Chapter Twenty-Two
Ivy
Sunlight slices through the gap in the curtains, hitting me directly in the eyes. I blink awake, disoriented. Why didn’t I close the damn curtains last night?
It’s then that I register the arm draped across my waist. The warm body pressed against my back. The steady breathing against my neck.
Thorne.
We fell asleep. Together. In his bed.
My heart kicks into overdrive. We've never done this. Every other time, one of us left afterward. Went back to our own room, our own space, maintained the pretense that this was just physical, just temporary.
But here I am. In his bed. I turn and take in his handsome face. He is relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted, that furrow between his brows finally smoothed out.
Will he be upset when he wakes up?
I reach carefully for his phone on the nightstand. 7:23 a.m.
Oh god. Madison. What if she came looking for me early and found my room empty? What if—
Thorne stirs behind me, his arm tightening reflexively around my waist before his breathing changes. Waking up.
I know the exact moment awareness hits him. His entire body goes still, tension flooding back into muscles that were loose with sleep just seconds ago.
Then his eyes are open. They are unreadable in the morning light. For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
"We fell asleep," he finally says, his voice gravelly.
"We did." I search his face, looking for regret or panic. But all I see is that familiar wall sliding back into place. He knows I’m going to ask about yesterday. Where he went. What he did.
He doesn't pull away, but he’s retreating. His hand moves to my chin, thumb brushing my skin, and there's something almost sad in the gesture.
"What are you thinking about?" I murmur.
Everything in him tenses. "Nothing important."
I shift up on my elbow. "Where did you go last night?"
He closes his eyes. "It's better if you don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you." He meets my gaze, and I can see the weight there. Whatever he did, wherever he went, it's eating at him. "I protected us. My family, our employees—you. If this blows back on anyone, it's my ass on the line. No one else's."
"Thorne—"
"Please, Ivy." His hand cups my cheek. "Trust me on this. You're an attorney. Some things... you're better off not knowing. I won't put you in that position."
Frustration bubbles up, tangled with hurt. He's shutting me out. Keeping secrets. And I’m not sure what to do, what demands to make.
I settle back against his chest, but the silence between us isn't comfortable. It's weighted with all the things we're not saying, all the questions I'm not asking.
He sits up suddenly, pulling back the sheet. "I don't want to be inside these walls right now. I need air. Movement."
My stomach drops. "Are you leaving?"
The question comes out weak, vulnerable. I hate it. But this is what I know. Ask for too much, need too much, and they leave. My mom did it. My friends did it. Even my father, in his own way.
He stops, really looks at me. I catch a flash of unguarded vulnerability. It almost looks as though the thought of leaving me actually hurts him.
"Come with me," he says quickly. "Let's go for a ride on the motorcycles."
The knots in my stomach unwind. He wants to leave with me. “Are you serious?”
"Yeah. You and me and the road." A hint of that wicked grin surfaces. "I have something to show you anyway."
Despite the worry, the unanswered questions, the secrets between us, I smile back. "The bikes? Now?"
"Why not? We can grab breakfast in town, be back before anyone knows we're gone." His fingers lace through mine. “What do you say?”
"Give me five minutes to get dressed."
His grin widens, and for a moment he looks younger, lighter. "Meet me in the garage."
I grab my clothes, praying I don’t run into Madison. I peek into her bedroom and sigh with relief when I see she’s asleep.
Closing her door, I cross the hall and slip into my bedroom. The echo of Thorne's hands on my skin, the brand of his mouth everywhere. My legs are pleasantly unsteady as I cross the plush carpet toward my dresser, pulling out jeans and a long-sleeve shirt suitable for riding.
The man is dangerous.
Not because he fucks me like I'm the only woman who's ever mattered, like every touch is both worship and claiming.
Nor is it because afterward, he took such careful, tender care of me with hands turned gentle, cleaning me, kissing the marks his belts left on my skin like each one deserved its own tender acknowledgment.
No, Thorne Blackstone is dangerous because he makes me want things I shouldn't. Impossible things. And because when he keeps secrets, like where he disappeared to last night, I let him.
I turn the light on in my bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my lips are kiss-swollen, and my eyes are too soft. I grab my brush and flick the switch off.
Get it together, Ivy. This is temporary. A fling. An arrangement that ends when Madison’s three months are up.
Except it doesn't feel temporary anymore.
I drag the brush through my hair, then braid it to fit under a helmet.
In the quiet of my room, I’m reminded of what Thorne hasn’t told me, specifically, where he disappeared to yesterday.
