5. Ivy
IVY
I wake up in Knox's bed.
Not mine. His.
The ceiling is different—higher, with exposed beams I've never noticed in my own room. The sheets smell like him, cedar and something warm, and the mattress is bigger than it has any right to be.
I'm sore. Not unbearably so, but enough that every small movement—the stretch of sitting up, the pull of muscles I didn't know existed—reminds me exactly what happened last night. Three times. Three different men. Three stepbrothers.
The words should land differently in my head. Should carry weight. Moral panic. Something.
They don't.
I should feel regret, maybe. Shame. That gut-twisting, oh-God-what-did-I-do panic that comes with decisions made after midnight when rational thought goes out the window. I've heard friends describe it—the morning-after horror show, the desperate need to rewind.
Instead, what I feel is hungry. Ravenous, actually. Like my body burned through every calorie it had and is now demanding tribute.
The realization almost makes me laugh.
I sit up slowly, testing the soreness, cataloging each twinge and ache. Nothing sharp. Just a deep, bone-level reminder that I used my body in ways it wasn't used to. The sheets slip down, cool air hitting bare skin, and I notice my nightgown folded neatly on the chair by the door.
Someone put it there.
Knox, probably. The thought sends warmth creeping up my neck, pooling in my cheeks. I can picture him doing it—careful, considerate, probably grinning to himself the whole time.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet finding the floor. The silk nightgown slides over my head, whispering against skin that feels more sensitive than it did yesterday.
Everything feels more sensitive. Raw. Awake.
The hardwood is cool under my bare feet as I pad downstairs. No socks. No robe. Just me and this ridiculous scrap of fabric that barely qualifies as clothing.
The estate feels different in the morning light—still quiet, but not the charged, breathless quiet of last night. Not the kind of silence that hums with possibility and danger. Just... another morning. Ordinary. Almost boring.
Except nothing about this is ordinary.
The scent hits me halfway down the stairs. Coffee, rich and dark. Bacon, salty and crisp. Something else underneath—eggs, maybe, or toast. My stomach growls, loud enough that I press a hand to it like that'll somehow muffle the sound.
I round the corner into the kitchen and stop dead.
All three of them are already there.
Roman leans against the counter, mug in hand, looking like he's been awake for hours. His gray eyes flick to me, then away, but I catch the ghost of something in his expression before he hides it.
Knox grins at me like this is any other morning and not the morning after I lost my virginity to him and his brothers.
"Morning, sweetheart."
West sits at the table, coffee mug between his palms, blue eyes tracking my movement into the room. He doesn't say anything. He never does. But his gaze lingers on my legs, bare beneath the silk nightgown, and I feel it like a touch.
I brace for awkwardness. For tension. For someone to acknowledge that last night happened and we all need to figure out what the hell that means now.
It doesn't come.
Knox gestures to the empty chair at the table. "Sit. Dina's bringing your breakfast in a second."
I sit, mostly because standing feels like it requires more brainpower than I have right now, and Roman sets a mug of coffee in front of me without a word. I take it, wrap both hands around the ceramic, and let the heat ground me.
The kitchen door swings open and Dina bustles in, carrying a plate. She sets it down in front of me with a brief smile, then scurries back to the counter to finish plating the rest of the food.
I look down.
Scrambled eggs—soft, not overcooked. Two strips of bacon, crispy. Toast, lightly buttered. A small bowl of mixed berries on the side. My usual. The exact breakfast I eat every morning when I'm home.
Dina's been here a year. She knows my preferences. I've never had to tell her twice.
She serves the guys—Roman gets eggs and steak, Knox gets a mountain of food that could feed a small family, West gets toast and black coffee—and then she's gone, slipping out of the kitchen as quietly as she came.
I pick up my fork.
Knox drops into the chair across from me, plate piled high, grin still firmly in place. "Sleep well?"
I stab a piece of egg. "Fine."
"Just fine?"
My face heats. I don't look at him. "Yep."
Roman makes a sound that might be a laugh. Might also be a cough. Hard to tell.
Knox leans back in his chair, arms behind his head, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Funny. You didn't sound fine at three a.m."
I choke on my coffee.
West glances at Knox, then at me, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
I set the mug down and level Knox with a glare. "You're the worst."
"That's not what you said last night."
"I'm saying it now."
Roman snorts into his coffee.
Knox just grins wider, fork halfway to his mouth. "You're blushing."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I hate you."
"Also not what you said last night."
I throw a blueberry at him. He catches it, pops it into his mouth, and winks.
