Chapter 24
Ivy
Thirty years of breathing, and somehow this birthday feels like a funeral. Every birthday feels like a damn funeral. This one in particular can simply go fuck itself.
White lace clings to every curve on my body, like some virgin sacrifice. Fitting. Honestly. In some ways more than others.
White lace clings like a second skin, and suddenly I'm thirteen again, a maiden painting my face, making me beautiful for monsters.
The crowd watches. They always watch.
Somewhere in this chaos, Parker plays the devoted husband, already three whiskeys deep and charming some socialite half his age.
My eyes find Asher without meaning to.
He's leaning against the far wall near the canopy, drink forgotten in his hand, wearing all black. The contrast makes his eyes sharper, more dangerous. Camille hangs on his arm, red lips moving with whatever story she's telling, but Asher isn't listening.
He's staring at me.
My pulse kicks up despite every defense I've built against this exact reaction. We haven’t spoken since last night. Since both of us decided to self-destruct instead of fight. I know why I have, but why has he? Or that’s it. I really was just a play thing to live out his mommy issues.
Punk appears at my elbow with champagne. “You okay?”
“Perfect.” I swipe the drink and bring it to my mouth.
“Liar.” She follows my gaze across the room. “You two are going to combust if you keep eye-fucking each other like that.”
I snicker. “Trust me. That’s not what this is.”
“Sure,” she drags out with an eye roll that makes me glance at her twice.
She drifts away before I press her about it, leaving me exposed in the center of the room. Music shifts, something slower, heavier. Bodies move around me but I'm frozen, caught in Asher's orbit like a satellite with failing thrusters.
He says something to Camille. She frowns, tightens her grip on his arm, but he's already pulling away. Each step he takes toward me feels inevitable, like watching a car crash in slow motion.
The crowd senses it too. Conversations falter. Eyes track his movement.
Fuck.
I turn, heading for the terrace doors, but his hand closes around my biceps before I make it three steps. The touch sears through lace, proprietary and possessive in ways that should piss me off but instead make my stomach clench.
“We need to talk.” His voice is low, meant only for me.
“There's nothing to say.”
“Bullshit.” He pulls, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to make his point, steering me away from the party. Through the library. Past the study. Into the darkened conservatory where moonlight filters through glass panels.
He releases me only to cage me against the wall, palms flat on either side of my head. This close, I can see the tension bracketing his mouth, the way his jaw works like he's been chewing on the words for hours.
Tension releases around his brows.
“Happy birthday,” he says softly, but still rough around the edges.
“Thanks.” I search his face. “That what you dragged me in here to say? Your fiancée is rather jealous and I know you don't want to upset her.”
“No.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, tracking the neckline of this fucking dress before it catches on the collar around my neck. “I came to tell you that watching you walk down those stairs in this dress almost had me snap every fucking thing I'd kept held together.”
“What are you holding together, Ash?” I ask, searching for something. Anything.
“Everything.” His thumb brushes my collarbone, following the edge of white lace. It stops around the choker before it dives into his pocket and he pulls out a small box.
“Another forever collar?” I ask with an arched brow, plucking the small satin box.
He smirks, hand sliding down the wall and drawing us closer together. “Nah, there's only one of those. Ever.”
I flip it open. A single diamond. No context. Just an emerald cut that glistens against the black pouch.
“Asher…” I groan, afraid to even touch it. “I can't take this?”
He stares down at me, and something dark shifts over his eyes. “You can, and you will.”
I pick it up, running my finger over the lines. It doesn't make a lot of sense, but I don't ask questions.
“Thank you,” I whisper, finally dragging my eyes away from the gift and back to him, but he’s gone.
I stand in the conservatory, the diamond cold against my palm, staring at the empty space where Asher stood three seconds ago.
What the fuck?
The door to the conservatory clicks shut somewhere behind me, and I spin, expecting Asher to reappear with some cryptic explanation. But it's Parker, silhouette backlit by the party beyond.
“There you are.” His voice carries that edge it gets after too much whiskey. “Guests are asking for you.”
I slip the diamond into the hidden pocket of my dress. “I needed air.”
“In here?” He steps closer, and I smell the alcohol now, harsh and sour. “With him?”
“He left,” I answer, bored.
“I saw.” Parker's jaw tightens. “Everyone saw. You two sneaking off like teenagers.”
