Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
ASHER
I had two options when I got out of Dovecrest, but only one ever stuck. Ivanya Dubois would fucking pay. All I had to do was not feel her.
We landed an hour ago, and I made it my mission to put as much distance between us as humanly possible.
Snow crunches under my board. I shift my weight, scrolling through photos I should have deleted months ago.
Ivy on the chairlift, hood pulled low. Ivy at the bonfire, firelight turning her skin gold while she pretended not to watch me. Ivy in my bed, hair fanned across the pillow, lips swollen, looking at me the way only I got to see.
I stop on that one, zooming in on her face. Fuck that. This is gonna fuck me right up, so I swipe to the next photo.
Us on Mount Crow, me slightly behind her, both our feet clipped into our boards. I don’t remember who took it. Punk, maybe. Or Luce.
Swipe.
Wearing my jacket, she frowns up at the camera.
She looked cute as fuck, even if she didn’t listen to me when I told her to bring a coat.
I was mid-interview with a broadcaster, hearing her teeth chatter beside me.
I stripped it off without thinking, wrapping it around her shoulders. Like she was already mine.
She was.
She is.
Because till death do us part.
The ring on my finger catches the early morning light.
Platinum, simple, an almost match to the one I forced onto her hand while she stared at me like I was a ghost. I may as well be.
Fucking crawled all the way back from the grave she buried me in, and now we’re not just gonna play house.
We’re gonna fucking burn it all the way down.
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. Simpler times.
I scroll back to the first photo. The chairlift.
Ivy’s smile, small and reluctant, annoyed at herself for giving me even that much.
I said something stupid about her being too short to reach the safety bar.
She elbowed me in the ribs, called me an asshole, and I felt more alive in that single moment than I had in years.
Now I feel nothing.
That’s a lie.
I feel everything. That’s the problem. Dovecrest tried to burn it out of me. Months of drugs and darkness, Aléia’s voice telling me Ivy left me to die, that Ivy never cared, that I should hate her. Hate everything she worships.
I do hate her.
I also can’t stop staring at her face on this screen, memorizing the exact shade of green in her eyes, the exact curve of her jaw. My phone buzzes, a text from Atlas sliding down the screen.
Don’t worry. I’ll keep her occupied ;)
He’ll do no such thing and he fucking knows it.
Another buzz.
Damn. For sure thought that would have sent you flying back down the mountain.
I take one last look at the photo. Her eyes, her mouth, the ghost of a smile I’ll never see again.
Then I delete the album.
Every photo, every memory, every piece of evidence that I was ever stupid enough to think she could love me back.
My thumb hovers over the confirmation.
Delete 1047 photos?
The wind kicks up, throwing ice crystals against my face. A dog barks in the distance. Normal sounds, a normal morning, but nothing about this is normal. As soon as we landed, I ran for my board like a fucking coward.
I hit cancel and pocket the phone.
Pushing off down the hill, my board cuts through powder. Speed builds as wind tears at my jacket. The tree line blurs into streaks of black and white, and for three seconds, maybe four, there’s nothing but gravity, the board beneath my feet, and the cold air shredding my lungs.
Snow sprays in a white plume as I kill the momentum, sliding to a stop twenty feet from the bottom.
Movement inside catches my eye.
There.
Ivy.
In my house.
She moves past the island, one hand trailing along the cement countertop.
Her hair’s down, falling in dark waves past her shoulders.
She must have showered and changed. Jeans sit low on her hips, and that fucking top, black and tight, rides further up when she reaches for something on the top shelf.
The fabric lifts, exposing the clear curve of her tits.
Heat slams through me, igniting from watching her move through my space like she has every right to be here.
She doesn’t.
Her hips sway as she crosses to the fridge, that same fluid grace she’s always had.
I grip the edge of the shed.
Wood bites into my palm, grounding me before I do something stupid.
Like kick in the back door. Like pin her against the nearest wall and make her explain why she’s such a fucking disappointment, why she still looks at me like she does, why my body doesn’t give a fuck about the scar on my rib and throat or the year I lost to Dovecrest.
