Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
She shifts her weight. The tank rides up, flashing a band of mottled green and blue along her ribs, the hard ladder of bone under purple fingerprints.
My hand hits the doorframe before I know I’ve moved. “What the fuck is that.”
Her shoulders hitch, like she’s resisting the urge to step back.
“I’m not doing this with you,” she says. “Either come in or go back to your fan club, Wonderboy.”
I don’t move. My throats dry, and I'm about six seconds away from blowing everything the fuck up.
My tone is low. Level. “Who hit you, Ivy.”
Her jaw locks. “Get in the house, Asher. You’re blocking my door.”
I bare my teeth. “I’ll block your whole fucking world if I have to, Venom.”
Kicking the door closed, the wood rattles behind me. Her eyes flare, but she doesn’t flinch. Of course she doesn’t.
Rage climbs, slow and hot.
“Let me see,” I say, stepping closer.
“You’ve seen me plenty.” her eyes drop to my feet, countering. “Get over yourself.”
Focus, Asher. Pull your shit together. Be the smart ass she prefers so you can hide the feral monster that lives beneath.
My tongue glides over my lip. “Wanna take those clothes off for me, Venom?”
She stills, still backing up. “No.”
We both stop, standing there, a foot apart, air electric with all the shit we’re not saying. Her eyes are bright, mean. There’s a faint line at the corner of her mouth that wasn’t there last time. Sleepless nights, pain, or both.
“Where’s Parker,” I ask, head tilting.
She shrugs. “Not here.”
My eyes widen. “Where.”
“Last I heard he was in Dubai.” I can see her restraint waning. “Why?”
My lip curls. “Because I’m going to cave his skull in.”
Her brows rise. Barely. But it’s there. “Firstly, it wasn't Parker, you idiot. Second, you vanish for two weeks and show up ready to murder my husband. Adorable, Asher. Real cutesy movie of you.”
“Don’t fucking joke.” The words snap out. “Who did that to your face?”
She makes a frustrated sound and moves at the last second, letting me advance on her if I want like she hates herself for it.
The house smells like her—jasmine, soap, and coffee—and under it, the sterile hotel-clean of a place no one really lives in. Shoes lined up with military precision by the door. No Parker. No extra jacket. Just her sneakers thrown sideways like she kicked them off mid-stride.
I spin back to her. “Take the fucking makeup off.”
She actually laughs. It’s not nice.
“Wow. Bold. You ghost me—”
“—Ivy,” I growl, low.
She has the intelligence to stop. “What.”
“Who touched you.”
“Maybe I walked into a door. Isn’t that the script?”
My hands curl. “I’ll burn this whole neighborhood down before I let you make that joke again.”
“Relax.” She folds her arms, tank stretching over her chest. The gesture drags the fabric higher, and the bruise on her ribs shows clearer now. Deep, ugly, like a boot or a blunt handle. My gut twists. “No one’s burning anything. Except maybe the quinoa I forgot on the stove.”
I catch her wrist before she can drop her arms.
“Asher.” Warning.
I twist her hand, exposing the inside of her forearm. Old grazes, faint pink lines on tanned skin. Knuckles scraped, healing. One of them split, scabbed, cracked along the line. She’s hit someone recently.
Or something.
“You started street boxing in your spare time?” I ask. My thumb scrapes over a cut; she jerks but doesn’t pull away.
“Let go.”
“That a yes or a no?”
“It’s a go fuck yourself.”
I drag her closer by the captured wrist until her body clips my chest. Her breath ghosts my throat. Her eyes tip up, green and burning.
“Tell me who hit you,” I say, low. “Or I’m going to walk out that door, find your husband, and break every finger he uses to sign a check.”
Her lips part, surprise ghosting across her face before she kills it.
“You think Parker did this.”
“Who else.”
She snorts. “That’s cute.”
“Not answering is an answer.”
“I’m not a fucking savior.”
“Finally, something we agree on.”
We stare each other down. Her pulse trips under my fingers. Mine’s worse. Heat runs up my arm, the urge to yank her in and smash my mouth on hers riding shotgun with the urge to put someone in the ground.
She yanks her arm, tries to break my hold. I tighten it. She hisses.
“Last warning, Asher.”
“You’ll what,” I say. “Bite me?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Who. Hit. You.”
Her nostrils flare. Then she breathes out hard, voice flat.
“A guy tried to take my bag, all right? I wasn’t looking. Dark street, wrong corner. He got a hit in, I got it back, end of story. I fell on my ribs. Happy now?”
Every word is a lie.
“That’s the story you’re going with?” I say.
“The truth’s so boring, I know. I should’ve said it was a Russian spy or a cartel hitman, right? Really get your dick hard.”
My brow lifts. I'm impressed. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m fucking hilarious; you’re just rusty.”