The way he kissed me when he came back—desperate, almost frantic—that wasn't just desire. That was a man avoiding something.
But today, on the bike, maybe I can let it go. Maybe we both can.
I sink onto one of the cream-colored chairs, the chandelier overhead casting soft light as I pull on my riding boots.
Through the windows, the estate grounds stretch out in golden light.
This room is too big, too elegant, too much like something from a magazine spread, but in the glow of what just happened, it feels closer to home than anywhere I've lived in years.
There’s a light knock on my door, and then Madison appears from around the frame. Her hair is sticking up in the back, and she has a pillow crease on her cheek.
She takes in my outfit. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going for a ride.”
Her eyes light up. “On the ATVs?”
“No, on a motorcycle.” Heat crawls up my neck. She’ll start to suspect something’s going on between Thorne and me. She is fourteen and definitely wasn’t sheltered by our mother. I shrug, trying for casual. “Thorne asked if I wanted to. I figured it might be nice to get out of the house for a bit.”
Madison bounces on her toes. "Can I see them? The bikes?" She's already moving toward the door. "I've always thought motorcycles were cool, but I've never been close to one."
"Sure." I gesture toward the hall. "Come on, they're in the garage."
We make our way through the house together, down the curved staircase and through the family room where the morning sun slants across the floor.
Madison chatters about how one of her friends from school has an older brother who rides.
“I told mom I wanted to get one when I turned sixteen.” Her voice catches slightly, and she looks away, blinking hard.
A beat passes, then she straightens, and I can see the way she forces brightness back into her expression like armor.
“She was pissed. Told me you gave her first gray hair when she learned you’d gotten one in college. ”
Mom worried about me back then? After Louis Blackstone and Madison, I'd figured Dad and I had been scrubbed from her memory entirely. I’m not sure how I feel about this information.
“Guess I can get one now,” Madison continues. “No one to spot me now.” My chest tightens. Fourteen years old and trying to joke about the crater her mother left behind. And I'm planning to drag her to New York in a couple months, rip her away from the only home she has left.
“Um, I might stop you,” I say, half-joking, hoping to lighten the mood.
Madison narrows her eyes, but there's a spark of amusement fighting through. “Doesn’t that make you a hypocrite?”
I grin. “Definitely, but you’re my little sister. I’d wrap you in bubble wrap if you’d let me.”
She snorts. “No thanks. But I’m not dumb. I’d wear all the gear.”
“And take a formal class,” I add as we pass through the loggia, my old Docs silent on the marble floor.
The garage door is open when we arrive, and my eyes go straight to what's parked next to Thorne's Ducati.
I stop dead in my tracks.
"Holy shit,” I breathe.
Madison giggles beside me, but I barely hear her. “What?” she asks.
"Is that—" I move closer, drawn like a moth to flame. "Thorne, what year is this?”
The motorcycle is stunning. It’s all sleek lines and custom paintwork in midnight blue and silver with gold accents that catch the light. Vintage aesthetic meets modern precision. I know this bike. The shape of the tank, the curve of the fenders, the—
“Eight-five.” He straightens off the Ducati, arms uncrossing. His weight shifts from one foot to the other. Then he stills, watching my face like he's waiting for a verdict.
My hands shake as I skim them along the leather seat.
An '85 T140. Just like mine. I circle around, drinking in every detail.
The frame has that telltale patina of age.
The original finish is worn smooth in places from decades of handling.
But the engine gleams, rebuilt. New suspension.
Hand-stitched leather seat and matching saddle bags.
Performance brakes. The tank has been restored to perfection with custom gold pinstriping.
“This must have cost a fortune. Full restorations like this…”
"You said you missed your Bonnie." His voice is carefully casual. "Figured I'd find you one. "
“Are you already sick of me being your passenger princess?” I joke. I have to, or I’m going to cry from all the emotions bubbling up in me.
"Not at all." The heat in his voice could ignite bourbon fumes, but he seems to catch himself, glancing at Madison, who's watching us with furrowed suspicion. He clears his throat. "But you said you missed riding. Figured it was time to get you back on a Bonnie."
"This is insane," I mutter, running my fingers lightly over the leather seat, over the restored tank. The craftsmanship is exquisite. Every stitch perfect, every detail considered. "You tracked down an '85, had her completely rebuilt—"
"You said you missed her. I wanted to give that back to you."
I look at the gorgeous, ridiculous, over-the-top gesture that is so perfectly Thorne it hurts. Then I look at him, standing there trying to pretend he doesn't care whether I accept it or not, his ears still pink.
If I'm not careful, I could fall for this man.