Chapter 4
Ivy
Jord: You should probably not log in to any social media this week. The masses have found your Instagram.
I reread his words before typing out a response.
How?
Hmmm… I have no idea.
I check my account, hitting all the new alerts and stop dead. “Holy shit.” One name jumps out. Asher.
I type out another text.
You're not smart. Why would you follow me?
Asher: Why would I not?
Sixty days since Asher tore through my existence like shrapnel. He dulls Parker's bullshit to background noise, but overall, it’s useless. There are no exits. No mercy. Just a slow bleed that’ll eventually kill you.
I have to fly to some mysterious island tonight to sign the ownership forms of this house.
I'm coming with you.
No, you can't. The masses have already found me. What if they see us together?
Nothing. Silence. No notification.
I don't let anyone tell me what to do who isn't on my dick. I'll meet you at the airstrip.
My mouth falls open. “Motherfucker!”
I know there’s no point arguing with him. All that ever got us was coming too close to kissing.
Almost.
But I'm not doing that. Now or ever.
Another text comes through and I click without looking, thinking it's Asher.
It's not.
Unknown: It has been interesting to watch you unfold with this young man. May I remind you of the fundamentals?
He doesn't need to. No one does.
***
“I told you you didn't have to come!” I snatch the keys the air host hands me as we land on the tarmac. Snow whips down around the jet, clouds of it kicking up against the tires.
“Yeah, and I told you fuck no. So shut up and let's go sign this.” He tilts his head and I hate when he does this. When he dissects every secret I keep buried.
And I have a lot.
“Inherited family home, which happens to be—” He flashes his phone screen to a banner posted on Facebook. I try to focus on the words, but notifications cascade down the top. DMs and texts. Weird emojis and I'm pretty sure I saw the words but you've already seen me squirt.
Gross.
I jerk back, glaring at him. “That's disgusting, Ash. I don't want to see your private shenanigans.”
“What?” He jerks back, offended, checking his phone. His mouth twitches. I’ll kill him if that’s amusement.
He pins me with a stare that almost looks apologetic, but the dark rings in his eyes darken. “Sorry about that, Venom. But!” Then it's gone. “Did you see the poster, or were you too busy stalking my texts?”
I unclasp my belt as the light flicks off. “First of all, ew, I wasn't stalking your texts. They were forced onto me and burned my retinas, along with a few brain cells, but no, I admit I missed the poster.”
I gesture for the phone back and he hands it over without hesitating before turning to the air host.
The first annual Winter Games will be held on the winter wonderland of Veilarath.
Consisting of three of the deadliest slopes recognized by man, this prestigious island has agreed to host our first games, with thanks to our major sponsor, Asher Jameson.
Asher is the grandson of Wickham Jameson the fifth, but carved his own path amongst the snow community when he was twelve years old after winning an Olympic medal at his age.
Well, I guess you'd know the rest, unless you've been living under a rock.
Participants are INVITE ONLY
To secure your limited tickets, follow the following link.
Please note: Veilarath is renowned for its privacy laws and we adhere to them. No paparazzi.
I pause, tapping on the link. I'll shelve the questions about how Asher got an entire island appreciated for its reclusiveness to agree to what could turn into a circus.
The link loads onto a webpage.
Tickets to purchase a front seat spot of Winter Games select from one of the two charities. Minimum buy-in $5,000.
Charity One: Universal Mental health facilities for public health boards.
Charity Two: Shelter for domestic violence and sexual assault victims.
Accommodation and flights not included and good luck securing them.
I hand his phone back, the words churning in my head at speeds I need to stop.
“I have many questions.” All of which should be how he got to Veilarath, but none of them outweigh the one.
Why those charities?
Over the past two months, Asher has made it his mission to fill my time with himself. Every day. All day. Sometimes all night. Not once have I asked anything personal. Not once has he offered it. I prefer it this way.
“Tell me I'm great.” He flashes me a wicked smirk that makes my heart race.
I wipe my palms. “You're great, Ash.”
My smile dies because I meant it. He was great.
After thanking the air host, we climb down the stairs and the arctic air hits me.
I shiver, tightening my jacket, but it does nothing to cut the freeze.
Asher drapes his arm over my shoulders, pulling me in as we approach an idling gray Range Rover.
“You didn't have to come…” I say as he opens my door and I slide into the warmth.
