Chapter 13
IVY
By the time we get back to Soren’s building, my body feels off. Not drunk or sloppy, but softer than usual. Like someone turned the volume down on everything inside me. My thoughts aren’t as sharp. The tension that’s been living between my shoulders for months has loosened.
It makes me a little uneasy—these days, relaxing feels like complacency.
Soren pays the driver, thanks him, then turns back to me. “Come on.” He takes my wrist, his grip light but certain, and guides me inside.
The city disappears the second the door shuts. The apartment is dim. Quiet. Sealed. I hesitate in the living room, my purse strap tight in my hand, watching him disappear down the hallway. He retrieves my backpack from the hall, carrying it casually over his shoulder like it belongs there.
Something tightens in my chest. “I—” The word doesn’t go anywhere.
He keeps moving, and I follow.
Soren kicks off his shoes.
I do the same, slower.
He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water. “Drink.”
I blink at it.
“Water,” he adds.
I take it. Sip. The cold hits my throat.
He watches me as if he’s closely tracking my hydration intake. “Good,” he says. A beat. “Now bedroom.” He tilts his head in the direction of the room at the end of the hallway
My stomach tightens. I let out a small, reflexive laugh. “Bedroom?”
He’s already walking.
I stand there, conflicted and unsure about what happens next. He’s beyond attractive, but I’m tired from the trip, and confused, and it’s late. And I don’t know what he expects from me.
“You need sleep,” he says over his shoulder. “You’re fried.”
Relief hits me.
But then, so does a conflicted sense of what the hell am I doing here? Staying in this near-stranger’s house. About to go into his bedroom.
I stop in the hallway. The hesitation hits me too late. “I… I can get a hotel.”
Soren turns slowly. Looks at me like I just said something ridiculous. “Don’t be silly,” he says.
My chest tightens. “I don’t want to impose.”
The words sound pathetic the second they leave my mouth. The plan all along was to stay with him. But now that seems confronting.
Like I’m at the top of a water slide where they drop the floor out from underneath you, and it’s too late to decide you don’t want to do it anymore.
He steps closer. “You’re here,” he says. A pause. “I brought you here.”
I shiver. There’s always a catch.
He turns and continues down the hallway. “I’ll take the spare room,” he says.
Relief hits me again, harder this time. “Oh,” I breathe. “Okay.”
He turns now, and his mouth shifts slightly. Not quite a smile. Like he expected it.
He pushes open the door.
The bedroom is immaculate. The bed made precisely, dark linens pulled tight. No clutter. No softness.
The comforter, however, is plush. I can’t even imagine the thread count on the sheets, but just by looking at them I know they’re going to be far more comfortable than anything I’ve slept in recently.
The headboard is leather, dark and dominant. I turn to take in the rest of the huge room.
There’s a large painting facing the bed. It’s abstract, but it gives off dark vibes. Moody. Sensual. Lots of black and grays and a hint of red. Soren’s signature color palette, as I’m starting to learn.
It doesn’t feel like a place someone relaxes. It feels like a place someone prepares to go forth and conquer the world.
Two black nightstands with drawers flank the bed. There are speakers strategically placed throughout the room, no doubt part of a top-of-the-line sound system.
My stomach clenches at the thought of him having brought other women here before me.
Why am I jealous?
As I scan the space, I can’t help but notice that everything seems so deliberate. Almost too organized. Clean in a way that feels intentional, like he fastidiously prepared for my arrival.
But then again, maybe I’m overthinking things. What guy doesn’t clean up his place before a woman comes to stay? It would be weirder if I walked into messy bedsheets covered in cum stains and a leftover box of half-stale cookies on the nightstand.
Is that what you would have preferred, Ivy?
Get a grip.
Soren sets my backpack down, opens a drawer, and pulls out a T-shirt. “Wear this.” He tosses it to me.
I catch it automatically. “I—I might have pajamas in my backpack,” I say. “Let me check.”
He waves that off. “The T-shirt is super comfortable. Feel the material.”
I roll the fabric between my thumb and forefinger. He’s right, it’s deliciously butter-soft. Made for bare skin.
“You’ll sleep better.”
It sounds like care.
It feels like a decision.
I don’t argue, though. Cozy sounds… nice, and much needed.
He gestures across the room and through a door to the side. “Bathroom,” he explains.
I pad across the floor in the direction he’s pointing.
The bathroom is insane. The vanity is marble, and it even has one of those magnifying mirrors where you can apply your makeup.
I close the door behind me as I continue to take it all in.
