2
TAKE ME HOME
IVY
S trong hands grab me and I whine, annoyed I'm being disturbed. I'm content to sleep, happy to remain oblivious to the nightmare I'm waking to. I'm pulled across the leather car seats and I lash out, hitting something soft enough to be human. I keep moving and whoever's pulling me out of the car doesn't react in the slightest.
“You're fine, sweets.”
“Fuck and off.”
Ryan laughs and lifts me into his arms without giving me the chance to walk. “Curb the language. Henry doesn't like it.”
“Do I look like I give a shit?”
“This will be as hard as you make it. The choice is yours. Personally, I don't see the point in fighting him. You're cutting your nose off to spite your face.”
I groan and rest against him, ignoring the nausea rising from the pit of my stomach. Ryan stops and I groan again, leaving my head dropped on his shoulder.
“Don't you want to know where you are, Ivy?”
“A fucking prison.”
His chest sinks as he exhales loudly. “A very pretty one. Stop fighting and give Henry what he wants, and you'll have anything you want.” He pauses. “Within reason.”
I wonder if a choice counts as reasonable to a man like Henry. I assume not, given the conspicuous absence of it. My head screams as pain bursts across my temple and I screw my eyelids closed, shutting out the light offending my eyes.
“Did you want to see or not?”
“It's not like this is my only opportunity.”
Ryan shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. He doesn't ask a third time, carrying me up some steps and into a house, if the change in his stride and creaking door is anything to go by.
He slows again and I try lifting my head, causing a jolt of heat to roll down my spine. I've been in an awkward position and my neck doesn't like the movement. It reminds me of how I got here and I won't forget this. Or forgive it either.
“Where the hell are we?” I groan.
“Now you're interested,” Ryan says, still carrying me. His footsteps sound on stone tiles and his hands tighten their grip. “Henry keeps a house away from everywhere else. It's quiet. Peaceful. You'll like it. Or learn to.”
He's told me nothing helpful and I'd have guessed every bit of information in his answer. He's deflecting—expertly—and it makes my temper burn hotter.
“I asked a goddamn question.”
“And I gave you a goddamn answer. ”
A crap one and we both know it. I dig my fingernails in, hoping to hurt him. If I do, Ryan doesn't let me know and he carries me up the stairs without saying another word.
I peer over his shoulder, staring down at the simple but elegant staircase and hall beneath it. The sand-colored stonework sits comfortably against dark blue walls, as old and new harmoniously coexist. Classical paintings adorn the staircase, but they don’t overwhelm it and the space is strangely modern. Almost peaceful. It’s understated because it doesn’t need to pretend. It screams money and power, certain its timeless elegance will exist long after you do not.
“You waking up?” Ryan asks.
I huff and lift my head, counting the doors we pass and trying to memorize our route. My eyes hurt but I've already wasted precious time and I can't afford to make mistakes like this. Damon told me to be smart and I've been a fool, indulging in weakness when I should have been orientating myself.
“I feel sick,” I mumble.
“Apologies,” Ryan says, dismissively. “We were delayed and you needed a second dose. It'll wear off.”
He slows and asks me to hold on as he opens a door. Ryan takes me into a large bedroom and places me on the sofa. I adjust myself and he steps back until his back connects with a wall. He rests against it and crosses his arms over his chest, staring at me as if I'm pathetic.
He's trying to intimidate me and he's succeeding with little effort. Ryan's size is impressive and I've seen more than my fair share of built men. He's bigger than most of the men in the gym at university, and most of them are athletes. I'm certain he could crush my windpipe if he wanted and there'd be fuck all I could do about it.
“What did you fucking want?”
Ryan doesn't take the bait, but then I don't expect him to. He keeps staring and I fidget, unnerved by the intensity of his gaze. He's watching, observing every flicker of every muscle, noting every action and reaction. He's learning my body and my responses, figuring out how to read me so he can use it later.
“This is your suite,” Ryan says, cold and collected. “You've got a sitting room and bedroom, and you'll find a closet and bathroom through there.”
My eyes dart around, noting the furnishings and decor. Everything's expensive. Everything's elegant. It’s the perfect mix of grown-up and girlish, without being in your face. Even the pinks and mauves of the flowers are perfect—and I fucking hate how lovely this room is. It's as if someone took the time to decorate it for me and it’s too personal, too close. I don't want it, don't need it, and I won't accept it.
“The windows are locked following your recent escapades. I'll lock the door behind me. If you need anything, then ask.” He waits, watching for a reaction and I refuse to give him one. “You'll find clean clothes in the closet. Toiletries are in the bathroom. I assume you'll want to freshen up before dinner.”
I arch my eyebrow and bite my tongue, refusing to ask the obvious question. My silence is petulant but it's beginning to get to Ryan, if the slight stiffening of his core is a reliable indication of his mood.
“Henry wants you dressed and presentable by six o'clock. You've got several hours to settle in and sort yourself out.”
I scoff and stare at one of the paintings, hating it because it's another example of how perfectly this room is decorated. It's a modern collage and its simple but calm colors are understated, contrasting with the sharp angles and messy lines of its design.
“It's genuine,” Ryan says, still calm. “Henry purchased it for you.”
“He can return it.”
