Chapter 26
Ivy
No one is born capable of murder. Or maybe they are. Nature versus nurture—the eternal debate—but I've never thought of myself as a monster.
Emotionless? No. When I love, it consumes me, burns through my veins like poison. Those few I let in, I'd bleed for. The fact that my circle stays small has nothing to do with lacking emotion. Trust is the real problem. Trust is what gets you killed.
“Please! I beg!”
At least that's what I tell people who insist I don't have a heart. If I didn't have one, why has my body count tripled since that winter?
“Have you ever been married, Jonathan?” With every twist of the chamber, each click quivers over my thumb.
My eyes burn from not blinking as I zero in on the glass cabinet in front of me.
Picture frames. He has a family. Children.
A wife. Maybe she loves him as much as I—my throat swells. “Never mind. I see you are.”
He shuffles behind me, as if trying to gain distance between us.
“Marriage is a funny thing. I don’t much believe in it myself.
” The glass throws back my reflection. Dark hair scraped into a tight ponytail, skin slick with product—a thousand bottles' worth of denial that I'm falling apart.
My cheekbones cut sharper angles now, carved hollow by endless training and the absence of anything that might taste like carbs and comfort.
But it's my eyes that stop me cold. Once alive, nature green, now dull like dried moss.
Jonathan’s cries die out behind me as the magnetic force of sadness threatens to swallow me whole.
I don’t recognize that girl.
“Please. I don’t know who sent you, but please.”
That girl pisses me off, because that girl is a reminder of why we don’t broaden the scope.
I turn, aim my gun, and pull the trigger. With a silent blow, his head knocks back in an explosion of vermillion and brain matter.
Silence. A clock ticking in the back.
I don’t recognize that girl.
I answer my phone as I make my way out of the office, taking the emergency stairs. Flight after flight, it’s not until ten minutes later that I push through the exit doors and to my all black Maserati before driving into traffic.
Emeric kept me well fed this year, giving me job after job. Either he knew I needed the distraction, or he didn't care that I was self-destructing.
Swinging the car into an underground parking, I flip the mirror down to check my face, cleaning blood from my cheek and reapplying my lipstick.
Burgundy. The color of blood right as it dries.
I've never cared much about what people thought of me. I didn't care if they were afraid, or if they looked at me sideways for whatever reason. I'd walk down the street and not bat a single eye at another person unless they were a threat.
I was free. To live, to die, to exist between the norm.
Until I arrived at the doorstep of love and found him staring back at me with eyes so soft they reminded me of what it felt like to be free from pain.
It has been a whole year, and I still hear the gunshot go off every time I close my eyes at night.
Feel the kickback against my chest. I faded into nothing for the first few months, wandering through life with a set routine.
I went to work.
I ran.
I ate… what I could.
I slept.
There was nothing more to me than those set tasks. Did I feel something more for Asher than I gave myself credit for? I can’t even imagine feeling that sad over anyone outside of the very few I keep close. But there's a reason why, it's because they are hard to kill. I felt safety in that fact.
Twelve months. It's a long time to be sad over someone I still, to this day, refuse to accept I felt anything more than lust for.
Lust.
Friendship.
Companionship.
Not that I am well-versed in that either.
Sex I understand, but being so addicted to someone that the mere memory of how they felt buried inside you could make you wetter than a summer storm?
No. I can’t say I’m particularly experienced in that field, or pleased that it’s where I’ve found myself at. Even a year later.
“Ivy.” Her voice is like nails on a damn chalkboard, but I keep myself focused on the wall in front of me. I promised Leon that I’d stick to therapy, so I will. “Are you still having the same dreams?”
She’s beautiful. I hate it. A therapist shouldn’t look like she’d fuck your husband on a Sunday afternoon and then go for drinks with you afterwards. Or that’s my bitterness talking.
I need to get out of this damn room. Did I clean all the blood off me before coming in here? Do I even care?
“Nightmares,” I correct, crossing my ankle over the other. “And they’re not all that bad. I happen to like nightmares. They remind me to stay vigilant.”
“And what are your thoughts on it being a reflection of Parker?” She keeps circling back to Parker, as if I want to talk about him. As if I gave a fuck about the cockroach. Just how much has Leon told this bird, anyway?