The tub is deep and modern, and I can imagine myself soaking in a sea of bubbles.
The shower has multiple rainforest heads, and is definitely big enough for more than one person. My core clenches at the thought of getting dirty with Soren in here, then clean, then dirty again.
Expensive cologne and a few other men’s products are tucked neatly away. Everything he needs and nothing more.
But the bathroom light is too bright, and I squint. The mirror shows me a version of myself that looks thinner than I feel. Eyes too wide. Skin tight with something I can’t shake.
I take my time to get ready, removing my dress and replacing it with his T-shirt which is as soft and comfortable as he promised. It’s big on me, and I hug it close to myself. It feels comforting, nice.
Then I wash my face and brush my teeth, avoiding my reflection.
I’m aware of him the entire time on the other side of the door, waiting.
When I come back out, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me. “Better?” he asks.
I nod. “Thanks.”
He glances at the T-shirt and quirks a smile. “You like it?”
“Yeah, it’s super comfy.” I smile back, just a little.
He looks pleased. “Told you.”
He stands, and gestures once at the bed. “Get into bed now.” The phrasing lands wrong. Too direct.
My pulse jumps. I climb into the bed anyway. The sheets and comforter are like cozying up with a pile of soft, fluffy clouds. The pillows are equally comfortable. Without intending to, I let out a sigh.
The lamp clicks off. The room drops into shadow.
Soren moves toward the door.
Relief loosens something in my chest.
Then he stops. “Hey, Ivy?”
“Yeah?”
A pause. “Can I ask you something?”
My stomach tightens again. “Okay.”
He leans against the doorframe, casual, his silhouette dark against the soft hallway lighting. “But you can tell me to shut up if it’s too much.”
It sounds respectful.
That’s what makes me nod. “Ask.”
His voice lowers. “Did he hurt you physically?”
The question cuts straight through everything.
My body goes cold. “Yes.”
Silence.
“How bad?”
My hands curl into the sheets.
The timing feels off, and it’s not pleasant to talk about. But I don’t feel the harm in telling him.
“He broke bones, including my skull,” I whisper. A breath. “And he strangled me and left me with scars.”
The room changes.
Soren doesn’t react immediately. He doesn’t look shocked or horrified. He goes still. Focused. “Did he use one hand,” he asks quietly, “or two?”
My breath catches. “What?”
His eyes don’t leave mine.
Then he exhales. “Doesn’t matter.”
But it does. I can feel that it does.
And my body starts to feel the residual effects of what happened to me before my mind does. A chill runs down my spine as I recall the gravity of what happened, of just how close I came to…
He moves back into the room again, then. Sits on the edge of the bed, near me but not too close. “Never again,” he says. “Nothing like that is going to happen to you ever again.”
The words land heavy.
Something tightens low in my chest.
He reaches out. His hand pauses for a fraction of a second, then slides into my hair. Not asking.
I don’t pull away.
His fingers move slowly. Measured. Learning. “You’re safe here,” he murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it.”
The words hit like warmth. And something sharper underneath.
His hand shifts from my hair to my cheek. His thumb brushes lightly under my eye.
I don’t move, because I’m tired. Because his touch is careful, and my body reacts before my brain does.
He leans closer. Not kissing me yet. Just close enough that I feel his breath. “Like I said, I’ll take the spare room,” he says quietly. “I meant that.”
Relief loosens my ribs again.
But he doesn’t move, his hand still on my face. “I can stay though,” he adds. “If you want. You tell me what you want.”
He already knows.
I swallow. “I don’t want to be alone.” The words come out small. Honest.
Soren’s breath shifts. “Okay.”
He moves then. Slow and controlled. Slides into the bed beside me. Not touching or crowding. His hand finds mine under the covers, and he threads our fingers together.
My breath stutters. It feels too intimate.
His grip tightens slightly. Not enough to hurt.
Enough to remind me he’s there. Anchoring. Claiming.
His thumb moves slowly over the back of my hand. “You can sleep now,” he says.
My chest tightens.
“I’ve got you. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
I want it. I hate that I want it.
But I’m tired and a voice in the back of my head reassures me that it’s safe enough here for me to sleep.
These linens promise me a night of uninterrupted slumber.
My eyes close.
Sleep pulls at me faster than I expect.
Somewhere between awake and gone, I feel his fingers in my hair again.
Slow. Careful. Intentional.
Like he’s memorizing me.
Like he’s learning exactly how I fit.
And in the dark, wrapped in his warmth, two things settle into me at the same time.
I do feel safe.
And I feel like if I tried to leave, he wouldn’t let me.