Chapter 10
IVY
A few days later
Avoice comes over the loudspeaker, breaking through my true crime podcast to announce we’re beginning our descent.
I glance over the passenger next to me and out the window, my stomach flipping at the sight of Ravelle coming into view below me like a tiny city built for ants.
Even from this distance, the city fills me with an anticipatory spark, a twinge of possibility that just about anything could happen. It’s one of those places that takes on a life of its own, a promise of magic that goes beyond a typical place.
From up here, you can read it like a map of human want. The waterfront catches the light first—all champagne and white linen, old money pretending the rest of the city doesn't exist. Further in, a dense tangle of markets and commerce, the city's beating heart.
And—tucked between that and the dark forest that spiders out to the city’s darkest edges, like something the city keeps behind its back—a neighborhood that doesn't appear on any tourist map. Locals call it the Anything Goes—when they call it anything at all.
They won't tell you what happens there. They'll just tilt their chin in its direction and let you fill in the blanks. From up here, it's the one part of Ravelle that doesn't glitter—or maybe it glitters even more, just in a different way.
The podcast hosts suddenly crack up laughing, breaking me out of my reverie.
The plane lands, and when I disembark I follow the signs to the baggage claim.
After a few minutes of waiting around, the red light flashes and there’s a loud beep before luggage starts its trip around the carousel. Passenger after passenger grabs their suitcases, until I’m the last person standing there.
The carousel stops.
Mine never comes.
I wait anyway.
Long enough that it starts to feel stupid.
Finally, I give up and head toward the arrivals area.
Outside, the air is warmer than I expect. Thicker. It hits my skin like something unfamiliar, like I’ve stepped into a different version of the world without fully meaning to.
I stand near the pickup area, scanning the line of cars.
At least I have my backpack, containing my makeup and charger and a few other items. Thankfully, it also has my laptop and I have my cell phone. That’s all I need to get my work done.
And then I see him.
Soren.
He’s leaning against a dark sedan, sunglasses on, posture loose in a way that feels deliberate. Like he knows exactly how he looks and has decided it’s enough.
When he spots me, he doesn’t wave. Doesn’t call out. He just pushes off the car and starts walking toward me.
His pace is casual. Like this moment was always going to happen.
My breath catches before I can stop it. He’s… different.
Not dramatically. At least not in a way I can immediately explain. But the version of him I remember feels unfinished in comparison—like I’m looking at something that’s been sharpened, refined, stripped down to only what works.
He’s a lot taller than I remember, or maybe he just carries it differently—at least 6’5, looming about a full foot above me. Broader through the shoulders, solid in a way that doesn’t feel like it came from a gym.
His presence shifts the space around him as he moves, people stepping slightly out of his path without really noticing they’re doing it.
The tattoos stand out next—dark ink winding up his forearms and disappearing beneath his sleeves. Intentional. Like everything else about him. Those are definitely new—I would have remembered those for sure.
As well as the one on his neck. I can’t quite make it out from here, but it almost looks like the legs of a spider jutting out from under his collar.
There’s a faint scar along his jaw I don’t recognize. Small, but it changes something. Adds weight.
His hair, dirty blond with ashy undertones. It’s on the long side, brushing his shoulders.
His skin, a light olive that speaks to being outside without trying too hard to tan.
I remember him being attractive, but my memory apparently deleted the information that he’s hot as hell. A very tall, very hot tattooed man, and he just flew me here for the weekend.
Heat stirs low in my core.
And then his eyes land on me. No sunglasses now. He’s taken them off at some point in the last few steps, and I didn’t even notice.
But now I do. His eyes are the most magnificent gray, intense and piercing, like there’s a storm going on within him. Like he can see right through me.
His gaze doesn’t flicker. Doesn’t skim. It settles. Steady. Focused. As if he’s appraising me the same way I’m soaking in every detail of him.
Something low in my stomach tightens.
By the time he reaches me, I’m still trying to place the feeling.
“You made it,” he says. Not a question. Just a statement, like there was never another version of events where I didn’t.
“Hey,” I reply, and my voice comes out softer than I intend.
He glances at the backpack in my hand. “You traveled light.”
“I brought a suitcase,” I say. “But it’s not here.”
“I know.”
His words confuse me. Maybe it’s one of those airports notorious for luggage going missing. Whatever. I’m here now. I brush it off.
He takes my backpack before I can offer it, before I can question what he just said.
