Chapter 19
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
IVY
An hour. An hour explaining everything that’s changed this fast while I whisk batter that’s way too thick to pass as edible.
“You’re stirring it wrong.” Luce leans into her screen, her face filling the frame.
Why am I explaining anyway? Shouldn’t they be pleased he hasn’t killed me? “I’m stirring it fine.”
Luce mumbles. “You’re going to get lumps.”
“Then I’ll eat the lumps.” I drag the spoon through again, and the batter slaps the side of the bowl.
Jord tilts his head, squinting at his screen. “Is that Asher’s shirt?”
I glance down at the faded black cotton like I just noticed it and hadn’t been secretly wearing it the whole year I thought he was dead. Ice Butcher stretches across the chest in cracked lettering. It smells like him, which is exactly what I’m not about to say out loud.
I shrug like it’s nothing. “It was on the floor and I needed a shirt.”
“Suuuure,” Jord drags out the syllables. “Lots of things end up on floors.”
Tilting the bowl, I pour enough into the cast iron. “Exactly. A common occurrence. Painfully normal.”
Luce rests her chin in her hand. “How are you holding up. Actually.”
Steam hisses from the waffle iron as I lower the lid. “I’ve called Emeric seventeen times.”
Both their faces go blank.
“Seventeen,” Jord repeats, mostly to himself.
“Seventeen.” I confirm, holding the entire red flag with confidence. “There has been no answer. Not even a decline. Just rings out and dumps me to voicemail.” I press my thumb into the counter until my nail whites out. “He loved Nonna. He has to know. He has to.”
“Maybe he does know.” Luce picks at the edge of her sleeve. “Maybe that’s why he’s not answering.”
No way that’s it. “Maybe.”
I lift the waffle iron lid and peel the first one free, burning my fingers for my trouble.
Jord’s eyes narrow as he leans closer to the screen. “I swear women don’t feel heat.”
The backyard slider slams shut, and Camille steps into the kitchen, wrapped in Lululemon. Her body is what every beauty standard bowed to when I was a teenager, and back then, I probably would’ve done anything to have it. Thank fuck, I grew into the curves genetics dumped on me.
She stops when she notices me, her body locking tight, then lifts her chin and heads for the fridge.
She pulls a bottled water, presses the cold plastic to her throat for a second, then twists off the cap.
With every gulp of water, she keeps zeroing in on me, dragging her eyes over what I’m wearing as if Asher is fucking hers.
“Aw.” Her tone is about as sweet as Splenda. “Don’t you look domesticated.”
“Good morning,” I reply, baring every tooth in a smile. I’ll never let this bitch know she gets under my skin.
“Asher came by last night, by the way.” She tips the bottle back for another slow pull. “After you fell asleep.” One shoulder lifts in a tiny shrug, then drops. “You know how he is. He can’t ever really just leave things alone.”
Ice slides through the middle of my chest, but I don’t let it hit my face. I check the waffle iron instead, then drag my eyes back to her.
“Good for him.” I flatten my tone, and it pisses her off because she doesn’t move, too hungry to see any tiny involuntary crack that tells her she got me. So I give her nothing.
“Anyway.” She screws the cap back on the bottle, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. “Just thought you’d want to know.”
“I didn’t,” I say pleasantly beneath my breath. “But thanks.”
Her footsteps scrape over concrete.
One. Two. Three. Inhale… exhale…
Snow hits the window above. So cold.
The snap of a million icicles biting into your sweaty flesh as you plunge under water.
“Ivy.” Luce’s voice drags me back.
I pluck another waffle out, ignoring the steam biting my fingers. “What?”
There’s a pause. “You’re looking a little Mariée de la Mort…”
The waffle thuds onto the plate. “I’m fine.” I suck batter off my thumb, bending over my phone. “I’ll call you guys back.”
”—wait!”
I tap end call and flip off the power switch, scooping up the plate with fresh waffles before crossing the kitchen to his door.
It clicks shut behind me.
He looks so peaceful asleep. Lately, all I ever see is him pressed. Grumpy. Pissed off at me. When he’s not fucking me, at least.
