21. Hank
Chapter 21
Hank
T he clock ticks too loud, every sound grating on my nerves. I pace the room. I can't help it. My boots thump against the wooden floor, a dull beat that's out of sync with my racing heart. Where the hell are they? Holt should've known better.
The storm outside howls, a beast rattling the panes. Ivy isn’t made for this wrath. She's city, not mountain. The cold and the wind, they don't care about her whiskey-brown gaze or the way she smiles. Or the way she gives every bit of herself even when we’re being assholes.
"Damn it," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. The knot in my chest pulls tighter, makes it hard to breathe.
Ivy's out there, and I can't shake the image of her hurt. A branch snapping, the four-wheeler tipping...it's enough to make my gut churn. Holt's no fool, but the storm's a trickster. It doesn't play fair, doesn't care for charm or muscle. It’s snowing so damn hard he’ll be lucky if he can see more than three feet in front of them.
"Shouldn't have let them go," I say to the empty room. No answer comes, just the echo of my own voice. It's me here, alone, waiting and worrying while the storm screams its fury.
"Be okay," I whisper to no one. It's a plea tossed into the wind. I clench my fists, feeling helpless and hating it. Holt knows the danger. He wouldn't risk her, not deliberately. But the storm...
The storm doesn't give a damn about our tangled affections. It just rages on.
"Sit down, Hank," Wyatt urges, his large frame blocking the window as if he can shield me from the chaos outside. "You're wearing a damn hole in the floor."
I shake my head. I can't stop moving. "Can't." That's all I manage before my boots carry me across the room again. It's not right, Ivy out there, tiny against the fury of nature.
"Hey." Wyatt grabs my shoulder, forces me to face him. "They'll make it back."
"Shouldn't have gone out," I grind out between clenched teeth, yanking away.
"Trust Holt," he says, but his eyes dart to the window, betraying his own worry.
Then, there’s a sound, different from the wind's roar. My head snaps up. An engine. It's them. I'm at the door before I know it, flinging it open to a world smothered in white. I don’t even bother grabbing my jacket.
The four-wheeler bursts through the trees.
Relief floods me, sweet and warm, but it's snatched away just as quickly when I see them. Holt's arms are tight around Ivy, her body limp against him.
"Shit," Wyatt breathes out behind me.
"Ivy!" Her name rips from my throat as I charge forward, the storm be damned.
Ivy is slumped against Holt’s chest, too still, too quiet. Every beat of my heart like a drum in my ears.
What the fuck happened?
"Hey!" Holt’s voice is muffled by the storm, but I don’t stop. I’m already at her side, hands sliding beneath her, lifting her against me.
"Is she—" Wyatt starts, but I push past him, Ivy cradled in my arms. Her breath is shallow, frosting in the freezing air, and tremors shake her frame.
“She got tossed.” Holt’s voice is tight, laced with guilt.
"Inside," I grunt, the word a growl torn from my throat. The cabin door slams behind us, cutting off the howling wind. I carry her straight to the fire, to the warmth.
"Safe," I whisper, more to myself than to her. She's here. She's alive. That's all that matters now.
I lower her onto the couch pulling a blanket over her. She’s shaking so hard her teeth chatter, and her fingers are curled into tight fists.
"Ivy." I press a hand to her cheek. Cold—too cold. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused.
"'M fine," she mumbles, but the way she sways when she tries to sit up says otherwise.
"Stay put." My hands are firm but careful as I check her over, running them down her arms, her sides, pressing gently where I know she must hurt.
Behind me, Holt is pacing, practically pulling his hair out, his breath coming fast and sharp. Every few steps, he stops, scrubs a hand over his face, then starts again. Guilt is eating him alive, but I don’t have time to deal with that right now.
Relief hits when I see her injuries aren’t serious, but the sight of the cut on her head makes my stomach clench. Blood streaks her temple, a thin line of red against pale skin.
A head injury. It doesn’t matter how small—it’s enough. She’s staying with me tonight. I tell her as much.
Ivy shifts beneath my hands, her fingers reaching blindly until they find Holt. He freezes, his breath hitching as she latches onto his wrist, tugging weakly.
He doesn’t hesitate. He drops to his knees beside her, gathering her against his chest. His face buries in her neck, his shoulders shaking as he holds her.
“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, over and over again, the words breaking apart against her skin.
She strokes a hand over his back, her touch soft despite the cold. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispers. “You took good care of me. I’m safe.”
Holt exhales sharply, but the tension in his frame doesn’t ease. He just grips her tighter, like he can physically hold onto the truth of her words.
“Take her to the bathroom,” I tell him. “Get her cleaned up. Get her warm.”
Minutes tick by. I stand outside my bedroom, waiting. The door opens, and Ivy steps out, looking smaller somehow, swaddled in clothes that belong to Holt and Wyatt. They loom behind her, their presence like two question marks punctuating the air between us. I give them a look, sharp enough to cut. This is nonnegotiable.
"Goodnight, guys," I say firmly.
Their expressions shift—Wyatt's easy smile fades while Holt's shoulders drop in a silent surrender. They turn away without protest, and I'm left facing Ivy, her beautiful eyes meeting mine.
"Let's get you settled in," I say and lead her back to my room. It's just for tonight , I remind myself. Just to keep her safe .
I pull the blankets back and gesture for her to climb in. The bed dips under her weight, and I watch as she settles in, tucking herself beneath the covers. I slide in beside her, the cold from outside still clinging to my skin.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"Of course," I respond, my voice low.
The storm still rages outside, but here, in this space, everything is quiet. Everything is still.
I turn onto my side, and she does too. Our noses nearly touch, her breath warm against my skin. Her eyes search mine, wide and uncertain.
The space between us feels charged. My gaze drifts to her lips, parted just slightly, and for a moment, I almost lean in. Almost.
But I don’t.
I force myself to pull back, my jaw tightening. There’s too much in the way—Wyatt, Holt, the way she looks at them, the way they touch her, the way she lets them. And then there’s me, hovering on the edges of something I don’t understand.
I shouldn’t want her. Not like this. Not when I don’t even know what this is.
But that pull is still there, a slow and steady drag I keep trying to fight.
She’s with them, both of them. That should be enough to stop me. It should make it easy to shove these feelings down, to ignore the way my stomach flips when she looks at me like I might be something more.
And then there’s the secret she’s keeping.
I know it’s there. I just can’t figure out what it is.
I shift onto my back, putting space between us, staring at the ceiling like it might give me answers. "Try to sleep," I murmur, my voice rougher than I intended.
She doesn’t say anything, just lets out a slow breath. Eventually, her body relaxes beside me, the rhythm of her breathing evening out. But I stay awake, staring into the dark, wrestling with everything I refuse to let myself feel.