She opens the fridge, leaning in until denim stretches tight across her ass.
I look away.
This is the problem. It’s always been the problem. Ivanya Dubois, or rather, Delacroix, walks into a room and my brain shuts down. Logic dies, strategy crumbles, and all that’s left is want.
Guess I forgot about that little detail when I came up with the brilliant idea of marrying her.
She straightens, bumps the fridge shut, and turns.
For half a second, I think she sees me. Her gaze sweeps toward the window, going perfectly still. Ditto.
Snow clings to my hair by the time I hit the back door. I kick off my boots, peel out of my jacket, and toss it onto the first step in the foyer.
She walks in from the kitchen with a glass of water, freezing with the rim an inch from her mouth.
Her cheeks flush. “Atlas showed me my room.”
Is that fucking embarrassment? A first for her.
I keep my expression dead, moving past her toward the living room and the large windows looking over the powder I just carved to pieces.
My shoulder brushes hers.
Her hand snaps out, landing on my forearm before I pass her.
I don’t turn. I stare at the glass and the world beyond it, the faint reflection of us standing way too close.
“If it’s any consolation,” she says, lowering her voice and dropping her hand. Thank fuck. “I’m glad you’re alive. Despite all of this…”
I turn, eyes narrowing. Is she fucking for real?
She backs up without a thought, a step, then another, until her shoulder blades hit the wall by the staircase. I keep closing in until her anxiety spikes the air between us, her fucking pupils blown wide.
“Consolation?” My lip twitches.
For the first time, I catch it. A flicker of Fear. It knocks the rage clean out of my chest.
I study her face, taking in the scar near her hairline I traced the night she fell asleep in my arms, and the swell of her lips I’ve felt against every inch of my skin. It’s the proof that whatever this sickness is, it’s gonna keep dragging us back together, no matter how much blood spills.
I lean in close enough that my words ghost over her skin.
Torture is patience.
“Look at me, Venom.”
Her eyes travel up my face.
“Glad I’m alive?” My mouth twists.
She swallows. “I meant it.”
“No. Your guilt needs it. You don’t get to lick my wounds.” I lean in closer. “No matter how good you are with that tongue.”
I can’t tell if she’s offended, shocked, or turned on. Knowing her, probably all of the above.
“I know, I’m—” She blinks.
“You’re what?” I lean back slightly, enough for her to question the exact level of fucks I give.
“Sorry,” she admits softly, and her shoulders loosen.
My lips pull into a full-toothed smile that doesn’t touch my eyes. “I don’t want your fucking apologies, Ivy.”
Her jaw tightens. This is the part where she always has to practice her self control.
I drag my gaze down every feature. “I’ll never need you for anything ever again.”
She lifts her hands. “Then what am I here for, Asher.”
I shrug, because what the fuck did she expect? “Haven’t thought that far ahead yet. Kinda went off plan...”
I’m teasing, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Panic flashes over her face, enough to pull a laugh right from my throat. Ah, now this in itself is satisfaction. Those control issues…
My hand slides down the wall, caging her in. “What’s the matter, Venom? Thought we had this chat about you and your obsessive need for control.”
When I step back a little, she releases a small exhale of relief.
Fuck it. I need to hurt her.
Pulling out my phone, I keep my eyes dead on her as I find the contact I’m looking for. It rings three times before clicking over.
“Camille? What are you doing right now?”
Amazing that I could form the words from under all the vomit that’s rising in my throat from merely saying her name.
Camille giggles. “Well, I’m packing my bags…”
My tongue swipes at my bottom lip.
Ivy’s eyes snap to the movement before lifting back onto mine.
“Yeah?” My smirk deepens. “Good. Because I’m gonna need you to come ride my dick.”
Ivy recoils like I slapped her, cheeks red and brows pulled in. She shoves at my chest and I laugh, stumbling backwards as she walks away.
“That hurt, Venom?” I say lazily, watching her retreat with a smirk. “Fucking good. Get used to it.”