Chapter 23
Two hours of tests, X-rays, and questions she could barely answer through the haze.
Now, the fluorescent lights in the emergency department needled Ivy’s eyes as the attendant wheeled her down the corridor, traces of antiseptic riding the air like cold metal.
Voices stacked around her, heels ticking on the tile like a metronome she couldn’t shut off.
She clutched discharge papers against her chest, the doctor’s verdict ringing in her ears—possible mild concussion, lacerations, bruising along her ribs.
Lucky, he’d called her.
It felt more like she’d been turned inside out.
The automatic doors sighed open as the orderly wheeled her into the waiting area. The quiet hit her—no more chatter, no more alarms—just the low hum of vending machines and a muted television.
Oh God.
Ryder.
He sat hunched forward in one of those uncomfortable molded plastic chairs, elbows braced to his knees, head buried in his hands. His shoulders curved inward as if he was bracing a weight only he could hold. His fingers dug into his hair, tension vibrating through every line of his body.
He’d been here the entire time. Hours. Since they made him leave because he wasn’t family. While strangers shone lights in her eyes and asked the same questions again and again.
He’d waited.
Her throat closed.
The squeak of her wheelchair made him lift his head. Their gazes hit and held, and whatever fragile composure she’d scraped together shattered. Her chest squeezed tight, breath ragged.
The look on his face—
“You waited,” she whispered.
He was on his feet before she finished the words, crossing the room to her in three long strides. “I’ve got her.”
The orderly barely had time to nod before Ryder set the brake.
He offered his hand. She placed hers in his, and he pulled her gently to her feet.
Only inches separated them. His palm cupped her jaw, fingers threading into her hair at the nape of her neck.
She let her eyes close, soaking up the warmth of his touch
“Of course I fucking waited.” His words sounded abraded. “Come on.”
She followed silently as he guided her through the sliding doors, his arm steady through hers, his body a wall of heat against the cold night air.
At his truck, he opened the passenger door and boosted her up like she weighed nothing.
Then he leaned in, reaching across her to tug the seatbelt down.
His knuckles brushed her collarbone as the buckle clicked, and she shivered at the contact.
“Is that okay?”
“Yes, thanks.” The belt felt secure across her chest, holding her together when everything else threatened to splinter apart.
He rounded the hood and climbed behind the wheel. The engine growled awake, heat flowing from the vents. Outside, fat snowflakes spun in the headlight beams, muffling the world in white.
They drove in silence through the empty streets, the radio burbling low. Two in the morning, and the world felt abandoned. Just the two of them moving through the storm, enclosed in the warm bubble of his truck.
When he slowed, then turned into a driveway instead of continuing toward town, her pulse stumbled.
“This isn’t my hotel.”
He cut the ignition. The dashboard light carved his features in stark planes, and his gaze locked on her.
“Think I’m letting you out of my sight tonight? Think again.”
Her breath caught. “Oh.”
He climbed out and came around to her side, opening the door before she could reach for the handle.
He lifted her down, hands spanning her waist, setting her on the ground as if she might break.
She let him guide her up the snow-thick porch steps and through the front door.
The house was dark except for the faint glow of embers in the wood-burning stove.
He settled her on the couch facing the stove, draping a soft fleece blanket over her shoulders, before he kneeled to coax the fire back to life.
Flames caught, and gold licked up the walls. Shadows leaped across his broad back as he worked, every line of him etched in quiet competence.
The heat on her face sank deep, thawing something in her chest. Not just the cold from the storm, or the chill that had clung to her skin since the crash. This reached further—into the empty place she kept hidden from everyone.
“Come.” He held out his hand and guided her into the bedroom, nodding toward a closed door. “Shower’s in there. Help yourself to whatever you need. I’ll find you some clean clothes.”
He left, and she stepped under the spray, grateful as steam filled the small space. Hot water beat against her shoulders, washing away the grime, the fear, the last remnants of adrenaline. She let it run until her skin prickled and the knots in her neck loosened.
When she finally turned off the tap, she found clean clothes folded on the bed—sweatpants and a soft cotton shirt.
His ex’s?
Don’t think about that.
She pulled them on grateful for the warmth of clean fabric and headed back to the living room. From the kitchen the soft thud of cabinet doors and the muted rush of running water.