My fingers loosen automatically, like my body makes the decision before my brain has time to weigh in.
His hand brushes mine as he does it. The contact is brief, but it’s enough to send a sharp, unexpected awareness up my arm.
He looks at me then—not in a way that feels overt or performative, but thorough. A full, quiet assessment, like he’s matching what he sees to something he already had in his head.
He notices everything. I can tell that already.
“You look exhausted,” he says. There’s no judgment in it. No edge. If anything, it sounds like he doesn’t like the fact.
I let out a small breath. “I am.”
Something in his expression shifts—subtle, but there. His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second before smoothing out again. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re fixing that.”
The way he says it doesn’t sound like a suggestion.
It sounds like a decision.
Before I can really process that, he reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is easy. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.
My skin tingles at his touch.
He smirks. “Wow, what a gentleman, flying you here and immediately telling you how tired you look.”
His fingers linger just a little longer than necessary, brushing lightly along my jaw as he pulls his hand back. He watches my face as he does it, like he’s measuring my reaction.
My body goes still, aware of his touch and now its absence.
“You didn’t lose it,” he says, as if catching himself. “Just like I remember.” He laughs to himself.
“Lose what?”
He gestures at me, up and down. “This.”
I smirk.
Then whatever he was looking for, he must find, because something in his expression settles. “Like I said, I’ve got you,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
The words land deeper than they should. Not because of what they mean.
Because of how much I want to believe them.
He turns before I have to respond, already moving back toward the car. “Come on,” he adds. “Let’s get you home.”
There’s something grounding about that. Simple. Practical. A plan.
I follow him.
He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide into the seat, the leather cool against my legs. The interior smells clean—faint cologne, cedar wood maybe, and something crisp underneath it.
For a moment, I feel… held. Not by him, exactly. By the situation. By the fact that something is happening that I didn’t overthink into nonexistence.
He closes the door and walks around to the driver’s side. When he gets in, he starts the engine without rushing, one large hand settling easily on the wheel.
He glances at me. “First rule,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“No one’s checking you here,” he says. “So don’t start doing it to yourself.”
That’s exactly what I want to hear. Freedom. Space. No monitoring. No explaining.
My shoulders almost drop. Almost.
“No checking in,” he continues. “No updates. No one tracking you.”
The words are right. The sentiment is right. And yet, something about the way he says it feels pre-decided. Like he’s not offering an idea. He’s setting a condition.
He glances at my phone in my lap. “Do you have location sharing on?”
“I… don’t know,” I admit.
He lets out a quiet, almost amused breath. “Jesus.” Then he holds his hand out. “Let me see.” There’s nothing sharp in his tone. No force behind it. If anything, it sounds practical. Efficient. Like the obvious next step.
My fingers tighten slightly around the phone, just for a second. A small, instinctive pause that flickers through me before I can fully grab hold of it. Then it’s gone.
I place the unlocked phone in his hand.
He moves quickly—tap, tap, done—and hands it back like it was nothing. “There,” he says. “Better.”
I stare at the screen for a moment longer than I mean to. It’s such a small thing—a setting. But it leaves a strange pressure in my chest, like something shifted without me fully agreeing to it.
He’s already pulling out of the pickup lane, merging into traffic smoothly, like his attention was never divided. Like that moment didn’t matter.
And maybe it didn’t. Maybe I’m reading too much into everything now. That’s bound to happen when you spend too long in a situation where every small thing means something.
His hand comes to rest on my thigh. Just settles there. Warm. Solid. Like it belongs.
My breath catches. I don’t move it. Don’t acknowledge it.
But my body does.
My pulse jumps under his palm. My muscles tighten, then hold, like they’re waiting for instructions.
His thumb drags once, absent, like he’s not thinking about it. “You’re tense,” he says.
I stare out the window. “I’ve had a long week.”
“We’ll fix that, too.” His hand presses slightly, a brief, grounding weight. Then, lighter—“You’re mine this weekend,” he says, almost like a joke. “Try not to fight me on that.”
I let out a small laugh. Because it sounds like flirting. Because it sounds like something I should want. Because it fits neatly into a version of reality where this is simple and easy and safe.
But underneath that, something in me tightens. Not enough to stop anything. Not enough to say no.
Just enough to notice.
And that, more than anything, is what unsettles me.
Because I’ve learned what it feels like to ignore that instinct.
And I’m not sure yet if this is different—or just better disguised.