16. Ivy
Chapter sixteen
Ivy
Age Eighteen
I lay on my stomach in silence, the last of my tears still pooling at the tip of my nose. I don't have the energy to wipe it away. I don't have the energy for anything after the last two days. My body hurts—my legs from the hike back up the mountain, my ass from the blade, my cheek from the sting of my mother's hand whipping across my face. It's a better alternative to what would have happened if Uncle Vitoli had woken up to find me missing, but it doesn't make the pain any less or the humiliation any easier to bear. I suppose her thinking that I'm just an idiot who forgot that her period was starting is preferable to her ripping my shorts down to see the name carved on my ass, especially since they came home with friends who look like they'd very much have loved to see my ass on full display.
I haven't left my room since I got home yesterday morning, and other than the one time the doorknob jiggled like someone was trying to come in, no one has come to try and lure me out. I'll gladly wait until they're gone, though the hunger is hollowing my stomach. I haven't heard the crunch of the tires telling me that their guests have left yet, so I don't bother moving until I'm nearly asleep without even realizing it when a sudden sound at the window makes me jerk awake, my heartbeat doubling as I scramble to get up. Out the window, there's only darkness, no light on this side of the cabin to illuminate the view of the trees cascading down the mountain below. A little slip of moonlight illuminates things just enough to see the trees reaching out to me, branches swaying with a little breeze, enticing me to slip back outside.
Something hits the window and bounces off, making me jump to my feet this time, my heart in my throat. I didn't see what it was; it all happened so fast.
I'm nearly at the window when it happens again.
This time, I see it just as it hits the window, making a sound that seems loud enough to wake the whole house, just before it bounces off the glass.
A rock?
I keep just a little space between the window and myself as I draw up to it, bracing my hands against the sill so that I can peer out into the dark night. This time, after the rock hits the glass, I see the movement—a man. It's obvious by the silhouette of him, though the hood over his face casts any identifying features in shadow.
My throat goes dry, but I'm not stupid. I know it has to be one of them... maybe all of them. I lift my hand up and flip him the middle finger, refusing to let them try and fuck with my head anymore because they can't fuck with my body.
They've hated me for a while, and I've never understood it, but what Killian did last night? It's a step further than I thought he'd ever go, and I despise myself for falling into his trap.
As I step away from the window, I wish that I had curtains to pull to shut them out. Better yet, I wish I had a way to shut them out entirely, a way to get them out of my life—all of them. I tried running away the first time when I was a kid, which was the first time I met Killian. It had been after a particularly explosive fight, and at eight, I decided there had to be something better out there.
I didn't get far, climbing up the side of the rocky bluff behind the house when I put my hand in the wrong spot and got hit with an agonizing sting that had me screeching in a combination of the pain and terror. When I let go of the rock with my injured hand, my feet slipped out from under me, and tears pooled in my eyes.
In hindsight, I wasn't far off the ground, but the pain and fear had me ready to call out for my mother and face whatever consequences she'd dole out for getting my clothes dirty. I was just opening my mouth to do as much when I felt the body behind me, an arm wrapping around my legs, and I let go, trusting whoever it was to catch me.
He did, surprisingly, and then set me on the flat ground before him.
I didn't even get a chance to look at his face under all that dark black hair before he was grabbing my hand by the fingers to look at it, and I cringed in pain. Two little dots of blood welled up on the bony back of my hand, blood dripping in thin trails down my fingers, which were in the palm of a boy.
"Snake bite." He said, glancing up at me for just a second—letting me see the pretty gold flecks in his green eyes—before looking back at the blood.
A snake bite?
Panic gripped me by the throat. I didn't see a snake, though? How could he tell?
A small breath pushed through me, and my voice sounded extra girly and not as tough as I liked to pretend I was when I asked, "Am I going to die?"
The boy shrugged, dragging a finger through the blood and spreading it down my index finger. "I don't know. Depends what kind of snake it was. Did you see it?"
I didn't even know they had snakes here. I'd never seen one outside of the zoo. My lip trembled as I tried not to cry, but the world got blurry and his face got hard to see. If I was going to die, I definitely didn't want my mom to find me first—she would probably beat the poison to it. He lifted my hand, and I thought it was so that he could see it better, but then his lips touched against the back of it, and I realized he was kissing it, trying to take away the pain.