Despite myself, I laugh.
The tension I've been bracing for dissolves. Just like that. They're not treating this like some monumental shift that requires a debriefing. They're treating it like Tuesday morning, and I don't know whether to be relieved or annoyed.
I settle on relieved.
We eat. Forks scrape against plates. Coffee mugs clink.
Knox tells a story about a client who tried to bribe them with season tickets to the Knicks, and Roman mutters something dry about how Knox almost took the deal.
West says nothing, but I catch him watching me take a bite of toast, and when our eyes meet, he doesn't look away.
It's... easy.
I didn't expect easy.
After breakfast, Knox stretches and nods toward the back door. "Pool?"
I glance out the window. The sun is already high, the kind of bright, warm day that makes staying inside feel like a crime.
"Sure."
"Good. I want to see you in a swimsuit."
"You've already seen me in less than a swimsuit."
"And I'd like to see you in a swimsuit. What's your point?"
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling as I head upstairs to change.
The pool is bigger than it looks from the house.
I step outside in a black bikini—simple, nothing fancy—and all three of them stop what they're doing.
Roman, already in the water, goes still.
Knox, pulling off his shirt by the lounge chairs, grins.
West, leaning against the far edge of the pool, doesn't move. Just looks.
I pretend not to notice. I walk to the edge, dip a toe in, and immediately regret it. "It's freezing."
"It's heated," Knox says.
"Then your heater's broken."
"You're stalling."
"I'm assessing."
Knox laughs, and before I can react, he scoops me up and jumps into the pool with me in his arms.
The cold slaps me breathless. I come up sputtering, shoving wet hair out of my face, and Knox surfaces beside me, grinning like the devil.
"I'm going to drown you."
"You can try."
I shove him. He doesn't budge. I shove him again, harder, and he catches my wrists, pulling me closer until our legs tangle underwater.
"You're so annoying."
"You like it."
I do. I hate that I do.
Roman swims over, arms cutting through the water in smooth, efficient strokes. He stops beside us, treading water, and his gray eyes flick between me and Knox. "You two done?"
"Never," Knox says cheerfully.
I splash him. He splashes me back. Roman watches, arms crossed, like we're children and he's the long-suffering parent.
West stays where he is, leaning against the far edge, watching.
Eventually, I swim over to the massive cushioned lounge by the pool—big enough to fit four people comfortably, maybe six if you don't mind being close—and haul myself up onto it. The sun is warm on my skin, and the cushion is soft enough that I could fall asleep right here.
Knox floats on his back in the middle of the pool, arms spread, looking like he doesn't have a care in the world.
Roman climbs out and stretches out on one of the chairs, water dripping off him in sheets.
West stays in the water, but he's closer now. Close enough that I can feel his gaze even when I'm not looking.
Knox paddles over to the edge. "So. College."
I squint at him. "What about it?"
"What's it like? You got friends? Parties? Secret boyfriend we need to know about?"
"You already ran a background check on me. You tell me."
Knox doesn't even flinch. "Fair point."
I sit up, crossing my legs. "You work security. I know you're lying if you say you didn't run a background check on me."
"We didn't say we didn't." Roman's voice is flat, matter-of-fact, like he's commenting on the weather.
I gape at him. "Seriously?"
"Would you rather we didn't know who we're protecting?"
"I'd rather you not stalk me."
Knox grins. "It's not stalking if we're getting paid to do it."
"That's literally what stalking is. Did you run a background check on my friends too?" I ask, mock-horrified.
Roman shrugs. "Including your professors."
I freeze. "You did not."
"We did."
"That's—" I sputter, searching for words. "That's insane. What did you even find?"
Knox exchanges a look with Roman. "Nothing interesting."
"You're lying."
"Professor Daniels has a parking ticket from 2019. Does that count?"
I throw a wet towel at him. He dodges, laughing.
West finally speaks, quiet as ever. "You have good taste in friends."
I blink at him. "How would you know?"
"Background check."
"Oh my God."
Knox is still grinning. "Relax, sweetheart. We're professionals."
"You're lunatics."
"That too."
Despite myself, I'm laughing again. I shouldn't be. I should be horrified. But the way Knox says it, the way Roman doesn't even pretend to be sorry, the way West watches me with that ghost of a smirk—it's absurd. It's ridiculous.
It's kind of funny.
Roman leans back in his chair, arms behind his head. "So. Public administration."
I groan. "Please don't tell me you have opinions about my major."
"You going into politics?"