Chapter 19
Ivy
Ipull the beige fur-lined hood up against the biting wind as Daniel navigates the city car through Mount Grim's base terminal. The final Winter Games. Asher dominates these mountains, and the past two that I’ve attended I’ve tried to ignore the fact that he finds me in every crowd.
“Fuck, Ivy,” Atlas whistles low from beside me, his gaze dropping to where my black pants cling to every curve. “That ass?”
I turn slowly, letting my lips curve into something that isn't quite a smile. “Keep looking at it like that, and I'll use it to suffocate you in your sleep.”
“What a way to go,” he grins, completely unbothered by the threat. The colored ink on his neck shifts as he laughs—blues and greens where Asher's are all gray and black. I haven’t got to know Atlas to any capacity since being here, but in another life, I know he and I would become friends.
“You're disgusting,” Camille mutters from his other side, but there's no real heat in it. Her designer ski outfit is all clean white and silver. It makes her look like some ice princess. She’s giving Elsa and I’m more like Mr. Freeze.
Punk snorts from her spot. “Please, like Ivy doesn't know exactly what she's doing in those pants. Girl's got more kills in yoga pants than most assassins have in tactical gear.”
“Professional hazard,” I murmur, adjusting the tight turtleneck that's riding up slightly under my vest. “Men are stupid when distracted.”
“Can confirm,” Jord adds drily. “Remember Budapest? Dude walked straight into traffic watching you cross the street.”
I pause what I’m doing. “That was an accident.”
“Sure it was,” Lucinda's green eyes meet mine. “Just like wearing fuck-me boots to a family-friendly sporting event is an accident.”
I glance down at my fuzzy snow boots. “They're warm. And how are these fuck-me boots?”
I do look good. But fashion comes to me naturally, it always has. I didn’t mean for the fit to make me look dangerous, but I guess it does. All tight black clothes, paired with a beige crop vest.
Daniel pulls the car to a stop near the main entrance where crowds are already gathering. Massive screens show Asher at the peak, preparing for his presentation run.
My chest tightens, saliva burning its way down my throat.
I slide out of the car, cold air slapping across my face. The base of Mount Grim is all gleaming technology. Holographic displays showing real-time stats, drones buzzing overhead capturing every angle. It's something from a sci-fi film.
A robot glides up to us, its mechanical voice cheerful. “Welcome to the Winter Games finale! Can I scan your access passes?”
Punk holds up her phone, the VIP codes Asher sent us gleaming on the screen. The robot's eyes flash green. “Excellent! You have premium access to all viewing areas. The final run begins in thirty minutes. Asher is currently—”
“We know where he is,” I cut it off, already walking toward the lodge. Damn fucking robots. Has no one seen Terminator?
The others follow, Atlas still shooting appreciative glances at my ass when he thinks I'm not looking.
“You know I'll actually remove your eyes, right?” I say without turning around.
“Worth it,” he calls back. “Besides, may as well make the most of this while my brother isn’t here.”
Camille makes a disgusted sound. “God, do you ever stop being gross?”
”When I'm dead, probably.”
“That can be arranged,” I offer helpfully.
The lodge is crawling with people. Some in crop tops who've decided hypothermia is worth it if Asher notices, others with his name across their chest whether in sports gear or hoodies. They shift when we cut through.
Lucinda stalks a couple steps ahead, all senses clearly on alert. Jord's beside me, hand hovering at his hip. Most wouldn’t notice if they didn’t know who Jord was.
“Oh my God, is that Ivanya?” The whisper starts somewhere to our left, rippling through the crowd like wildfire. Heads turn, phones lift, and suddenly I'm the center of attention I didn't ask for.
“Holy shit, it is! The girl from Asher's Instagram!”
Camille's jaw tightens beside me, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her designer clutch. The fans don't even glance her way—Asher's actual fiancée might as well be invisible. I'd feel bad if she wasn't such a bitch.
“Ivy! Ivy!” A group of girls wave frantically, their faces bright with excitement. One brave soul pushes forward, clutching a poster of Asher to her chest. “Can we get a photo? Please?”
Punk's eyes go wide, shaking her head. But something about their genuine enthusiasm stops me. Asher chose to share me with his world and they’re part of it.
“Of course,” I say, surprising myself with how gentle my voice comes out. I was a young girl once. I wish I could say teenage me could relate to loving a celebrity as much as they do Asher, but I didn't. I missed a milestone somewhere along the way. Amongst many others, I'm sure.
Their friends snap photos of us as both girls scream with joy. One shoves a marker and a hoodie at me. “Ice Butcher's Snow Sluts.”
“Could you sign it? You're like, so badass. The way you guys are always joking around in his stories!” Her eyes widen, spread with the kind of innocence I couldn’t even imagine possessing.
I scrawl my name across the fabric, adding a little heart just to watch Camille's face turn an interesting shade of purple.
They grab my hands, touch my shoulders, their gratitude spilling past every social boundary while I stand there and take it.
Camille's impatience is three feet away, her foot tapping the floor with obvious annoyance.
“There.” Punk jabs her finger at a private viewing box. “That's ours.”
The screens inside display Asher pulling his goggles into place, morning sun sliding across the gray and black ink on his skin.