“He bought it as a gift.”
My jaw clenches and I hate the beautiful painting more now I know it was bought to bribe me.
“I don't like it.”
Ryan waits until my head turns back to him. “I think you do, sweets. You hate it because you like it. Because Henry's figured you out and he's under your skin. He didn't do it to buy your affection, and that makes you hate it even more. For some utterly insane reason, you’re making this hard and you’ve decided to kick and scream and fight the whole damn way. You'll try to make everyone else suffer, but the only one you'll hurt is yourself. Accept this. Accept him. Give him what he wants and move the fuck on.”
Heat burns through my eyes and I channel every bit of rage I can at the man. He's provoked a response and I'm going to follow through. Ryan needs to know I won't back down easily and I'm not planning on following his advice.
Ryan pinches his nose and shakes his head. “It's your funeral, sweets. I'll have tea brought up.”
“I'm not hungry.”
My stomach grumbles, betraying me. I'm fucking starving and I ignore the worsening hunger pangs rumbling through me, refusing to let the asshole get to me.
Ryan moves to the door and pauses, turning back and making eye contact before he opens it.
“Last chance,” he says. “Anything I can do?”
I'm tempted to tell him to fuck off, but it'd be a mistake. I catch a breath and roll my cheek between my teeth as he stares at me, trying to guess what I'm thinking .
“Take me home.”
Whatever he thought I was going to ask, it wasn't that. His eyes widen and his free hand clenches into a fist. Ryan's on edge and I don't understand why such an obvious request has enraged him more than anything else I've said or done. His reaction is way out of proportion, and he's livid enough to lose his temper.
“You're seriously asking me to take you back to your fucking father? You'd rather be there than here?”
We're still holding eye contact, still glaring at each other with an anger burning hotter than hell. I'm not budging and it's another thing that appears to have shaken Ryan. Shaken is too strong, but he's sure as fuck surprised I haven't backed down.
He's more surprised when I nod my head.
Slowly.
With conviction.
“You’ve got a lot to fucking learn,” he snarls and slams the door shut. I stare at the white door, expecting him to shout some comeback through it. Men like him never let things rest. They always need to twist the knife. They ram their point home and make damn sure it's clear who's in charge. Once their control breaks, they harness their anger to assert themselves, oblivious to the destruction they're causing.
But there's nothing.
No banging at the door.
No noises from the corridor.
No shouting. No screaming. Absolutely no swearing. No threats of violence and no nasty, hurtful insults.
Furniture hasn't been thrown. Walls haven't been punched .
There's just silence. Simply stillness. An absence of anything except the white wood door and the sheen of light reflecting off its gloss paint.
My muscles tense and I stare, waiting for the explosion. It doesn't come. The key turns in the lock and Ryan walks away, his footsteps steady as they fade away.
I sit, watching the door as if my life depended on it. I count my breaths and force myself to look around, taking in everything that's apparently mine. It's beautiful and it's a prison. It's everything I could have wanted, and I loathe it. I want to breathe. I want to know where the fuck I am and what the hell is going on. I want all the things I took for granted, but I'm stuck inside these four walls and a bath or shower are the only things I want.
But that would be what Henry wants.
He expects me to wash and dress for dinner. He can take a running jump if he thinks I'm pretending everything's fine and this is normal. Or acceptable.
I find my feet and pace around the room, opening drawers and discovering the emptiness they contain. Every piece of furniture is secured to the floor and I eye the coving suspiciously, wondering if cameras lurk in its ornate pattern. I check every goddamn window and they're all bolted shut and the shutters are half pulled, obscuring my view of the world outside. The bathroom is as pristine as the room, and the cupboards contain all the toiletries I could want. The man's even bought my favorite perfume and I resist the temptation to pick a bottle up and hurl it across the room.
The closet has some pretty floral dresses and little else, and we're heading for an argument over my attire, if this is what I'm expected to wear. The clothes are the only thing lacking and if I need to pick an argument then it'll be the easiest target. By far .
I step back into the sitting room and the door unlocks with uncanny timing. I'm being watched and the thought disgusts me, making my stomach twist in horror.
“Did you change your mind?” Ryan asks as he opens the door. He doesn't step through it, making our already strange conversation even more bizarre.
I shake my head and he seethes. I meet his indignation and take a few steps forward, raising the tension several notches.
“What about my things?”
“You don't need them. Henry will give you everything you need.” Ryan steps forward but stops at the threshold. “Give him what he wants, and you can have whatever you want, Ivy.”
My hands mirror his and tuck inside my elbows. “This isn’t a fucking transaction.”
Rage flashes through Ryan's eyes again. “Your father made it one.”
I've reached my limit and I don't care what the fucking consequences are anymore. I curl my face up and glare with pure disdain as I slam the door in Ryan's face.
“I'm not my fucking father.”
I wait again, anticipating the tirade. For a second time, I'm shocked that all that happens is the door locks into place. My hands start to shake and my legs tremble as I break apart, staring at the lock as if my will alone could turn it.
I'm overwhelmed and it's far too fucking much.
And if Henry is watching, then I can't let the asshole see he's broken me already. So I do the only reasonable, sensible thing I can and turn slowly, kicking my shoes off as I put myself to bed.