Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ivan
Poppy didn’t go to Donovan again, and he didn’t push it—but that was the problem.
Men like Donovan didn’t give space out of kindness.
They withdrew like predators, circling quietly until the exact moment they could strike.
He was planning something, and every hour that ticked by without interference made the coil in my gut wind tighter and tighter.
There were no public outings, no orchestrated dates, no calls. Just… silence. They’d already hard-launched their relationship, so she wasn’t really needed anymore until he was ready for her.
She’d tried all the stupid classes he wanted her signed up for—kickboxing, cycling, Pilates—but this morning she had yoga.
Hot yoga.
I pressed my fist to my mouth, because the threat of it alone was enough to make me see my life flash before my eyes.
The little workout sets she wore for the other classes were fine—if “fine” meant I spent half the sessions watching men trip over themselves while trying to do side lunges behind her.
But hot yoga was another beast entirely.
Minimal clothing. Sweaty skin. Rooms designed by Satan.
And considering the little cold war we’d been waging between us, I already knew she would weaponize the outfit.
She’d been giving me the silent treatment since we’d spoken last about her father and all the things she didn’t want to know yet. I didn’t know what I was doing there. I was playing with fire, I knew that much.
She wouldn’t look at me unless she needed to. She wouldn’t talk unless I forced it. She’d freeze up when I brushed her fingers, shoot me a glare hot enough to cauterize wounds, and then turn on her heel like she couldn’t stand the sight of me.
And then I’d laugh.
Not because it was funny, but because it unraveled her.
Because I needed to see the cracks in her silence, the way her breath stuttered, the way her cheeks flushed and she forgot to be angry with me for half a second.
It was wrong, but it was all I had.
But this morning? Hot yoga morning?
Yeah, this was the morning that would put me into an early grave.
Her bedroom door opened, and I schooled my face into something impassive—professional, even. Ready to handle whatever ridiculous matching set she’d chosen to torment me with.
But I wasn’t ready.
I don’t think anything could’ve prepared me.
She stepped out in a tiny black sports bra and high-cut shorts that left miles of legs bare and gleaming in the soft morning light. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, neck exposed, cheeks still pink from her skincare routine.
She looked like every fantasy I wasn’t allowed to have, and she didn’t even look at me.
She moved around the kitchen with practiced indifference, grabbing her water bottle, her towel, sliding her phone into the pocket on the little bitty shorts that squeezed her in all the ways I wanted to.
Good.
Fine.
Great.
I was going to die anyway, so what did it matter?
“Ready?” I finally managed, though my voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.
She hummed. Another non-answer. “That outfit is… wow.”
She stopped in the doorway and whipped around, her eyes narrowing on me. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to; I could see it in the way her cheeks reddened, and her chin lifted. She lifted a dark brow, and I knew… my grave was waiting for me in that studio.
The first time Poppy bent over the little mat on the floor, I was ready to gouge out every man’s eyeballs in the entire building.
Actually—scratch that.
I was ready to burn the entire yoga studio to the ground and salt the ashes so nothing could ever grow here again.
Because the second she folded in half with palms flat to the mat, her tiny shorts rode up in a way that should’ve been illegal… every guy in the room noticed. It was like an email had been sent out to bring them by. And maybe they weren’t looking at Poppy. I was trying to convince myself of that.
After all, there were six other women in that studio with Poppy, all wearing skimpy gym attire.
But none of them were her.
None of them had that soft little exhale she made when she stretched deeper.
None of them brushed a loose wisp of hair behind their ear in a way that made my pulse jump.
None of them smelled like citrus shampoo and some light, floral perfume that had been haunting me for months.
The instructor walked past, nodded at Poppy’s form, and then glanced at me.
A knowing glance.
A smirk.
I considered murder.
Poppy rose into a standing pose and did that little bounce she did when she was trying to readjust her clothes without being obvious. She tugged the hem of her shorts down a millimeter.
Not enough.
Not nearly enough.
My jaw ticked as two more men filtered into the back of the room. They tried to look casual—water bottles, mats slung over shoulders, innocent faces—but I saw their eyes track her.
A deep, what-the-hell-is-happening breath shuddered out of me.
Great. Now the class had become general admission.
The instructor chirped something about “opening your heart space,” and Poppy slid into a pose that required her to bend again—this time with one leg stretched out behind her.
I stared at the ceiling.
No.
The floor.
No.
My own damn feet.
Anywhere but the soft curve of her waist, the sheen of sweat glistening along her spine, and the way her breathing deepened with every inhale.
My skin felt too tight.
My pulse too loud.
My patience paper-thin.
Then, just when I thought the torture couldn’t get worse, Poppy looked back over her shoulder.
A tiny glance. Barely a second.
But her eyes met mine—wide, startled, heated—and her breath caught.
Like she felt all of it.
Like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
Her cheeks flushed and her lashes dropped, then she turned back around. But that one look? That one look was enough to detonate something within my chest.
Sweat coated every inch of Poppy as we rode in the elevator back to her penthouse.
“Did you enjoy yoga?” My voice sounded too low, even to my own ears.
One of her brows lifted again in that infuriating look, and she shrugged.
Like she hadn’t just spent an hour bending herself into shapes specifically designed to ruin my life. Like she wasn’t standing there glistening and flushed and breathing softly because she’d pushed her body to its limit.
The air was too thin in here.
I could hardly think.
Maybe it was the heat leftover from the studio. Maybe it was the fact that she still hadn’t said a real word to me in three days. Maybe it was because all the blood in my body was no longer making it to my brain and had collected, traitorously, in my cock.
Either way, coherent thought was not on the menu.
Then she did it—she dragged her fingertips over her bare ribs, tracing a path around the hem of her sports bra as she absentmindedly wiped away a bead of sweat.
I wanted to choke.
I wanted to fall to my knees.
I wanted to throw myself onto the floor and let her walk all over me, just for the chance to feel the warm drag of her skin brushing mine again. I wanted her to touch me for real, not these accidental land mines she set off every time she breathed.
I’d never craved anything like I did at that moment.
Not food, not sleep, not sanity.
Only her.
The elevator dinged.
She stepped out first, towel slung over her shoulder, still glowing, still angry, and still ignoring the fact that I looked at her like she was the axis the world turned on.
I followed because I always followed.
Because I’d rather walk through war behind her than sit in safety without her.