Almost two years of us circling each other, a year, and a half if you want to be technical.
Twenty-five years old and his whole life ahead of him.
Am I being greedy, taking this man away from people his age?
Nah. Girl’s gotta eat.
“Anyone else getting that pre-disaster vibe off her?” Jord asks the group.
“Always,” Lucinda says. “The question is what kind is she going to grace us with this time.”
If only they knew.
We filter through the glass doors into the private box, the space opening up like a secret chamber above the chaos below. A server appears instantly, crystal flutes balanced on a silver tray, and I snag one just to have something to do with my hands.
The viewing box is all leather couches and chrome fixtures. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the course below, giving us a perfect vantage point to watch the carnage unfold.
I claim the corner spot, sinking into cold leather and removing my gloves.
Servers weave between us, offering tiny portions of food that look too pretty to eat. I wave them off. I’m in knots. My stomach twists like it’s trying to force everything out and the last thing I need is to bury it in fancy canapes.
Below us, the course comes alive. The announcer's voice booms through hidden speakers, hyping up the crowd as the first competitor drops in.
Then Asher appears at the top of the run, and the crowd loses their collective minds. Even from up here, I can see the way he rolls his shoulders, loosening up.
He drops in, and it's like watching art. The first rail is a triple kink. Asher hits it at speed, his board locking onto the metal with a sound that echoes up to our box. He slides the entire length, tweaking the grab at the end just to show off.
Camille's fingers fly across her phone screen and I hide a scoff behind my glass. She’s no doubt livestreaming this to whoever gives a shit about her curated life.
My attention shifts back to Asher. He rides toward a series of jumps that shouldn't link together. Making physics his bitch, he performs each trick like gravity's just a suggestion he's choosing to ignore.
He shifts toward the quarter pipe, hitting it hard, before inverting immediately. I think he called it a McTwist, where he performs one and a half rotations while flipping upside down. He lands clean. Already setting up for the next hit.
My pulse hammers against my ribs. I hate how good he is at this. Hate how my body responds to watching him own every inch of that course.
“Jesus,” Atlas breathes beside me. “He's actually going for it.”
The second hit launches him higher. My stomach drops as he throws a Double Cork—three and a half spins with two off-axis flips that shouldn't exist. He grabs Indy mid-rotation, yanking the board between his legs while his body rips through physics.
He lands it clean.
Of course he does.
I stop breathing for a moment, my fingers clenching in my palm. The next is a massive booter right after the pipe exit. Asher attacks it, throwing a Backside Triple Cork—four full rotations with three off-axis flips that turn him into a human corkscrew.
Time stops.
Everyone goes quiet. Even the announcer shuts up.
My body freezes.
He stomps it.
The crowd explodes. Camille shoots up, shrieking about “her man,” and I want to grab her throat and remind her whose name he moaned last night.
But I'm locked in place, watching him hit the street section.
The down rail stretches sixty feet with a vicious kink at the end.
Asher locks into a Backside Bluntslide. He holds it the full length, then pops off the kink into a 360 out.
Show off.
“How the fuck,” Jord mutters. “That's not even—”
Asher being the asshole that he is, doesn’t give us a minute of relief before he hits the rainbow rail—a metal wave curving up and over.
Spinning one and a quarter rotations before locking into a noseslide, his weight shifts forward, board grinding while his body hangs over nothing.
At the apex, he reverses, coming off switch.
If I squeeze my champagne flute any tighter, I’m snapping the stem.
Three massive jumps come up next. Each one bigger, more impossible than the last.
He hits the first easy with three full rotations riding opposite, grabbing melon, and tweaking until his board goes vertical before riding into the second. Frontside Double Cork with a tail grab. He inverts twice while spinning.
The last jump stops my lungs.
He approaches switch, building speed that pulls all muscles in my body tight.
Shit. What the fuck.
Leaving the lip and throwing a Cab Double Cork, he stops mid-rotation, grabs the nose of his board, and pulls into a Method that shouldn't exist at that speed. His back arches. Body stretched like something's trying to rip him apart.
“He's going to die,” Camille gasps.
For once, we agree. And if this trick doesn’t take him out, I fucking will.
He releases the grab, spotting his landing through the final rotation, and lands smoothly.
Clean.
The crowd goes nuclear. Announcers scream about history. My champagne sits abandoned while something hot and dangerous floods my chest. Pride? Relief?
100 flashes over the screen up ahead. Perfect score.
Atlas grabs me by the face, screaming his praise. “Fuck yeah!”
I can’t even help it. My smile turns wide, but when my eyes land on the screen, the world beneath me tilts. Asher pulls off his goggles, scanning the crowd. Even from this distance, through the cameras and chaos, I know exactly who he's looking for.
His eyes find the VIP box. Find me.
And the smile that spreads across his face makes my chest crack open.
“Shit,” Lucinda says quietly beside me. “Ivy—”
“I know,” I whisper, but I don't know. I don't know anything except that I'm about to do something catastrophically stupid, and I can't seem to stop myself.
Reporters mob him before he’s swimming amongst fans. Camille's halfway to the door, ready to stake her claim in front of the cameras. But his attention remains fixed on the box.
Fixed on me.