Maybe he was just granting me some comfort in what I was absolutely convinced would be my final moments. And then I felt something wet, and his tongue smoothed over the bite, making me jump away, trying to withdraw from his grip. But his fingers tightened on me a little, keeping me in his grasp as he licked harder, clearing away the trails of blood before sealing his lips around the puncture wound.
Stories of vampires who sucked blood popped into my head, and a little sound of fear slipped out of my throat, but the sun shining on his dark hair made me pretty sure he wasn't going to drain me of all my blood. Not at that moment, anyway.
When he pulled away, his eyes met mine for a minute, and then he smiled, my blood still on his lips. I just stared at him, too confused to move.
"Why did you do that?" I finally managed to ask as his tongue poked out to swipe away the last of the blood from his lips.
"If it's venomous, you have to suck the venom out or it will kill you. You should be fine." He shrugged, like it was no big deal.
My lips trembled still, and my emotions won the battle, hot tears dropping down my cheeks.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice curious.
I couldn't manage to speak while crying, so I only nodded my head. The initial snake bite did hurt, and it kind of still did, but that wasn't the reason I was crying. I was crying because my attempt to run away had been thwarted before I even got out of sight of my parents' cabin. I guess trying to go up the hill had been a dumb idea, but going down the hill hadn't seemed like a good choice. If I go up, they will lose sight of me the second I make it over the ridge. If I go down, they can see me just by looking out the window.
"It should stop soon. Does your mom know how to clean a snake bite?"
I shook my head because my mom doesn't know how to clean anything. "I'll take you to mine, then. She's good at this stuff."
I probably would have followed him anywhere by that point, so as he led me down the mountain to his family cabin, I let my tears subside and focused on watching him—this curious boy with messy black hair and skin that was the color of caramels left out on the counter to cure—the kind Miss Lizzie used to make me when I was younger. I guessed that it meant he spent a lot of time outside.
"So, what were you doing back there?" He asked me, tipping his head back to the mountain I failed to climb. When I turned back, it looked a lot bigger than it did from inside my cabin.
"Running away from home." I said, swallowing.
"You don't like it here?"
His question seemed silly, especially because I kind of did like it there. It was better to be in the mountains than in the city. My parents seemed more relaxed out here. They weren't constantly at each other's throats, and mom wasn't coming home with glassy eyes in the middle of the night for dad to use her like a punching bag. But somehow, when we came out here, I became a bigger target than when I was back in our apartment in the city. They didn't hit me when we were home, but something about being in the woods made them a little wilder, less worried about what the neighbors would think. It was obvious from the time I was young that they couldn’t care less what the neighbors at the cabin thought of us, and my parents’ opinion of the neighbors couldn’t have been lower either.
Now that I'm older, I know why they’re themselves out here, why they let their animal instincts take hold. It's just because there's no one to see the bruises in the summertime, no teachers to call child services, no authorities to question the good name of the D’Aquino family. Now that I'm older, I also know there's no escape. And now that there’s no school for me to return to, no teachers to worry over me, and very few friends to poke their heads in on me, I can only imagine what life is going to look like.
I almost wish they’d sell me off already and get it over with. I’m eighteen, a legal adult, capable of getting married of my own volition. Not that I expect my parents to give me any say over my marriage. My whole life, they’ve made no qualms about what it means to be a D’Aquino.
We don’t have the luxury of living like other families, my mother would always remind me. Other families can marry for love. Other families can have multiple children. Other families can vacation in foreign countries or take a trip to a theme park. Other families can send their daughter to college for a good education.
The sound of the doorbell makes my stomach drop, and I turn to the window in horror.
No.
I know they hate me, but would they really bring my parents into this?
I hear the grumble as my father's footsteps sound on the stairs, every noise in the house echoing as if it's going to collapse around me. I almost wish it would. I flip the lock on my doorknob and slowly twist it, opening the door just enough to let light into my room as my father clicks the overhead one on. I can't see his face as he approaches the front door, his back to me, but I can tell he's pissed.
