20. Ivy
Chapter 20
Ivy
I shuffle around the cabin, my feet bare on the cool wood. The plush carpet in the corner tempts me, but I stay on the rugged path, feeling every grain and imperfection. I spilled coffee on my wool socks, so into the dryer they go.
I toss them in and choose what I hope is the right setting, hoping they don’t take forever to dry. My feet are cold.
I’m not exactly hurting for winter gear now—not after Wyatt and Holt helped me pick up a few things last time we went down the mountain. Moisture-wicking underlayers, thermal leggings, heavier sweaters, even a thick coat that actually blocks the wind instead of letting it slice right through me. I have everything I need.
Just not another pair of clean wool socks.
I even have real winter boots now, though I didn’t pick them out myself. Nope. Hank did.
The day after we went to the bar, Hank went out without a word. I was sure he’d been pushed too far and was going down to make sure Mason finished my car as soon as humanly possible.
So, color me surprised when he came back with a pair of boots. Not just any boots—they were sturdy, insulated, and exactly my size.
It shouldn’t have meant anything. Shouldn’t have sent that stupid, warm feeling curling through my body. But it did.
"Morning, CG," Holt's voice rumbles from behind me. I turn to see him leaning against the doorframe, a steaming mug in his hand.
"Morning," I reply, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth without permission. I'm wearing one of his flannel shirts again. It's become a habit. It hangs loose over my pajama shorts, nothing like the carefully curated wardrobe I used to live in.
For the first time in my life, I’ve stopped worrying about appearances. The designer outfits? A thing of the past.
Well…mostly. Everything I own is still designer, but these days, I’m all about comfort. Pajama shorts, oversized flannel shirts stolen from the guys—I’m settling into this life, into this place, feeling more at home than I ever thought I would.
I can’t wait to find my own place out here. A little cabin of my own tucked into the trees. I used to think this was temporary, just a place to ride out the media storm before I went back to my real life. But lately, I’ve been wondering if I want to go back at all.
"Sleep well?" he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.
"Like a rock," I admit. It's true. The nights here are silent, devoid of the constant hum of the city. More than that, I feel at peace. My sleep is no longer filled with restless dreams.
"Good." He nods, eyes scanning the horizon through the window. "You'll need the energy. We've got a lot of ground to cover today."
I glance outside, where the world is painted in shades of frost and shadow. The snow from the last few days lies untouched. I never knew silence had a sound until now.
"Ready when you are," I say, not recognizing my own voice. It's steadier here, more sure than it's ever been.
"Grab your jacket then. It's nippy out there," he chuckles, disappearing back into the hallway.
"I thought you liked me nippy," I tease as I follow, grinning as I reach for his coffee and steal a sip.
Holt throws his head back and laughs, a deep, rolling sound, warm and easy. He moves in behind me, his body heat seeping through the thin flannel I stole from him. His arms loop around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and a shiver runs through me—but not from the cold.
"Oh, I do," he murmurs, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the curve of my neck. Another follows, softer, lips dragging lazily against my skin. "If I had it my way, we’d spend the whole damn day naked." His teeth graze my pulse point, making me suck in a sharp breath. "But as much as I love those cute little nipples of yours…" He palms my breasts, rolling his thumbs over said nipples. "I'd hate for them to freeze right off."
A laugh spills from me, breathless and warm, but my body hums at the way he holds me—at the heat in his voice, at the promise in his touch.
"Guess I'll have to grab that jacket, then," I murmur, tilting my head to give him better access.
"Guess so," Holt agrees, but he doesn't move. Neither do I.
The four-wheeler rumbles beneath me, its vibrations a steady pulse against my thighs. Trees whip past us, their bare branches scratching at the pale sky. Holt’s back is solid and warm in front of me, heat seeping through his jacket as my hands press against his chest.
"Ever ridden one of these before?" he shouts over the engine's growl.
"Never," I yell back, and it's exhilarating—the speed, the cold air biting at my cheeks, the freedom.
"Lean with the turns," he advises, and I follow his movements as if we're one entity navigating this wild terrain.
We reach a clearing and Holt slows the vehicle down to an idle. He points to a fence line in the distance. "Gonna need to check that after the melt. Predators can get through if it's down."
I squint, trying to see any obvious damage. "I could help with that."
"Thought you were a city girl." His tone teases, but there's a hint of a challenge there too.
"Maybe I'm not anymore." I swing my leg over the seat, planting my boots in the snow, surprised by how the words don't feel like a lie. The thought of my own place here, surrounded by this untamed beauty tugs at something deep within me.
"Is that so?" He mirrors my action, facing me now. His eyes hold mine, searching.
"Maybe," I say, and I mean it. Every fiber of my being screams that the life I knew—the endless meetings, the constant noise, the pressure to be perfect—it doesn't fit who I am now, who I'm becoming out here.
"Let's get you settled, then," Holt says, breaking into a grin. "Show you how to live off the land."
"Sounds perfect." The words feel right on my lips, and I climb back onto the four-wheeler, ready for whatever lesson he has next.
We glide over the snow, leaving a trail of churned powder in our wake. The world is quiet except for the occasional chirp of a distant bird or the whisper of pine branches heavy with snow.
