Chapter 44
IVY
Idrift through the apartment without realizing I’m doing it. There’s no conscious choice, just my feet carrying me from room to room.
In the hallway, I pause beside the decorative table, my eyes flicking to the small pile of mail he left, stacked just so. A low hum of absence presses behind my ribs, a gentle pull at my core I can’t ignore. It takes a heartbeat before I recognize the cue, before I slip back toward where he is.
He’s exactly where I expect—in the kitchen doorway, shoulders brushing the cool doorframe, one of his large hands engulfing a steaming espresso mug. Wisps of coffee-scented vapor curl into the air.
When I step into the soft kitchen light, his gaze lifts, steady and immediate, like he’s felt me cross the room long before I arrived.
“There you are,” he says, his voice smooth and even, rumbling against my skin as he pulls me to him.
My chest loosens, the quiet ache evaporating in an instant. I don’t question it. I simply stay in place for a while, enjoying his proximity.
After his coffee is done, Soren retreats to get some work done, and I go and sit in the living room while I prepare for a meeting later in the day.
I reflect on the latest anonymous message I received. It’s a little different from the previous ones—not guessing, not stretching to tell me what he thinks I’ve been doing. It’s more simple. And it’s less guessing, more telling—that he’s going to be here soon.
I look him up online, and it confirms he’s in custody. Nothing has changed about his sentence.
Magical thinking was always kind of his thing—something I got swept up in at the start of our relationship. His visions for a shared future so compelling that I fell for it completely. So that’s probably what this is… him telling himself that he will be out—will be near me—soon.
As unrealistic as it is, it still sends a shiver down my spine.
The day he gets out will likely start the counter to a death sentence for me.
Even though I’m not the reason he’s in there—the actual reason being his own actions and the numerous other people he’s hurt—I know he blames me, and he always will.
I still have to bring up the last one to Soren.
The whole being canceled thing kind of shut that down.
And now there’s another. One of my cheeks clenches involuntarily, as if reminded of what happened last time I didn’t speak up and share my secrets.
Then again, it kind of makes me want to not tell him again.
I smile to myself. When did I become so fucked up?
Later, I find him in a quieter alcove off the hall—an office he’s never shown me before. The room he stormed into the last time I angered him, after he taught me a lesson. The door’s ajar just enough for a pale glow to seep into the corridor.
“Soren?” I call out, hesitant.
“Come in, Ivy,” he says, voice calm, as if he left the door ajar to pique my interest and lure me into whatever this is.
A lair of some sort, perhaps.
Inside, a long walnut desk stretches beneath a window, an aerial view of distant rooftops laid out beyond. Three monitors glare in perfect alignment—green lines of code scrolling in crisp columns, each character precise and unwavering.
I lean against the frame. “You work in here?” My voice softens to match the hush.
“Sometimes,” he says, not looking up. The single word hangs between us, filling the space completely.
I shuffle closer, guided by some invisible thread. His swivel chair turns with a quiet click. I slide onto its edge, perched against him. As I settle, his hand finds my hip, its weight warm and firm against my jeans, anchoring me.
Glow from the screens dances across his cheekbones, catching in the angles of his jaw. He’s absorbed, calm, every breath measured. It should feel intimidating—those lines of code, the precision of his workspace—but instead I feel steadied, as if my thoughts line up in neat rows just watching him.
I don’t know exactly what he does—takes care of things, he said when I asked—but I know it involves computers. Technology. The odd trip on a private jet.
And I don’t feel the need to become enmeshed in his day-to-day work life. If he wants to tell me, I know he will. On his own terms.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, fingers pressing gently into my side.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I like it in here,” I say, my voice barely above the hum of the machines.
His thumb drifts in small circles. “Why?”
I blink at the monitors, searching. “It feels… enclosed,” I finally admit. “As if nothing floating around in my head can escape.”
He glances at me, eyes unreadable in the screen-light. “It’s designed that way.”
I glance at him, suddenly nervous. “Soren, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
He nods. “The messages?”
My mouth opens and then closes. “How do you—”
“Ivy, I told you—I’ve got you,” his voice is low as his fingers massage the back of my neck.