I'm going to be in so much fucking trouble.
But when my father opens the door, he looks from side to side, searching for anyone there.
No voices come, and the anxiety in my chest eases a fraction as he grumbles about fucking children and shakes his head. He slams the door shut, drawing the lock.
The back of my neck feels like it's covered in spiders, their spindly legs tapdancing against my spine. I slip my door closed before my father can see me, and then breathe easier when I hear the sound of his footsteps creaking on the stairs.
My sense of ease doesn't last long because a rock hits my window, making me jump. I rush toward it, anger overtaking the fear as I throw the window open.
"Oh shit !" The whisper is loud and frantic, and I just have time to duck out of the way before a stone goes sailing past my head, landing on the floor by my bed with a thunk that makes me cringe.
"What do you want from me?"
I want to yell it, to scream at them, to show them how much I don't fucking want to deal with them. But I don't dare speak in anything above a whisper, and I stifle my scream as the figure appears at my window, bracing their hands on the sill to prepare to climb through. I throw my arms out to try and block the path, and the laugh that it gets from my tormentor tells me exactly who it is even before the light shines on his face.
Monty brushes past me with ease, landing on his feet like a cat, and turns to face me with a smirk.
It slips away, though, and his eyes dip to the trail of blood that I never bothered cleaning off of my arm. I let the cuts dry, crusty and bloody, messy like me, and usually I clean it up after. Except this time I haven't had the energy to clean the mess, and now he knows.
I snatch my satin robe off the back of the chair and throw it on over my nightgown, hiding the network of scars he'll see if he looks close enough... and my hardened nipples.
"What are you doing here?" I hiss, glancing out at the darkness outside to see if the others are moving in.
"What happened there?" Monty nods at my arm, his eyes not leaving my face.
I can feel his judgment; I can feel that he has no clue that I do to myself the very same thing they did to me yesterday.
"Dropped a glass bowl." I lie easily, and his eyes narrow, telling me he doesn't buy it even for a second. "Again, what are you doing here?"
"I came to check on you," he says, shrugging out of his jacket so that I can see his face better as he pulls his hoodie off. It's too warm for that, but I imagine he was trying to blend with the shadows of the night. And I can't exactly blame him. I’m afraid of my own father, and he’s been historically vocal about his disgust for the locals. They avoid us like we aren’t here, and my parents like it that way.
"That's so kind of you." I sneer, rolling my eyes. "I'm great. You can go now."
"Come on, Poison. Don't be like that." He steps closer to me with a confidence I've never seen from Monty before. He's usually content to stand back, to linger, afraid to take what he wants unless Killian and Theo are at his side, egging him on. I guess they’re rubbing off on him. The way he joined in on the train tracks confirms as much.
"Don't fucking call me that." I snap, angry that he caught me with the evidence on my arm, that he had the audacity to show up here to check on me, that he held me down and let his friend carve his fucking name into my skin.
"Ivy," his voice is softer as he blows out a sigh. "Are you okay?"
I don't think I've ever been okay, but he doesn't need to know that. This boy—man—who has taken up so many of the memories of my life despite the fact that I see him once or twice every summer, doesn't need to know that I am a goddamn mess. He can probably see it written in the tear tracks on my face, if he really cares to deconstruct it.
"Would you care if I said no?" I laugh, shaking my head. " Seriously , Monty? Why wouldn't I be okay?"
"You were crying yesterday when..."
I cross my arms, waiting to hear him say it out loud.
"Yeah..." I arch an eyebrow, trying not to smirk at the obvious discomfort on his face.
"It's just... what we did..."
"You cut me." I shrug. "Big fucking deal. I do it to myself all the time."
His face goes blank at the admission, and then his eyes drop to my arm, hidden now behind the sleeve of my satin robe.
"We both know you didn't buy the story about the bowl. Now you know. I like the pain, Monty. Who fucking cares if I cried?"
He swallows visibly, and I can tell that he clearly cares. I just don't fucking know why. It doesn't make any sense that this guy who has always been so hot and cold with me is standing before me now, acting like he's sorry for what he did.
"You were upset."
