Chapter 17
IVY
He takes me by the hand and we head out to meet our Uber.
I glance out the window as the lights race past. I’m starting to notice more layers to this place, underneath the initial sleek shine. There’s more to Ravelle than meets the eye—like its history is trying to seep out, sticky and raw, if you look close enough.
And there’s something seductive about this city, too. Like you could find anything your heart desired if you went looking for it, and it wouldn’t be difficult. From what I understand, the neighborhood known as the Anything Goes would be the perfect place to start.
We arrive at our destination, distracting me from my thoughts, and he holds the door open for me.
When I step through, I’m immediately in my element. Dark, grungy atmosphere with torn leather barstools. A broken dartboard half hanging off the wall. Signs advertising beer and shot combos in chalk scrawls.
This is much more my speed. It just… speaks to me more.
I can relax in places like this.
We take a seat at the bar. I exhale. “Thank god, I prefer the bar.”
“I figured,” he smirks. “And me too.”
He orders us two beers and the bartender brings them over quickly, plonking them down on the sticky bar surface.
We clink beer glasses and cheers. “To your first experience in Ravelle,” he smiles at me. “The first of many.”
I smile, feeling lighter. “To Ravelle, and this.” I pause. “You know what? I really needed this. Thank you so much for getting me out of Miami.”
“I want to hear all about it,” he says, looking at me with the fiery intensity I’ve come to expect. “First, let me get some food going, and then I’m all ears.”
He waves the bartender over again and places an order for what ends up sounding like the entire menu. The list is limited in a place like this, but I still feel spoiled.
There’s an extensive list of ways you can order their ‘famous’ wings, most of them slathered in all manner of sauces, and yet he orders the grilled wings crispy, with extra of their spiciest sauce on the side.
Which is funny, because that’s exactly how I like them. “That’s my favorite style,” I say.
He smirks. “I know.”
“How?”
“Because I pay attention.” He pauses. “So… tell me about Miami.”
And I unload.
Adrian.
His sadistic roommate.
The way I feel like a burden and an embarrassment most of the time, but how he’ll breadcrumb me when he wants to parade me around.
The whole time, Soren leans forward, his eyes locked on mine. He doesn’t try to interrupt, just listens intently and waits for me to finish.
When I get to the covert surveillance systems and the complete betrayal of my trust, something shifts.
It’s almost like the surface of Soren cracks.
“He did fucking what?! Cameras?!” His eyes have gone dark, as if there’s a full-on storm brewing behind them.
“You shared your deepest, darkest secrets with a medical professional, and some fuckwit is there listening to you. Has it available—recorded?”
“Yeah,” I frown. “I still don’t think I’m over it.”
“I’d have killed the fucker if it was me,” he growls. “In fact, I still might.”
A shiver runs through me. With the look in his eyes, he’s not joking.
The food comes then, the server announcing the wings with a certain reverence that feels like a mismatch with the grungy dive bar ambience.
“We’re known for these,” she rasps. “You know we win the Bloody Mary contest in Ravelle each and every year, and its garnish is one of our famous wings.” She beams with pride, her nicotine-stained snaggletooth catching the flicker of the grimy overhead light.
My mouth twitches.
Stop it, Ivy. Behave yourself.
The last thing I need is to start a fight in a Ravelle dive bar because I can’t help myself from being a smartass.
“Try the wings,” Soren says, pushing the plate toward me. “Trust me, they’re really good.”
“How good are we talking?” I ask, picking up a wing and turning it over in my fingers. It’s crispy, golden, with char marks on either side. “Based on aesthetics alone, I’m giving them a ten out of ten.”
He smirks. “You’ll see.”
He watches me eat. Which would normally freak me the fuck out—especially when it’s something messy like wings—but with Soren it feels different.
It’s like he’s curious about me, but there’s not an ounce of judgment to it. It’s like everything about me fascinates him somehow, and he just files it all away. For what reason, I don’t know—but maybe that doesn’t matter.
“Okay, you’re right,” I say, a mouth full of food. “These are fucking good.”
He laughs as if delighted by my atrocious table manners.
He reaches over and pushes hair from my face.
When he leans in to kiss me—my mouth still warm with spice and salt—I don’t stop him.
I don’t even hesitate.
His hand is already on my thigh when he does it, like it belongs, his fingers settling into the patterns of skin between the lace and denim.
The contact isn’t new, but the way it feels right now is.
It sends a sharp pulse low between my legs—my body reacting before I can filter it.
Want.
Something a little more dangerous underneath it.
His fixation with me is intense, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m excited to see what happens next.
He’s making me feel like I could do anything—no matter how unfiltered—and he’d only like me more.