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)
I shrug, adjusting my grip on the clothes. My eyes slide to Asher, and I let every ounce of indifference I can muster settle into my expression. “Awkward? For what?”
Asher stares back. His fingers tighten around the mug.
“For it to be awkward,” I continue, voice light, conversational, “people would have to mean something.”
The air goes still.
Atlas whistles low under his breath. “Shit.”
Punk finally glances up, eyebrows raised.
Asher sets the mug down on the counter. The sound echoes. “That so?”
“That's so.”
Camille looks between us, confusion flickering across her face before she masks it with irritation. “What are you two even talking about?”
“Nothing,” I say, still holding Asher's gaze. “Just clearing up any potential misunderstandings.”
His jaw works. “Yeah. Wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea.”
“Exactly.”
Camille's hand slips from his arm. “Asher—”
“Give us a minute,” he says, not looking at her.
Her mouth opens. Closes. She glances at me, then back at him, and I see the moment she decides this isn't a battle worth fighting right now. “Fine. I'll be in the pool house.”
She turns on her heel and stalks toward the doors in the living room, heels clicking against marble. The sound fades as she leaves, and then it's just the four of us.
Atlas shifts on the couch. “I'm gonna—”
“Stay,” Asher says.
Atlas freezes mid-rise. “Dude.”
“Stay,” Asher repeats.
“Yeah,” I say, head tilting but focused on Asher. “Stay Atlas. We might need a witness.”
He drops back down, exchanging a glance with Punk, who's now fully invested in whatever's about to unfold.
Asher steps around the island, closing the distance between us. “You want to run that by me again?”
I tilt my head, keeping my expression neutral. “Run what by you?”
“The part where I don't mean anything.”
“Did I say that?” I ask, agitation trailing my tone.
He continues. “You implied it.”
“Sounds like a personal interpretation.”
His eyes narrow. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“What?” I shift the clothes in my arms again, using the movement to create space between us. “I'm just standing here. You're the one making it a thing.”
His brows jerk. “I'm making it a thing?”
“Yeah.” I take a step back. “You are.”
He follows. “Bullshit.”
“Asher.” Atlas's voice cuts in, tentative. “Maybe not—”
“Shut up, Atlas—”Asher snaps without looking away from me.
I raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Touchy.”
“Yeah?” he smirks, all sarcasm and hunger. “Well you're infuriating.”
“And you're engaged.” The words stumble out before I can stop them. Damnit. Again. Fucking motherfucker.
His hand is behind my neck in a flash, forcing me into his chest. “And you're fucking married, Venom, so shut the fuck up and stop being jealous. As much as I find it cute…” his nose skims mine. “I'll have no problem fucking you until you can't breathe just to prove that she doesn't mean shit to me.”
I want to yell. To argue. To be all the ugly things that I feel whenever she has her hands on him, but deep down, I know I can't. It makes me a hypocrite. It makes me all the things I never wanted.
“—honey were home!” Jord yells, kicking the door closed behind him and Luce, but it does nothing to separate Asher and I.
He sashays past us, lowering his glasses with a finger and looking between Asher and I. “Oh, baby boy, as much as I'd love to see you both go at it, my money's on Ivy.”
Asher releases me, and I place the basket down onto the sofa, finding Punk staring at me. She quickly smiles, before going back to her phone, scrolling through whatever it is she's doing.
Everyone exits the room except Asher, and I turn, eyes landing on him again.
“Ivy.”
I look away, and he steps close, fingers around my chin and forcing me back on him.
My heart feels heavy and lazy, the room small.
His thumb swipes my lip. “You of all people understand the complexities of fucking relationships that you don't wanna be in, so quit it with the fucking tantrums.”
My mouth snaps closed before I say something I regret. He's right. Of course he is. But—but what? I'm being ridiculous.
His mouth crashes into mine before I can form a coherent thought. The kiss is brutal, claiming, designed to shut me up and make a point simultaneously.
It works.
My hands find his shirt without permission, fisting the fabric like I'm trying to anchor myself. His tongue sweeps against mine, possessive and demanding, and I respond with equal ferocity because I'm done pretending I don't want this.
When he pulls back, it's only far enough to speak. His breath ghosts over my lips, and I can taste coffee and something darker.
“I meant every fucking thing I said last night.” His voice drops low, rough. “Every. Thing.”
My chest heaves against his. “Asher—”
“And it was your idea,” he continues, thumb pressing into my jaw, “to let this play out. So either you're in, or you're not. But don't stand here acting wounded when you're the one who set the rules.”