He rounds the driver's side as I shake off my coat and toss it in the back seat.
Slipping into the driver’s seat, he shuts out the cold. “I told you, I wanted to, but also, I have an idea.”
“Oh no.” I joke, pulling the belt down over my body. “Your ideas are brutal, so put me out of my misery.”
He laughs and my chest tightens.
His attention swings to me, and here, with the snowy mountains framing him and winter biting at his tanned skin, he transforms. Away from Chicago's noise, the city, Parker, our apartment—he becomes someone new.
His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip before that right cheek dimple appears. “I'm gonna teach you how to shred.”
My mouth drops open. “Ah, no, the fuck you ain't!”
“Ah, yes, the fuck I am.” He parrots, turning back to the wheel and driving us from the airstrip. His fingers tap against the steering wheel, confident and smug, already knowing I'll cave.
“Anyone would think you're taking full advantage of this privacy law.” I chuckle, reaching into my pocket for my phone.
He doesn't answer, and from what I've learned in the past two months, Asher Jameson always has some shit to say, so his silence makes me hesitate. There are a lot of people in this world who deserve pain. Asher isn’t one of them, so the thought of me being the one to hurt him makes my chest cave.
His jaw tightens before he shakes his head and stares out the side window. “I don't give a fuck who sees us together.”
He pauses, face turning to me over his shoulder. Time slows to a heavy drum.
His brows dip a little, and for a moment, I see a flash of vulnerability. “Do you?”
“What?” I jerk back. How could he think I’d be embarrassed by him?
I sigh, blowing out a steady breath. “I mean, aside from the fact that I'm married and people might dig too deep into that?” he’s turned back to the road, as if I’d already given him my answer. Did I care? Did I care that there were more people on the line that he even knew?
“No, Ash.” I bite down on my bottom lip because it’s the truth.
He turns to me again.
“No,” I repeat with a small smile. “I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.”
And I’m so fucked.
His eyes fall to my lips, before traveling back up. “Good, because I'm not hiding you anymore.” The words hit me with a possessive weight that makes my pulse quicken.
We drive through an open road, surrounded by mountains that cave in around us in jagged peaks that rise high into the sky.
The car purrs beneath us as we continue winding through valleys that swallow us whole.
Fifteen minutes and we break into more civility.
Small lantern lights begin popping up every so often, before a wooden sign reads Veilarath.
It unfolds before us like something from a storybook. Snow blankets the town in powder white, untouched in some places, crunched into pathways in others. Storefronts glow with golden light, their windows dressed with pine garlands and red ribbons. Even the streetlamps are dressed in branches.
We pass a shop owner who smiles at someone passing as he arranges displays of handmade ornaments and woolen goods.
“Jesus,” I mutter, half impressed. It's like a world far away from any I've known.
In the center square there's a massive tree, dripping with colored bulbs.
“Why does it feel like Christmas here?” I answer absently, hitting the window to inhale the scent of cinnamon and wood-smoke.
“Yeah, I guess it can feel a bit like that,” Asher mumbles, and I open my eyes back onto him, about to ask what he means, when a couple catch my eye.
They're walking hand-in-hand, their laughter visible in white puffs against the cold.
They seem happy. Not the superficial kind either, like genuinely happy.
I fall back into my chair, pressing my fingertips against the cold glass. The contrast between who I am and this innocent winter wonderland isn't lost on me. I almost feel guilty for being here. For tainting such elegance.
After a few turns, Asher rolls us down a wide suburban street with gates instead of houses.
“Holy shit.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. A dark building rises through the veil of falling snow. It towers three stories high, every surface painted matte black. It’s beautiful in a grotesque kind of way.
“Well, fuck me.” Asher lets out a low whistle, slowing to a crawl. “Your mysterious dead relative had taste.”
888 Veilarath Lane. The numbers scratched into iron gates, and they part as we approach, sensors detecting our arrival.
We roll up the driveway slowly, allowing me to catch all the details. Gargoyles perch on corners, their faces obscured by snow, and every window that peers down the driveway is tinted.
It's beautiful. Actually, it's more than that. It’s luxury wrapped in something mysterious. It whispers old-world vampire shit—makes me think of those Dracula films they used to make when color wasn't even an option yet.
My fingers twitch with the urge to touch the walls, see if they hold secrets beneath their surface. Like me.