41. Ivy
41
IVY
My wife .
I sit on the floor in the corner of my bedroom, that gruffly spoken title ringing in my ears as I stare at the gun in my hands.
The house is deathly quiet, only the occasional faint thud carrying from the basement.
It’s at least thirty-five minutes before there’s a knock on my door and Salvatore’s barely muttered, “You can come out,” echoes from the hall.
I rush to my feet and yank open the door just in time to see him disappear into the open living area. I follow, reaching the archway to find him in the kitchen drying his hands with paper towel.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
Have I eaten?
Two guards approach down the hall, carrying a human-sized object covered in black plastic, and he’s asking me about my eating habits?
“We’re getting out of here.” He throws the paper into the trash and strides to the fridge. “I’m taking you back to Baltimore. You need to eat before we leave.”
I approach the kitchen. “And you need to pause a minute and talk to me before you start in on the dictatorial plans.”
He raises his right hand, focusing on his bloodied, swelling knuckles, his lack of eye contact clearly deliberate.
“Salvatore?” I stop on the opposite side of the island counter. “Are you okay?”
He scowls at his knuckles. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because he’s thrumming with the aftershocks of destruction.
I circle the counter, moving to his side to cautiously slide my palm beneath his and entwine our fingers. “You don’t look okay.”
“Well, I am. So quit asking.” He makes to pull away, but I hold tight.
“I’ll quit after you talk to me.”
He snarls, his aggression going unchecked. “I don’t know if you expected harmonious fucking composure, but that ship has sailed.” He draws our entwined hands to his chest, pulling me closer. “That guard wasn’t just compromised—he was bought by the cartel. And if Gabriel can get to Lorenzo’s men, there’s no saying who else he can get to.”
I swallow and raise my chin. “He can’t get to you.”
He scoffs. “It’s a dangerous fucking world if you’ve only got me to rely on.”
“I had a whole lot less before you came into my life.” I stroke my thumb over the muscled plain of his chest, gently coaxing, patiently waiting. “Why do you want to return to Baltimore?”
He holds my gaze, the stretching silence making way for a calm surrender. “Because it isn’t safe here anymore, and Remy has men he trusts back there.”
“So you’re asking me if I want to leave?”
His jaw ticks as his mouth forms a thin, closed line.
Red flags billow in front of me, snapping in the breeze. I might be out of my depth enough to want him to make the hard decisions. But I won’t let him take away my choice.
“Are you asking, Salvatore, or telling?” My pulse pounds, every beat a silent plea for him not to ruin this.
“You can’t expect me to tiptoe around your feelings when your life is on the line.”
“I can and I will.” My voice remains steady despite the underlying frailty behind it. “And if you’re unable to respect me enough to give me freedom to make my own decisions then I’ll be forced to face this on my own.”
“You have my respect,” he bites out. “You have everything. All I’ve ever done is keep you safe.”
“So are you asking or telling?”
His eyes narrow, his anger a slow burn that tightens every muscle in his body.
“Why can’t I just disappear?” I ask. “That was the original plan, right? That I’d start fresh. Alone.”
“But you’re no longer alone, Ivy. You carry my child.”
The words settle between us, thick with tension.
He won’t back down, and I can’t either.
This isn’t going to work. And I’d wanted it to. I’d become hopeful. Fanciful. Like a goddamn fool.
“Listen to me.” He lowers his gaze to our hands on his chest and tightens his hold. “You have a choice. You always will.” He raises hard eyes to mine. “But my need to keep you safe trumps it. You can’t deny me this.”
I can.
I should .
Yet his concern unravels me, pulling at the frayed edges of my conviction.
He knows how to keep me safe. And, maybe more terrifying than that, he wants to.
In that lies the real problem—the hardship of having to dismiss all I’ve learned about men and somehow try to believe my perception of Salvatore isn’t just a whimsical part of my imagination. That he actually wants me in ways that terrify me more than his violence ever could.
And the worst of it? Some reckless, desperate part of me is already convinced, my optimism having clawed its way out of the childhood grave where I swore I buried it.
I swallow, fighting the ache. Fighting the pull of him. Fighting the traitorous part of me.
But I’m so damn tired of fighting.
“Okay,” I whisper the surrender, the vulnerability of it leaving me raw.
He takes it with a raise of his chin. “And you will be my wife.”
I deadpan for a split second before my gaze narrows to seething slits, because that’s the logical reaction—anger, not the treacherous warmth unfurling in my belly.
“Don’t give me those crazy eyes that only make you look fit for a straightjacket.” He tightens his hold. “All it does is make me hard, and we have no time to fuck.”
I blink, each swipe of lashes an affront. “You’re acting like a caveman and you think I’d want to sleep with you?”
He leans closer, slow and predatory. “I know you do.” His grip shifts, sliding up and cupping the side of my throat. “And while I’m tempted to prove my point, I won’t when your safety is at risk.”
I stand taller, tensing against the storm waging inside me—rage, resentment, and the goddamn pull of lust that settles between my thighs. “If safety is the priority, returning to Baltimore seems counterintuitive.”
“Not when Lorenzo has agreed to see us.” He backs away, taking his possessive grip with him. “So have something to eat while I pack your things. I want us in the air within the hour.”