Chapter 62
IVY
Idon’t ask directly. Instead, I try to keep it both careful and measured in the hopes that if I keep it light enough, it won’t turn into something heavier.
“So,” I say, not looking at him, tracing my finger along the edge of the counter, “when did you move here?”
A normal question. Casual.
He doesn’t hesitate. “I told you. A few years ago. Right before you moved to Jewel City.”
My hand stills. That’s specific. I glance at him. “Why do you know when I moved?”
“You post about your life,” he says, smooth and certain.
My stomach tightens. I try again. A different angle. “It’s just weird you measure your life by my movements.” I pause. “What about before that?”
He furrows his brow as he thinks back. “Before you cut your hair.”
My breath catches. I didn’t tell him that. Not like that. Not timed. But I guess I might have posted a selfie on social media. I let out a small laugh, but it doesn’t land right. “You’re being weirdly precise.”
His gaze doesn’t shift. “You like it shorter,” he says. “You just needed a reason to do it.”
Something cold slides under my skin. I swallow. “People don’t just know things like that.”
He watches me. “I know you,” he says. A beat. Then—“I always have.”
It hits harder than it should. My chest tightens. “That’s not—” I shake my head slightly. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
Of course he would say that.
I push off the counter, needing space now. Actual space. “This is—” I exhale sharply. “I think I’m going to go out for a bit.” I turn toward the door, but I don’t get far.
His hand closes around my wrist. Firmer than before. Not enough to hurt, but enough to stop me.
My pulse spikes. “Soren—”
“No.” The word is quiet. Flat.
Something in my chest drops. “I just said I was going out,” I push, turning slightly, trying to pull my wrist free.
His grip tightens. “That’s not happening.”
My breath catches, because his words land like correction. I tug again, sharper this time. “Soren, let go—”
He moves, fast enough that I don’t get another step.
My back hits the wall. Not hard, but enough to knock the breath out of me.
His hand shifts from my wrist to my waist, holding me there, closing the space completely.
My pulse is racing now, my breaths sharp and uneven. “This is exactly what I mean,” I say, my voice thin. “You don’t just get to decide things for me.”
His gaze sharpens. Something in it changes. “You were always going to end up here.” The words land low and certain.
My stomach flips. “That doesn’t even mean anything,” I say, but it sounds weaker than I want it to.
His hand tightens at my waist. Not enough to bruise, but enough that I feel it. “You keep acting like this is something that’s happening to you,” he continues, quieter now. “Like you’re not part of it.”
My breath stutters. “I’m not—”
“You are.” The interruption is immediate—clean and final. “You just don’t like that you can’t control it.”
Something in my chest spikes. “That’s not—” I shake my head, trying to push against him, create space—
His grip shifts. Stronger. Holding me in place. “Ivy… stop.” The word lands heavier this time.
My body stills. I hate that it does. I hate that it keeps doing that.
“I learned you,” he continues, quieter now. “What you do when you’re alone. What you say when you think no one’s listening. What you reach for when things get bad.”
My pulse is still racing. My thoughts are too loud. But underneath it, something else is already happening. That same pull. That same heat. Building. Responding. Even now. Even like this.
His hand slides slightly higher along my waist. He turns me slightly toward him, redirecting me. “Look at me.”
I don’t want to.
I do anyway.
His eyes lock onto mine. And everything else drops, enough to relieve the tension so I lose the urge to race out the door. “That’s better,” he murmurs.
My breath falters. Because that shift happens so fast. An unstoppable trajectory from resistance to tension to release. My body is on autopilot and my mind has no option to intervene.
His other hand comes up, fingers brushing along my jaw, steadying me. Not asking. Never asking. “You don’t need anything out there,” he says. Quiet. Certain.
My chest rises too fast. “That’s not true,” I whisper, but it feels thin. Weak, like I don’t fully believe it.
His thumb presses lightly under my jaw, tilting my head just enough. “You’re fine here.”
My stomach twists. Because I know this is wrong. And still, I’m not moving. I’m not fighting the way I should be.
His hand is still on me. His body still close. His voice still steady.
And everything in me is starting to settle. That’s the worst part. Not the control, and the way he stopped me.
The way all of this works.
The way my body gives in before my mind catches up. The way I feel better. Safer here with him.
My fingers curl slightly against his shirt. I don’t mean to. It just… happens.
His gaze drops for half a second. Noticing. Of course he fucking notices, just like everything else. Then back to my eyes. And something in his expression shifts, certainty growing as he gazes at me. “There you are,” he says quietly.
