crumpled map into my beach bag.
Fuck it. If I'm gonna lose my mind, might as well do it somewhere beautiful.
The spring. A small symbol drawn in ink, somewhere deep in the forest. My thumb traces over it, smudging the line. Hot springs in this frozen paradise—I'd laughed when I first saw it marked on the map. Now I'm desperate enough to believe in fairy tales.
The manor is quiet as I slip through the hall, just the distant clink of someone washing dishes in the kitchen. Everyone's at the Games, watching Asher. I'd watched him too, last night—the way his hands had cradled her head when he thought no one could see.
My boots punch through fresh snow as I head toward the tree line. It doesn’t take long before the trees start closing in around me. Finally. Alone.
I squint at the map, tilting it toward what little sunlight filters through the pines.
My fingers are already going numb, the joints stiff and useless.
The drawings blur together—that cluster of circles could be trees.
Could be rocks. Could be fucking anything.
I'm following what might be a path, or maybe just where deer have worn down the undergrowth.
The cold bites into my cheeks, leaving them raw and burning. I don't bother pulling up my scarf. Physical pain is easier than whatever this is, this hollow thing spreading beneath my ribs, eating through bone and cartilage. Jealousy.
God, I hate that word. Hate how it shrinks me down to nothing. Before Asher, I never looked at someone and thought, why her, not me? Never wanted to claw the answer out of my own chest.
“All you've ever had to fucking do is say the word.”
His voice echoes through my brain as I push deeper into the forest. Say what word? When? When he's carrying another woman to bed? When he’s entering new relationships? When he’s ghosting me?
When I’m not married anymore?
A branch snaps under my boot, loud in the winter silence. I freeze, heart in throat, before remembering there's no one to catch me here. No Asher with his knowing eyes. Just me, my pathetic jealousy, and these damn frozen tears I refuse to let fall.
I smell it before I see it—sulfur and minerals…and salt.
Trees spread apart, and I push harder, my boot catching on ice that nearly takes me down. Through a gap in the pines, steam curls up from a natural pool.
I laugh. Of course it would be beautiful. Of course the universe would hand me this perfect moment when I'm too pissed off to give a shit about it.
I dump my bag on a dry rock, fingers stupid with cold as they work at my coat buttons. The air bites into my skin, goosebumps erupting across my arms. I hiss through my teeth. Shit, it’s cold. But I need this—need to feel something real, even if it hurts.
Swiping the bottle of wine, I rip off the cork and spit it near my boots and coat.
I kick off my shoes, and wince when snow melts against my toes, causing me to dance awkwardly as I hop toward the steaming water.
I can be in the moment.
I'm free. Free from watching. Free from wanting. Free from him.
Even if it's just for a few hours.
Even if I know I'll have to go back.
Even if freedom is just another word for running.
* * *
Sulfur doesn’t wash off as easily as your sins do. Twenty minutes under hot water, and the scent still sticks to me like a clingy ex.
Steam drowns the bathroom mirror, but I swipe the congestion away and drag the white midi over my head. Silk slides down, catching every curve I'd forgotten existed. The split climbs my thigh as I tug it into place. White. Like I'm some virgin sacrifice. Like I'm not the bloodstain to the color.
I quickly make my way down the stairs to find Luce, when voices catch my attention from the kitchen.
A woman curses in German, tangled with Jasper's laugh.
Their battle over seasoning sounds like the start of every love story.
Jasper and Jord knew each other from their earlier training days, and when Jord mentioned he was looking for work, I jumped at taking him.
Turns out he loved Veilarath after his first visit, and now lives here on the island.
“—Sauerbraten zuerst, das ist tradition—”
“Nein, nein, die Vorspeisen—”
Jasper and his sous chef square off across the steel prep station, knives flashing like switchblades in afternoon glare. The woman swats forward, gray braid snapping as she brandishes her ladle like whoever controls the gravy controls the war.
“Mir ist es egal, womit ihr anfangt,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. I don't care what you start with. “Solange es essbar ist.”As long as it's edible.
The ladle clatters to the floor.