Left alone, she let her gaze wander.
This was his place.
The bones of the room were pure masculine—sturdy leather couch, scuffed coffee table, a pair of boots abandoned by the door. The air smelled faintly of pine smoke, clean and rough-edged, like Ryder.
But there were other layers too. A plastic tiara balanced on the arm of an easy chair. A Lego tower half-built on the hearthrug, bright bricks scattered like candy. And wedged between the couch cushions, a Barbie with wild blond hair and a bright pink scuba tank strapped to her back.
Ivy tugged Barbie free as she sat back on the couch, smiling despite herself.
Scuba-diving Barbie.
Frogman meets three-year-old.
Protector and father, all in one space.
She pulled the blanket back around her shoulders, breathing his scent in as she sat, stiff-limbed. This wasn’t just a house. It was his life. And she was sitting right in the middle of it, wrapped in his blanket, firelight holding back the storm still raging outside.
“Hey.” His voice was low as he came around the couch, carrying a steaming bowl and a spoon. A savory scent curled into the air, rich and comforting. “Sarah’s clothes okay?”
Sarah’s. Relief eased her shoulders a notch. “Yes, thanks. The hot shower helped.”
“Eat.” He set the bowl on the coffee table in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off it. “It’ll do you good. You’ve had a shock.”
The soup was golden and fragrant and made her stomach cramp with hunger, but her body felt disconnected and heavy. She reached for the spoon with trembling fingers. The metal clinked against the rim of the bowl, absurd in its loudness.
“Hey.” He lifted the bowl and lowered himself onto the edge of the coffee table. So close, his knees bracketed hers. “You’ll feel better if you have some.”
Without a word, he took the spoon from her. Dipped it into the soup, lifted it to her lips, his other palm beneath to catch any spill.
“One spoonful,” he said softly. “Then you can tell me to fuck off.”
Her lips parted. The soup slid warm across her tongue, salty and rich, spreading comfort through her chest as she swallowed.
Ryder didn’t look away.
Another spoonful. Then another. His gaze stayed locked on her, like this simple act was the most important mission he’d ever taken on.
No one had ever cared for her like this. Not with patience. Not with focus that demanded nothing in return. Each measured spoonful was intimacy in disguise, sinking under her skin, undoing her defenses.
The fire cracked and sighed. The wind clawed at the house.
But inside, here, it was just them, sealed into a pocket of heat and hush.
His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, a simple caress. The touch should have been nothing. It wasn’t. Current blazed through her, fierce and undeniable.
God, she needed more of him.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded, because words would disintegrate under the weight of everything she felt. Better didn’t cover it. She was lit from within, all her sharp edges undone, and for the first time in forever, she didn’t want to fight it.
She wanted to give in.
He set the bowl aside and slid onto the couch beside her, close enough that his thigh pressed against hers. The solidity of him made her breath stutter. He lifted the edge of the blanket, slowly drawing it down her shoulders. The shirt slipped with it, baring her collarbone.
Cool air kissed her skin.
Then his fingers were there, tracing the line where the shirt had fallen open. His touch was feather-light.
“You’re marked up,” he murmured, thumb ghosting over the bruise darkening her collarbone.
Before she could answer, his lips followed, pressing into the tender skin like her pain was his own. Like he could kiss it away.
Her breath caught. The sensation was almost too much—his mouth on her, his strength around her, the deep ache low in her belly.
She should pull back but didn’t.
Every nerve leaned toward him, desperate for more.
She wasn’t just safe here.
She was wanted.
Desired.
And God help her, she wanted him just as much.
“Is this really happening?” The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her chest cinched tight. Tears burned hot.
Ryder froze, pulling back instantly, concern darkening his features. “Hey—”
“I’m not upset.” She heeled her palms against her eyes, emotion pressing too close. “I just never imagined this would actually happen. That you would—”
His hands framed her face, thumbs wiping away the dampness on her cheeks. Then he kissed her—soft, sure, devastatingly real. “It’s happening, Ivy,” he murmured against her mouth.
She broke away, breathless. “We shouldn’t. None of this makes sense.” But even as she said it, her body leaned into his, drawn by a magnetic pull she couldn’t fight.
“I know.” His mouth found hers again, hungrier, stealing the rest of her protest. “Don’t care.”