I shrug. “Parker was unfortunate, but he was a monster in his own right, so I guess it makes sense if they are about him.” I pause for a moment, head tilting. “Though I’m one to talk.”
I leave my answer vague. It’s to bait her as much as it’s to see if she reacts to anything. Plenty of wives despise their husbands. They probably make up for the majority of her clients.
She stops writing on her iPad, her blue eyes moving to mine from behind her glasses. I hate when she does this. It’s as if she can see right through all the dark, dirty places that I've kept hidden. The parts I don’t want anyone to see, much less someone in her profession.
“Ivy.” She plucks off her glasses and places them on top of her lap. “Why is it that you refer to yourself as a monster?”
Bricks climb high in my head as I try to piece back the rubble he left behind after smashing through it. I keep all of my humanity in a filing cabinet inside my mind, and I'm never opening it again.
“Because you don’t do the things I’ve done and not become one, even if you aren't born one.” I hold her stare, wondering if she'll flinch. “Because who am I to decide which evils are worse than the other?”
Familiarity wraps around this room like an old coat. The ticking clock. The massive tank that devours the entire wall behind her desk, housing random fish of all kinds. She's a maximalist. My mind is cluttered enough without my physical space to be. This office is a nightmare.
Her words refocus my attention. “Not all things evil produce evil, Ivanya. Why do you think the very same thing that can kill you could also be used to save you?” Is she even allowed to say this? What kind of therapist is this bitch? “—Venom, for one.”
The world shrinks around me, making it harder to breathe.
I harden my expression. Fingernails dig into my palms as every muscle in my body tightens.
With a shrug, she continues scribbling on her iPad with obvious nonchalance. “—They need venom to produce the anti-venom.”
I relax. Steady breathing.
Her hair's swept up in a half updo today, showcasing her flawless skin. How old even is she? And how did Leon find her?
He's probably fucking her.
“And how is work going?” She doesn’t look up from her scribbling.
What is she even writing in there?
“It’s work. Running a multi-million-dollar corporation has both its pros and its cons.” I don’t want to talk about the publishing house, or my work. Since I’ve thrown most of my time into the one that could land my ass in prison.
The rush.
The adrenaline.
I stare out the window.
Things are so…quiet… when I’m not out. It’s why I prefer the black widow lifestyle, as opposed to taking hits from a list. It keeps me on my toes. A challenge. The kill is the easy part. I prefer to play house more.
Parker was my vendetta, but he wasn’t the only reason why I do what I do and enjoy it.
She nods, picking up her pen and going back to her scribbling. One. Two. Three. Four—Five. I count the ticking of the clock.
“We can circle back over things for as long as you need, Ivy. Until you’re ready.” At a thousand bucks an hour, I bet we can take as long as I want.
She slams the diary closed with her iPad. “I’m wiped. Should we go for a drink?”
My shoulders straighten, eyeing her skeptically. Has she done this before? The worst part is I once again can’t remember to be sure. My memory is about as shit as Jord’s partner choices lately.
“Sure.”
She stands, grabs her Hermès bag, and gestures to the door. An inch or so taller than me when upright, but about two dress sizes smaller.
A strangled laugh leaves my throat. “Okay, I thought you were joking, but I guess not.”
I push up from the chair, buttoning up my coat as I hook my bag over my shoulder. “I don’t know if I should be the one worried now…”
Her giggle follows behind me. “Nope, unfortunately it's still just me.”
“Just to be clear—” I stop beside her. “You’re off the clock now.”
After locking the door, she breezes past me and down the long corridor. “Of course.”
Damn. She must be desperate for friends.
Half an hour later, we pull up to a run-down bar on the corner of the busiest part of the city. I think it’s pirate-themed, but honestly, I can’t tell. I don’t care what’s in it as long as alcohol exists here.
We order four drinks, two to double park, and for the first time in a long time, I feel air in my lungs.
The silence isn’t awkward. It’s welcoming.
I love my friends, but any time they’re around, they want things from me.
They want me to cry, or scream, or talk about my feelings. It’s become exhausting.
“How’s your drink?” Belinda asks, peering over at my glass.
My finger circles the rim continuously as I stare into the creamy hot steam. “It’ll do.”
She chuckles.
We sit. Four drinks become ten as we lounge in the darkest booth of the room.