Now he’s here, shirtless and flat on his back, one arm thrown over his head, sheets tangled at his waist. His chest rises and falls, jaw slack. I take this moment to admire him, all that dark ink, thick muscle, and his stupidly adorable face when he’s not talking.
I take a waffle, set the plate on the dresser, and cross the room. As soon as I’ve hit the side of the bed, I drop it onto his face.
He jerks upright, snatching it away. With bed hair and eyes still lazy from sleep, I need to rein in my hormones before I climb onto his dick instead of threaten to cut it off.
“The fuck...” He looks down at his hand. “Did you just throw a waffle at me?”
“I placed it,” I say, nodding. “Gently. On your face.”
His eyes narrow.
“You’re awake now, so…” I fold my arms. “Camille says you fucked her last night. After I fell asleep.” Okay, she didn’t say those exact words, but she may as well have.
The annoyance in his face breaks into a smug smirk.
He laughs. “Yeah, right. Bitch is lying.”
“That’s your denial?” I stare at him. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He doesn’t blink. “She’s lying.”
I’ve studied human nature. How people react under pressure, threatened, afraid. I’ve learned to look at what they don’t say, not what they do, and everything in between.
He keeps glaring at me.
“What is it, Venom?” He bites into the waffle, slowly shuffling back against the headboard. “Am I lying? Or is she?” His chewing slows around his grin.
“You’re an asshole.” And a hot one. Unfortunately.
He sucks the grease from his thumb. “Mmm, but you used to love that about me.”
Yeah… until you turned cruel.
He yanks me onto the bed before I can pull back, rolling over me and pinning me into the mattress.
God, he doesn’t fight fair. I know she’s lying. Or at least, his reaction tells me there’s some lie buried in it.
“Let me go.” A smile breaks over my face and I want to slap it off.
He looks straight into my eyes. “No.”
My laughter dies, and suddenly, my chest is too tight, this room is too small, and I’m beneath the only man walking this earth who can touch the scars I hide in my soul.
He brushes his nose against mine, then kisses me, shifting back a little after dropping two more.
I search his face, wondering if I’d still be a good human lie detector if the lie itself was the only real thing I’ve ever felt.
“Who were you talking to yesterday?” I try again, because this isn’t leaving my head.
“Nobody worth mentioning,” he repeats, kissing me again.
“You said that last night,” I say around his lips. “When I asked in the office.”
“Yeah.” He nips down my jaw, tracing the marks with his tongue. “Because nobody worth mentioning is still nobody worth mentioning.”
“Asher…” I say, but it comes out breathless and my eyes drift closed.
“Ivy,” he mimics, voice vibrating over my neck.
I chuckle when he bites my skin, shoving at his chest with everything I have until I roll onto my side.
He groans but lets it happen, landing on his back with his arm still trapped beneath me.
It gives me a direct, daylight view of the scar on his neck. The closer I look, the more I see. People don’t answer hard questions by being asked. Most times, you have to prod around the surrounding details before you can get to the center.
“How did you get out?”
He looks up at the ceiling. “Out of what.”
“You know what.” And sometimes, you have to tie them to a chair and torture it out of them. I’m not above that option.
He swallows. “It doesn’t matter.”
I push on. “It matters to me.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “It fucking shouldn’t.”
“What are you talking about?” I snap, failing to bury my annoyance. “You’ve always mattered to me.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Because how fucking dare I. I don’t get to say shit like that to a man I tried to kill. Or at least, he thought I tried to kill.
“Venom.” He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard into his eyes. “Leave it alone.”
Is he insane? I can’t let this go. There are a hundred questions I haven’t even begun to ask because I’ve been marinating in my guilt over what I did.
“I can’t.”
His jaw tenses, and the part I love most about him disappears under my questions.
“You’re gonna need to.”
Fine. We tried the codex way. New plan.
“The scar. On your throat.”
Nothing.
Every muscle in my body pulls tight. “Who’s Dovecrest? What Elea said at dinner?”