My breath catches. Because I know what just happened. I gave in and stopped pushing. I chose to stay, and this time I can’t pretend I didn’t choose it. My chest tightens now, because I’m actually afraid. Not of what he might do, but of how deep I already am.
My breathing is uneven while I think too much and feel way too much, pressed between him and the wall. And sinking far deeper than I should be.
But then it hits me all at once. What he’s built me up to be in his mind. This symbol of perfection—this thing he thinks he wants but who doesn’t actually come close to the made-up thing he makes me out to be.
I cry out, unable to contain it. “That’s the fucking problem!”
“I don’t understand!” His eyes are wide.
“The way you’ve built me up in your head over the years, Soren. You’re obsessed with the idea of me. You don’t know the actual me at all!” Tears sting the corners of my eyes as I realize the truth in my words.
“I do know you,” he protests. “I know you better than anyone else! I’ve studied you. I know everything about you!” His voice is pained, like he’s taken aback that I’d doubt his devotion to learning me.
“But you put me up on some unrealistic fucking pedestal like I’m the woman of your dreams. And the truth is, I’m a real human being—flawed. Very fucking flawed!” My voice is a roar. “I am a fucking mess, Soren! A human disaster!”
I gulp in air and force my breath to slow.
“I have layers and layers of trauma that it would take twelve therapists and two hundred years to dissect. I’m far from healed.
” I pause, pinching my lips together and jutting my jaw, furious now.
Keen to prove my point. “And—what you need to realize—is that I may never, ever be! And I’m sure as hell never going to live up to the fake image in your head that you’ve imagined me into! Because that’s not fucking me!”
Tears roll freely now, sobs wracking my body. I feel so hopeless, like this was doomed to fail. Because how could I ever be like the Ivy he’s imagined—that he’s dreamed about and twisted in his fucked up mind for literal years.
I’m sure she’s poised and always knows the right thing to say. She’d never freak out over something small. Never have a random, inexplicable mood swing in the middle of the grocery store, or a panic attack over something minor. How could I ever live up to that? I’m a train wreck on a good day.
“Hey,” he says, pulling me to him. “Come here.”
I cry more now, leaning into his chest which feels like a small comfort to my distress. Pissed at myself for letting him physically comfort me. I have the urge to gouge his eyes out with red-hot pokers, but I’m letting him wrap me into his body with his big, strong arms.
He lets me cry for a moment, and as my breathing slows and my self-hatred decreases from a raging fury to a dull thump that matches my slowing breaths, he puts a finger under my chin and tilts it up, forcing me to look at him.
“That’s where you’re wrong, baby girl,” he says, his voice low. “I know you’re imperfect. You’re fucked up, and your soul is dark as hell.”
I can’t help but smirk.
“But that makes you perfect for me. I love your black heart, and your weird quirks, and your occasional temper tantrum. I love every cell in your fucking body. My love for you transcends time, space—hell, it transcends life itself.” He pauses.
“So I’m not going to let one little glitch—one spiral—one fucking insane moment—change my opinion of you.
” He tilts my head up by my chin, so I’m forced to look at him.
“You’re mine, and I love every single speck of you.
Even the parts that can be frustrating and messy and ridiculous.
Maybe especially those parts. Almost as much as the fucked up dark parts that have me chasing you through the Anything Goes and taking you against a tree. ”
“That’s the fucking problem.” I say again, frowning, my breath ragged from my tears. Although my pussy perks up at the mention of the Anything Goes.
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand. There is no problem.” His thumb presses lightly against my jaw, holding me there. “I don’t want stable. I don’t want easy.” His gaze doesn’t move from mine. “I want you.”
Something tightens in my chest.
“All of it,” he continues, quieter now, but heavier. “The way your head works. The way you break and put yourself back together wrong. The way you spiral and still keep going.”
His grip shifts slightly, firmer now. “I know exactly what you are.” That shouldn’t land the way it does. “I didn’t imagine something better,” he says. “I chose this.”
My breath catches.
“You.”
The word sits between us. Final. Unmoving.
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, holding me there, close enough that I can feel his breath when he speaks again. “You don’t have to be anything else. I don’t want you to be. I just want you.”
His voice is certain, and it doesn’t feel like he’s just saying it to reassure me. And somehow, that’s worse. Because part of me—the part that should still be pushing back—doesn’t.
Instead, it just settles.
Right there with him.