"Never gets old, does it?" Holt's voice carries over the engine, his breath misting in the cold air.
I shake my head, smiling. "It's beautiful," I admit. The chill bites at my cheeks, but inside, I'm warm. Content.
We ride on, the forest opening up to reveal a vast expanse of white. The predicted storm seems to be holding off. The snow has been falling lazily over the last few days.
"Looks like we might be lucky with the weather after all," I say, hopeful.
Holt nods, but he's scanning the horizon, eyes narrowed. "Maybe."
The snowflakes swirl gently around us, catching the light in a way that almost feels peaceful. But I spoke too soon.
The curse of Ivy Blake rears its ugly head. The wind shifts, subtle at first, a sharper bite in the air. The trees ahead sway, their bare branches rattling like dry bones. The snow thickens, swirling faster, and in the span of a breath, the sky begins to darken.
And then, without warning, the world shifts. Clouds roll in, heavy and fast. The slow, lazy snowfall is now a borderline blizzard.
"Storm's coming in quick." Holt's words are nearly lost to the howl that follows.
I squint into the swirling white, gripping onto Holt as we keep moving.
"Can you see anything?" I yell, but the storm swallows my voice.
"Stay close!" he shouts back, leaning into the throttle.
The snow's getting thicker, a white curtain that swallows the world whole. He eases off the throttle, the four-wheeler creeping forward as shapes become ghosts in the haze.
"Can't see a thing," I mutter, my breath forming clouds that vanish into the frigid air.
"Keep your eyes peeled for landmarks," Holt calls over his shoulder, his voice barely cutting through the wind's relentless howl.
A shiver runs down my spine, not from the cold alone but from the eerie sense of disorientation. The landscape is alien, transformed by the blizzard into an uncharted territory where every direction looks the same—endless, unforgiving white.
Then, as is typical for someone cursed the way I am, it happens. One minute, we’re moving slowly along. The next, I’m weightless.
A violent jolt wrenches me from the four-wheeler, my body twisting midair before I slam into the frozen ground. Pain explodes through my side, sharp and searing, stealing my breath. My head snaps back, cracking against something hard. A burst of white-hot agony swallows my vision, stars bursting behind my closed eyelids like fireworks against the snow.
"Fuck!" The curse rips from me, half pain, half shock. My fingers claw at the ice beneath me, searching for something solid in the dizzying rush of pain.
"Ivy!" Holt’s voice cuts through the storm, raw and urgent. The four-wheeler's engine dies, and in the next breath, he's there, his hands on me, warm and sure.
"Talk to me, baby. Where are you hurt?" His hands skim over my arms, my legs, careful but searching.
"My side—" I hiss as his fingers graze the tender spot, a deep, aching throb spreading through my ribs. "And my head."
"Shit." His exhale is sharp, tense. "All right, stay still. Don’t try to move too fast. You could’ve cracked a rib or—" He stops himself, jaw tight. "Just stay put, okay?"
I nod, though I'm not sure he can see it.
His concern is a solid thing, wrapping around me as tightly as his arms do when he helps me sit up. The moment I wince, he mutters a curse under his breath. "Fuck, baby, Fuck . I’m so sorry. We can’t stay here." Without another word, he scoops me up, careful but firm, and carries me back to the four-wheeler.
Instead of setting me behind him, he shifts me onto the seat in front of him, facing backward so we’re face-to-face, his arms bracketing my body as he settles in front me. "This way, I can keep a better grip on you," he says, voice rough. "Can you hold on?" Holt shouts at me.
"Y-yes!" My voice barely carries, swept away by the blizzard. I tighten my arms around his waist, pressing my body closer to his for warmth. His chest is a solid wall against the cold.
"Good girl," he says, and even now, there's a hint of a tease in his tone but it’s strained.
I lean into his warmth as the engine roars back to life. "We can't stay on the trail," he yells over the howl of the wind.
"Okay," I agree, teeth chattering as I nod.
We veer off, the four-wheeler's engine growling against the storm's rage. Holt occasionally presses a hand to my back like he’s making sure I’m still there, still okay. Snow stings my cheeks, slips down the collar of my jacket. Each flake feels like a needle against my skin.
"Where are we going?" I have to know, though it's clear we're both guessing.
"Shelter. Anywhere out of the wind." His words are snatched away instantly, but I understand.
Minutes stretch, endless and blurred. My fingers are numb, but I feel the vibration of the engine, the muscles of Holt's torso working as he maneuvers us through the storm. We're in this together, lost but not alone.
A break in the gale shows a shadow ahead—an outcropping of rock, maybe a cave. Holt heads straight for it, engine roaring its approval.
"Here," he says, and we skid to a stop, sheltered somewhat by the rocks.
He checks my face, brushes snow from my lashes with surprising tenderness. "How's your head?"
"It’s fine," I say, more to convince myself.
Holt exhales, his breath warm against my chilled skin. “I’m so damn sorry, Ivy.” His arms tighten around me, pulling me in. For a second, I just let him hold me, sinking into the solid reassurance of him.
“This wasn’t your fault,” I murmur, pressing my cold fingers against his jacket.
His jaw tics, like he wants to argue, but instead, he presses a kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering. “We just need a minute,” he says, voice low. “I need to get my bearings. Then we can head back to the cabin.”