He shoves himself upright, the sheets pooling at his waist. “I ain’t doing this with you right now, Ivy. Give up.”
Heat prickles over my scalp.
“What happened after, Asher?” I push up off the pillow. “How did you get out of the house? People don’t just resurface with a scar on their throat—“
“Ivy.” One simple word and my mouth snaps closed.
He pulls on his sweats and I plant myself in place instead of getting lost in how hot my scratch marks look over his back. “I’m not doing this.”
“Then what are we doing?” I ask, and ugh! I hate that. I hate I asked it. “Because every time I think hey, we’re making sense, some shit comes in and reminds me why I can’t have the one fucking thing I’ve ever wanted!”
“Don’t.” He turns, and there it is. That cold, detached look I’ve despised since he’s been back. “Don’t make me answer shit I can’t.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Neither of us moves.
Fine. Fucking fine.
Torture won’t earn back his trust, so I fly off the bed, cross the room, and grab my phone when I pass. There are exactly two things I know how to do when people shut doors in my face. I find the key. Or I shoot the fucking hinges off.
As soon as his bedroom is at my back, I stand there for a second, phone in my hand, waiting.
Listening. For footsteps. For the low sound of his voice calling my name through the stone, or the handle turning, or any of the hundred small surrenders I’ve watched people make when they realize the other person left and they need to chase them.
None of it happens, because this isn’t a fairytale. Asher is the villain the princess fantasizes about while having polite sex with her prince.
Back in my room, I peel off the shirt and toss it to the floor. The shower’s hot when I step in, and I scrub hard, fast. Maybe it’ll give me a minute to change my mind about what I’m about to do.
Or maybe it’ll give me a minute to fix the plan...
Stepping out, I dry off and pull on the first pants I find. Leggings. Doc Martens. An oversized jean jacket.
The hall is quiet when I leave, and I fix on where I’m headed. There’s a door on the other side I haven’t seen anyone use, so I walk that way, keeping it casual. If someone sees me, I won’t look like I’m about to do something I shouldn’t.
I put my hand on the handle. It opens easier than I expect, and I slip inside, finding a switch on the wall. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, then settle on a line of expensive cars.
“Huh.”
Keys hang off hooks on the wall. I curl my finger beneath the one with the Aston Martin badge, press the unlock button, and head straight for it.
Leather wraps around me the second I drop into the seat, and I drag my palms over the steering wheel as if greeting an old friend. Well, a similar one anyway.
The engine purrs to life with a purr. Damn. I sure hope he wasn’t expecting me home for dinner…
I hit the garage button, and the doors roll open, spilling daylight across concrete. Shifting into drive, I ease forward but lose patience and floor it. The Aston surges, tires biting at ice-covered concrete as the curve of the driveway comes fast.
I take it at speed, hook the steering wheel until the back eases into a drift, then correct onto the road that joins the driveway.
Through the rearview, I watch the house shrink every few seconds. I really didn’t think I’d make it out that easy, but I don’t let it go to my head. With Asher, it only ever means one of two things. He knows and he’ll deal with you later, or he’ll deal with you later.
The road narrows fast, snowbanks crowding both sides as pines close in overhead, and then everything smooths into nothing. Which isn’t ideal, because now there’s nothing to distract me from my straying thoughts.
Why isn’t Emeric answering my calls or texts?
I hit the music button and an old rock song fills the void. The road climbs through dense bushland, and then finally, I drive through a break that opens to white peaks. The familiar small township sprawls across the slopes, tucked into mountains.
Easing off the gas, the Aston rolls quietly through town as my fingers tap the wheel. Memories threaten to surface, and before they can piss me off, I crank the wheel and swing back onto the main road.
Trust Le Boucher.
Why would she think I wouldn’t? I know Emeric. I know what he built. I know what he pulled me from and what he made of all the broken parts.
I press the gas harder, and the road opens onto familiar territory as I guide the car down Veilarath Lane. Toward Mount Grim.
The tightness finally releases from my muscles when I pull up in front of wired gates. “Home.”