Chapter 23
IVY
At the airport, once again, he doesn’t let me carry my backpack.
I barely have time to reach for it before his hand closes around the straps and pulls it away from me, smooth and automatic. Like it was never really mine to begin with. Like this is just how things work now.
He hoists it over his shoulder, unbothered, controlled in a way that makes everything around him feel slower by comparison. Like the airport moves around him.
Like he belongs anywhere he decides to stand.
I fall into step beside him without thinking.
We move through the terminal, and people notice.
Not loudly. Not in a way they’d admit, or even consciously register. But I feel it—the flicker of attention, the double takes.
Their eyes drag over him first—the tattoos creeping up his arms, the way his shoulders fill out his shirt, the quiet, unshaken confidence in his stride.
Then they look at me.
And then they look at us.
At the way his hand settles at the small of my back like it belongs there. Like it’s a fixed point. Like I’m being guided. Positioned. Delivered.
The pressure is light, but it’s constant. Every step I take, I feel it—warm, steady, anchoring me in place.
I should pull away. The thought comes, clear and immediate.
I should step out of his reach. Create space. Reclaim something that’s mine.
I don’t.
Because I’m tired. Because the airport is loud and bright and overwhelming, and his hand makes everything feel quieter. Because the contact steadies me.
And part of me—some stupid, soft, hopeful part—still wants to believe this is what it looks like when someone chooses you.
When someone takes care of you. When someone… loves you.
On the way to security, where the passenger flow is so heavy it moves slower than molasses, he stands too close behind me. Not touching at first. Just there. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the presence of him, like a shadow cast too tightly against my skin.
When I step forward, he steps forward.
When I pause, he pauses.
There’s no hesitation. No lag. No adjustment. It’s like he’s already anticipating me.
And I hate—hate—how something in my body responds to that.
That quiet synchronization. That sense of being tracked. Known. Followed.
By the time we reach the barrier where only passengers can continue, my chest feels tight in a way I can’t name.
He turns me toward him without asking. His hands find my hips, firm and certain, fingers pressing just enough to hold me in place without force.
Possessive.
His gaze moves over my face slowly, deliberately, like he’s cataloguing me again. Like he’s checking for changes. Like he’s making sure nothing about me has shifted in the last five minutes.
“You’re going to text me when you land,” he says.
I nod. My throat dries.
“And when you get home.”
Another nod.
His grip tightens just slightly. Not enough to hurt—enough to remind me he’s there. “And you’re going to call me tonight.”
I swallow. There’s a flicker of something in my chest—hesitation, resistance, something small and sharp. “Okay.” The word leaves before I can stop it.
Soren’s mouth curves, just barely. Satisfied.
Like I gave the right answer. Like there was a right answer.
He grabs me by the back of my neck and pulls me to him, his kiss claiming me. His tongue tangles with mine, my heart skipping as he leaves me breathless.
It’s a kiss that takes. That presses and lingers just long enough to make my pulse spike, to make it feel like something is being sealed between us—something I didn’t agree to, but didn’t stop either.
My body reacts instantly. Heat blooms low and fast, sharp enough to make me inhale against his mouth. My fingers twitch at my sides, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
I do neither. I just… feel it. That rush—that dizzy, addictive pull that makes everything else fade.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against mine, his breath warm against my lips. “You’re mine,” he murmurs.
My stomach flips hard. I let out a small laugh—thin, breathy, instinctive. Like if I treat it like a joke, it becomes one.
But Soren doesn’t laugh in return. He doesn’t even smile. He just watches me. Waiting.
The silence stretches—something inside me tightens.
My throat constricts. My lips part. And I say it.
Not because I mean it. Not because I’ve thought it through.
Because the moment demands something from me. Because he’s waiting. Because I don’t know what happens if I don’t give him what he wants.
“Okay,” I whisper.
The word feels small.
Soren’s smile spreads slowly, something dark threading through it. Not relief or happiness. Satisfaction.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Like it’s natural. Like it’s familiar. Like it’s already his to say.
The words land heavy. Not sharp—worse than that. Deep. Like a bruise forming under the surface. Between my thighs, something pulses in response.
Before I can react, he kisses me again—shorter this time, but no less intentional.
My body floods with sensation, a sharp pulse of heat and adrenaline that leaves me off-balance when he steps back.
He touches my chin, light but directing, tilting my face up just enough to hold my attention. “Go,” he says. Calm. Certain. “Before I change my mind and drag you out of here.”
My breath catches.
He says it like it’s a joke. But his eyes don’t soften. There’s something real sitting underneath the words—something that makes my stomach dip—not entirely fear.
He releases me just as easily as he took hold of me. Turns. Walks away. Doesn’t look back.
His stride is the same as before—steady, unhurried, like nothing just happened. Like he didn’t just say something that should have made me run. As if he already knows I won’t.
I stand there for a second too long. Frozen. My heart racing, my lips still tingling, my body buzzing.
And then it hits me.
He didn’t ask—not about Ravelle. Not about moving. Not about any of it.
He told me.
Waited for me to agree.
And I did.
I board the plane with my hands wrapped too tightly around my phone, my thoughts circling just out of reach.
He’s just intense. Just decisive. Just… different. Just taking care of me.
That has to be what this is.
It has to be.
But when the plane lifts off and Ravelle disappears beneath the clouds, something unsettled stays with me. A quiet, persistent unease I can’t quite shake.
Because if it’s really this easy—if it’s really this simple—then why does it feel like something is already shifting under my feet?
And why hasn’t anyone else ever wanted me like this before?
By the time the plane lands in Miami a few hours later, my head is quieter.
My body isn’t. There’s a tightness under my skin, a restless energy that doesn’t match the calm I’ve been trying to force into place.
As the Uber pulls into Adrian’s street, my shoulders tense automatically.
God. I hope he’s not home.
I don’t have the energy for questions. For that tone. For the way he picks things apart like he’s doing me a favor by pointing out what’s wrong with me.
How did I not see it before?
How did I live in that and think it was normal?
The car rolls to a stop. I glance toward the driveway.
Empty.
Relief hits fast and deep. I exhale, my body loosening in a way that feels almost embarrassing.
Just a moment. That’s all I get. A moment where I don’t have to shrink.
I grab my bag, step inside, close the door behind me, and the silence wraps around me like something unfamiliar.
My phone buzzes.
Soren:
Why haven’t you messaged me yet?
A flicker of irritation sparks. Immediate. Sharp.
But I also feel a pang of guilt. I did say I’d let him know when I landed.
Me:
Sorry, sorry! I was just feeling anxious about getting back, but he’s not home. I just got in.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Soren:
Good. Eat.
I stare at the message.
That same tone. That same certainty. Even from miles away.
A prickle of annoyance moves through me. He’s not even here and he’s still—
My stomach growls. Loud. Embarrassingly loud.
I freeze.
Of course. I didn’t eat. Not at the airport. Not on the plane. I told myself I wasn’t hungry, but really I just didn’t want to deal with it.
I drop my bag in the kitchen and open the fridge, pulling something out without thinking.
I eat. Quickly at first. Then slower. And as the tension in my body starts to ease—as that hollow feeling fades—the irritation softens with it.
I’m overthinking it again.
He’s not controlling me. He’s just… paying attention.
People need to eat. That’s not manipulation. That’s basic. Normal. Caring.
I exhale, leaning back against the counter, my phone still in my hand.
It’s fine. Everything is fine.
He’s just—better at taking care of me than I am.
And that’s not a bad thing.
Right?