I shake my head. “We talked. That's it.”
“Right.” He laughs, bitter and hollow. “Just talking. Is that what you call it when his hands are all over you?”
My pulse spikes, but I keep my expression neutral. “You're drunk.”
His mouth curdles. “And you're fucking him.”
The accusation hangs between us. I could deny it. Should deny it.
“Why do you care?” I push off the wall, moving toward him instead of away. “You don't love me. This has never been about love.”
His hand shoots out to my wrist. “You're my wife.”
“I'm your nothing,” I sneer, yanking against his hold, but he doesn't release. “Your perfect little trophy to parade around so people don't ask questions about what you do in the dark.”
His eyes widen, fear flickering across his features before arrogance smothers it. “You threatening me? Young Love?”
My mind spirals, snatching my breath before I can shove it away.
Handle your shit, Ivanya… you're better than this.
It's been six years since the burning man came back and saved me from evil. I still owe him my life, only now, he doesn't go by the burning man, he goes by the name Emeric. I haven't seen him since he left me and Nonna, but slowly, more arrived. Luce, Leon, Jord, Punk.
“Ivanya, it has been many years, my child.” I don't move.
Afraid that if I do, I'll break by thanking him for saving me.
Thank him for taking me away from the vile things that were happening to me.
And then I'd look weak. If there's anything I don't want, it's to look weak.
Not to him. Not to Nonna. Not after all this time that they put into sharpening me like a weapon.
I absorb his words like they're gospel, because they are.
“With every chapter of the four books of L’Abattoir Codex were honored by you, I watched in admiration as you not only learned, but you owned.
Book One: Psychological Warfare, Book Two: Corps de Violence, Book Three: Advanced Manipulation, Book Four: Emergency Protocols for Emotional Contamination.
You were born to serve Lavage de Cerveau, my Ivanya, and I am honored to have you as I've watched you spread your violence through the streets of Europe. The children will speak of you as they do me. Le Boucher Sans Loi—”
“Everything okay?” Her gaze bounces between us, pulling me out of memory lane. So fucking close. So close to this moment.
“Perfect.” Parker smooths his suit jacket, mask sliding back into place. “Just having a private conversation with my wife.”
Lucinda doesn't believe him. I can see it in the way her shoulders tense, how her hand hovers near her clutch.
“The cake's ready,” she says carefully, ignoring Parker.
I brush past him without another word, following Lucinda back toward the noise and lights. She leans close as we walk.
“What happened?” she whispers, a smile wide on her face.
I match her mask. “Nothing I can't handle.”
“Ivy—”
“Drop it, Luce.”
We emerge into the main room where someone's dimmed the lights. A massive cake sits on the center table, candles flickering, and the crowd breaks into an off-key rendition of Happy Birthday that makes my skin crawl.
Asher stands near the back, Camille plastered to his side again, but his attention locks on me immediately. Something passes between us, silent and loaded. His jaw clenches. My fingers brush the hidden pocket where the diamond waits.
The singing ends. Everyone expects me to make a wish, blow out the candles, smile for the cameras already pointed my way.
I close my eyes.
When I open them, Parker's watching from across the room, glass raised in mock toast. The threat in his expression is clear. Just how much does he know? Has he made me?
I stuff the questions away for later and blow out the candles.
The party continues for another two hours. Endless conversations, forced laughter, champagne I don't drink because I need my mind sharp. Camille clings to Asher near the bar. Punk vanishes somewhere upstairs.
People don't start to leave until midnight, and I drift into the kitchen, needing distance from all of it.
It’s empty and dark except for moonlight through the windows.
I pour water from the tap, pressing the cold glass against my forehead, and try to remember how to breathe.
Footsteps behind me. I don't turn, already knowing who it is by the hesitant footsteps. As if he’s contemplating his next move.
“We're not done talking.” Parker's voice carries none of the drunken slur from earlier.
I shrug. “There's nothing left to say.”
“I disagree.” He moves closer. I track his reflection in the window. “You think I don't know what you are? What you've been doing behind my back?”
Kind of been counting on it.
My phone vibrates again, and I swipe it up and check the text.
Have you grown weak, Ivanya?
My teeth grit together at the taunting tone
I place the phone down, face down, and turn with the knife in my hand.
He brushes me off, pulling me closer until I’m almost drunk on his breath. Laughter cackles from him as he stumbles further into my space.