Jasper's knife freezes mid-chop, his eyes widening like I've just materialized from thin air. Which, given my profession, isn't entirely inaccurate.
“Sie sprechen Deutsch?” The woman's voice pitches high with shock as she asks if I speak her tongue.
“Offensichtlich.” Obviously. I push off the doorframe, moving into the kitchen with measured steps. The dress whispers against my thighs, a sound too soft for this house of soon-to-be ghosts.
Jasper recovers first, a grin splitting his face. “All these weekends, and you never told me.”
“There's a lot you don't know about me, Jasper.” I wink at him.
Movement in my peripheral. My body recognizes him before my mind catches up—heart jumping while my gut twists itself into knots.
Asher fills the doorway, snow melting in his disheveled hair, still wearing his gear from the Games.
His jaw works, grinding hard enough I swear I can hear his molars crack.
But there's something raw in his eyes that makes me want to both slap him and smooth away the crease between his brows.
“Asher.” Jasper brightens, oblivious to the war raging inside me. “The conquering hero returns! How were the Games?”
Those blue eyes stay locked on mine. A muscle jumps beneath the dirt smudged across his cheekbone. His fingers tighten around the doorframe until the wood groans beneath his grip, knuckles white and straining, the skin pulled so thin I wait for bone to split through.
“It was great, Jasper. Raised a ton of money,” he grinds out, as if it pained him to do so. “Ivy, we need to talk.”
“Do we?” I turn back to Jasper, dismissing Asher with the kind of casual cruelty I've perfected over years of emotional warfare. “What time are we serving?”
“Seven, but--”
“Then you better sort out your menu dispute.” I snag an apple from the bowl on the counter, taking a bite that's all performance. The fruit tastes like shit. Everything tastes like shit these days. “I'd start with the Vorspeisen, personally. But what do I know?”
“Ivy.” Asher's tone cuts through the kitchen's clatter, sharp enough that Jasper's sous chef jerks backward like he took a hit.
I finally look at him properly, letting my gaze travel from his snow-caked boots to the muscle jumping in his jaw. He looks wrecked. Destroyed. Excellent. Welcome to my personal hell, pretty boy.
“You're dripping on Jasper's clean floor.”
Raw violence flares in his eyes. He eats the space between us in three long strides, sudden enough that Jasper buries his face in diced onions.
“Outside.” A command.
“I'm busy.” I don’t blink.
He bares his teeth. “Now.”
I place the apple on the counter, slow and measured.
When did he start affecting me like this? When did I let him?
“Entschuldigung,” I murmur to Jasper and his colleague, whose eyes are ping-ponging between us like they're watching a tennis match. “Apparently, I'm needed elsewhere.”
I brush past Asher, close enough that my shoulder shoves his chest. He smells like snow and sweat and barely controlled rage. The combination shouldn't make my pulse race.
But it does.
Christ, it does.
His hand catches my elbow before I make it two steps into the hallway, spinning me against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. The white dress rides up as he cages me in, his body a wall of heat despite the snow still melting in his hair.
“What the fuck happened this morning?”
I flatten my face into a blank mask, hiding the wild thud of my heart. “You'll have to be more specific. It's been a long day.”
His eyes narrow. “Don't play coy with me, Venom. It ain't cute.”
He works his jaw, the tendons in his neck straining. He's holding himself back. Barely.
The hallway shrinks around us, air going thin.
My lungs burn with each shallow breath I take.
Snow melts from his hair, fat drops hitting the floor between us.
Each one counts down his control—a timer ticking toward zero.
His chest rises and falls in measured breaths, but I recognize that rhythm.
I've watched him breathe through broken ribs, through altitude sickness, through pain that shatters grown men.
This isn't survival. This is rage. This is him wanting to unleash on me, and fighting it with everything he has.
Then I sense it. The hurt. His head angles away, attention fixed past my shoulder. Disappointment carved into every line of his face, the slump of usually proud shoulders.
He expected me there. Of course he did. And I'd failed him without even knowing how. My throat tightens as the realization hits me. I've fucked up something important without even trying.