I tilt into his grip as he undoes the knots built by the tension from anticipation leading to this conversation.
“I do appreciate you telling me, though. It seems you learned your lesson after all.” He smirks.
“So what should I do?”
“Nothing.” His reply is instant. “It’s already being handled. You don’t need to think about it. That’s my job.”
I don’t know exactly what that means, but in the moment it’s easier not to question it. The thought of the messages stopping is comforting, and that’s all I really need to know to look forward to.
So instead of asking more questions, I just lean into him, fitting my hip against his. His arm slides around my waist, more secure than before but no tighter.
Just enough to remind me where I belong.
By evening we’re on the couch, work completed for the day for both of us, the living room dark except for the last ember of sunset leaking through the blinds. No TV slashing light across the walls or music threading through the quiet. Only the soft weight of us together.
I curl against him, my legs tucked under, my head resting on the rise of his chest. His arm curves around my shoulders, palm resting at my collarbone. I pull my fingers along the weave of his sweater, tracing the path again and again without realizing it.
Time drifts. My breaths slow to match the rise and fall of his ribcage. “I feel different here,” I say after what might be minutes.
His hand stills on my arm. “How?”
I close my eyes, tasting the silence. “Calmer,” I whisper. “Like my mind finally stops racing.”
I lift my hand and brush his chest, fingertips sliding over the textured fabric. He shifts, guiding my face with gentle pressure at my jaw, tilting me toward him. His other hand presses lightly to my hip.
“Because you’re safe here,” he says. “Your body knows. Your nervous system knows. Your mind just took a little longer to catch up.”
Those words land in my chest like an anchor. My breath deepens. I don’t argue. I lean into him more fully, hand splayed against his heart, feeling each heartbeat steady beneath my palm. I don’t want to leave.
And the comfort does something to me, a direct line to my core. Suddenly my body is on fire, desperate for him to show me how much he really wants me. “Prove it,” I whisper. “Show me how safe I am with you.”
And in a weird way, I want him to scare me while he’s doing it. Just a little. To show me he could dominate me, make me do whatever he wants—the threat of his ability to hurt me hanging over my head the whole time.
While also knowing he never ever would.
Without a word, he moves even closer, turning toward me. His tongue slips through my lips, his mouth taking mine like the conversation is over.
I respond, my lips loosening as I take him into my mouth, my own tongue tangling with his. I moan as his hands fist my hair, tugging at the scalp.
He yanks my head to the side and lays a trail of kisses from the shell of my ear, down my neck and throat, before stopping at the little dip in my clavicle bone.
“Take your clothes off,” he instructs, and as I peel them off he does the same. No fanfare. Straight to nakedness.
I admire his toned physique, streaked by moonlight. He looks like the statue of a god, fashioned out of gray and silver, offset by charcoal. His ink winding delicately yet intentionally over his body.
The metal bars and ring on his cock glint in the moonlight, emphasizing his length and girth.
My pulse skips, my pussy throbbing as it prepares for what’s next.
In a moment, the atmosphere shifts from something tender, intimate, to something far more carnal.
His eyes darken as his gaze trails over my body. He’s not here to play gentle—he’s here to take what he wants. To claim me.
My entire body tingles with anticipation, my nipples hardening under his gaze. Because right now, all I want to do is be claimed by Soren.
I want him to take all of me. I’ll give it to him willingly, but I want him to be rough. I want to feel him for days afterwards, for my body to remember this moment for far longer than the moment itself.
He pins my wrists above my head with one strong hand, his body pressing down on mine.
I gasp as he thrusts into me, slowly at first, his cock filling me completely, stretching my walls with a deliberate, possessive rhythm.
His eyes are locked on mine the entire time, dark and intense, like a predator claiming his territory.
I sense a rush of raw power surging through him, dangerous and unchecked, yet I melt under him, my breath hitching in trust. My body arches up to meet his, safe in the storm of his dominance, utterly consumed by the heat of his skin against mine as I grind up into him in rhythm with his thrusts.
He pulls out abruptly, flipping me onto my stomach with effortless strength, his grip firm on my hips as he yanks my ass up into the air, pulling me toward him.