I shrug again. "Lots of things upset me. So what? You held me down while Killian ripped my panties off and cut me? You think it ruined my fucking life? Newsflash, Monty?" I laugh. "It's already ruined."
I know, somewhere in the back of my head, that what they did to me was so fucking wrong. I know, in the back of my head, that the fact that I don't hate them for it is so fucking wrong. And I know in the back of my head that I crave their presence so much I'd let them light me on fire and talk about what a pretty candle I make.
I also know that I can never let them know that, because if they figure out that I am so fucking starved for the smallest bit of affection that I'll let them do practically anything to me, they won't bother stopping until they destroy me. So, I do what I've learned to do from the first time my father's knuckles caught me in the stomach and my mother made no move to reprimand him. I do what I've done since my mother grabbed me by the hair and threw me down the steps here. I do what I've done ever since I met Killian's mom, with her soft smile and pretty eyes, and pretend that everything is fine.
In private, I let myself fall apart. In the moment, I let myself feel the pain. But when the moment passes and I'm alone, I let myself feel it again, knowing that I can control it. And the next time I face whoever hurt me, I pretend like it's been forgotten, carefully stowed away in a place where no one can ever try to taint the memory with apologies they don't mean.
He looks so sad that I want to cut him, too, just to see something else fill his eyes.
"You can go. I'm fine."
"I'm not going anywhere." He shakes his head, stepping closer to me and eliminating the space between us.
“My parents…” I know they’re not going to randomly come check on me. But just having him in the same home as my father feels like inviting trouble, and not the kind that the Reapers bring me.
He's taller than I realized, lean but with muscle under his delicate skin, which is smooth and unmarred. His proximity makes my throat feel thick and dry, and the look in his eye shifts to something decidedly less sad as he tucks a strand of my red hair behind my ear.
I don’t know if he didn’t hear me or if he just chose to ignore me. "Does it hurt?"
I'm not really sure what he's referring to—the pain on my ass or the thinly clotted wound on my arm or the fact that he's so close and everything in me wants to tuck myself into his side, to feel him wrapped around me as I steal some of his strength.
"No." I whisper, feeling my own breath dance on my lips as his settle just over mine, not touching but close enough that I can feel his breath skate over them too. It smells like mint and beer, a combination that has no business being as intoxicating as it is. It's like he drank a lot and then tried to cover up the beer breath with copious mints. I wonder if he was with Killian and Theo, if he left them to come here to see me.
His fingertips land on my thigh, on the edge of my nightgown, but I don't dare look away from him to see what he's doing. I couldn't even if I tried.
It’s like we’re playing chicken again, only this time it’s just him and me, daring each other to be the one to tap out.
His touch ghosts over my skin at first, like he hasn't committed to the idea of touching me, and then a featherlight brush of his knuckle grazes the hem of my nightgown and slips around to my backside. I can't help my eyes fluttering closed as the tips of his fingers coast along the back of my thigh, so close to where my skin is still on fire with their assault.
"Turn around." He whispers.
I'm not sure if I hear the words or feel them, but I obey either way, tearing myself from him just enough to turn around so that my motion drags his touch across the back of my leg, his fingers following. I don't object when his other hand grabs the hem of my robe and nightgown, lifting them higher to see what they left me with. I hear the catch of his breath when he realizes I'm not wearing panties. I couldn't exactly slip them on over my bloody ass and let them dry against my skin.
"Ivy."
There are so many things in his voice, in the simple two syllables of my name, but I don't contemplate them as his touch grazes against the unmarred side of my ass first, and then his attention settles to the wound on the other side. I flinch when his finger lands on top of one of the letters, but it's the daintiest touch, gentle and free of malice.
As he traces Killian's name, I actually shiver—a shiver that deepens when his lips press against the base of my spine.
For a minute, I think he may trace the letters with his tongue, the way Killian did yesterday, but then he straightens up, drops the fabric back down to cover me and my tingling pussy, and guides me to the bed with his hand in mine.
I think he's going to undress me to make his move, but he never does. He guides me to lay on my side in the center of my bed and then cocoons his body beside mine, face to face, breath to breath. I think his lips will fall upon mine, but they never do.
I fall asleep with his heart beating against mine… and wake to my father pounding on my bedroom door.