24. Hank
Chapter 24
Hank
I step into the living room, and there she is again. Ivy. She's all legs and soft curves, wearing nothing but one of my shirts. The fabric clings to her like it's got no right to, sticking to places that make my hands itch to touch her. I swallow hard, trying to focus on anything else.
"Hey, Hank," Wyatt calls out, a knowing smirk on his face. He's sitting too close to her on the couch, and Holt's not far off, grinning like an idiot.
"Morning." My voice comes out rough. I don't stop moving, heading straight for the door. Outside. I need air.
The mountain air hits me cold and sharp, but it does nothing to cool the heat raging through my veins. I can still hear her laugh—light, carefree, like she doesn’t have a single worry in the world. Like she belongs here. But she doesn’t.
She’s temporary. A city girl who’ll never stay. She doesn’t belong in this life, in this town. She’ll never be mine. Not really.
But deep down, I know it’s already too late. For me. For Wyatt. For Holt.
I grip the axe handle tighter, splitting logs with more force than necessary. Thwack. Another piece of wood gives way. Thwack. My muscles strain and flex.
Then it starts—the low, sweet moans drifting through the open window. My whole body locks up, blood surging south in an instant.
I know exactly what they’re doing. They’ve been doing it for weeks now. It’s been weeks of this torture.
I should walk away, but my feet won’t move. I’m rooted to the spot, caught in some kind of cruel limbo between agony and temptation. The sounds wrap around me and squeeze the breath from my lungs. Ivy, coming apart at the seams, Wyatt and Holt right there to pull her back together.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, slamming the axe down into another log. The wood doesn't stand a chance. Neither do I. I'm breaking, bit by bit, every moan chipping away at my resolve.
My cock twitches, hard and aching, pressing against my zipper. I shove the heel of my hand against it, trying to will it away, but it’s no use. When I’m alone at night, it’s her face I see behind closed eyelids, her body I feel beneath my hands. And each time I give in, gripping myself tight, it’s her name that falls from my lips as I chase that high, only to crash back down into this hell I’m living.
My cock is practically raw from how often I’ve fucked my hand the last couple of weeks.
I’ve never been so goddamn frustrated in my life.
And, with the way they’ve been going at it, I’m scared to leave my damn room, lest I walk in on my every fantasy spread out all over the place. On the couch. On the living room floor. On the goddamn dining room table. They ran out of condoms at some point a couple weeks ago. You think that would have slowed them down. If anything, it’s made them worse.
The only place I haven’t found them is outside—because it’s too cold—and in my bed—because I would commit fucking murder if they dared.
I wait until there’s nothing but silence. Until I know they’re tucked away for the night. All three of them in one bed, of course.
I also know they’ll wake up and start fucking at least once before morning.
But, now is my best chance. I slip through the shadows of the cabin, my feet silent on the worn wooden floor.
The air is cool against my skin, a sharp contrast with the fire that's been burning in my veins all day. I need something to quench it, even if it's just for a moment.
The fridge hums as I pull it open, grabbing a cold beer. The light spills out, casting a soft glow across the room. And that’s when I see her.
Ivy.
She’s curled up on the bench by the window, knees pulled to her chest, staring into the night.
I pause, the bottle half-raised to my lips. She looks different like this. Smaller somehow. Fragile. The city girl bravado is gone, stripped away by the shadows.
Why does that twist my insides more than any of her flirtatious glances?
Then I hear it.
A soft, muffled sniffle.
The sound causes my heart to thud against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
“What’s wrong?” The words come out rough, demanding.
She jumps, startled, wiping her face with the back of her hand before turning to mask her eyes from me. But I've seen enough. There's a rawness there that can't be hidden.
"Nothing," she tries, voice cracking like thin ice underfoot. "Just a bad dream."
Liar.
She’s shutting me out, and I should let her. I should grab my beer and go.
But I don’t.
I grab a chair and sit beside her, close enough that our knees almost touch. Close enough that she can feel I’m not going anywhere.
"Tell me," I push, quieter this time.
"It’s silly," she whispers, still not meeting my gaze. "You wouldn’t understand."
"Try me," I insist, because hell, I’m not leaving her like this. Not when everything inside me screams that she needs someone.
Her eyes finally lift, locking with mine. And there it is—the truth she’s trying to bury. The kind of pain no dream can cause.
It's real. It's deep.
And it guts me to see it.
But then, just like that, it’s gone. She blinks, shakes her head, and forces a small, dismissive smile.
“It’s nothing, Hank,” she says lightly, like she didn’t just have tears in her eyes. “Just a stupid dream. Doesn’t matter.”
Liar.
She brushes her hands over her thighs like she can wipe the moment away, then stretches her arms over her head with a yawn. “I should probably get back to bed.”
But I don’t let her.
Before she can stand, I scoop her up effortlessly, one arm under her knees, the other around her back.
Her breath hitches, hands flying to my shoulders. "Hank—what are you?—?"
I don’t answer. Just walk.
Back to my room.
This is a terrible idea. Worst idea I’ve ever had.
I tell myself it’s just to make sure she sleeps. That’s it.
But deep down, I already know the truth.
The door to my room swings open with a nudge of my foot. I carry her over the threshold, feeling like I'm crossing some invisible line. A line I can't ever uncross.
She clings to me, and I lower us both down, careful not to jar her. Ivy curls into my side, a perfect fit in the crook of my arm. I lay back, bringing her along, our bodies aligning with an ease that scares the hell out of me.
"Thank you, Hank," she murmurs, her breath warm against my skin.
"Shh, just sleep." That's all I can offer. Words are too clumsy for what churns inside of me.
Her breathing steadies, each exhale brushing against my chest. Ivy's presence fills the space, erasing the cold emptiness that usually dwells here. It's a strange kind of peace, holding her. And with every calm rise and fall of her chest, something shifts in me.
I'm not falling. That's a lie I've been telling myself to keep the walls up. But they're crumbling now, fast and without mercy. Because the truth hits me—I’m not falling. I already have.
"Damn it, Ivy," I whisper to the darkness, to her, to myself. "What are you doing to me?"