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’m—I need a minute.” I slip away from my friends and rush toward the exit of the building. As soon as the cold air fills my lungs, I tumble over, catching my fall with a hand on my lower stomach and another on my knees.
Is this what it feels like to care about someone?
It's as though I've robbed myself of any kind of happiness, any emotion worth feeling, and now that I have it rushing through my veins, I don't know how to contain it. How to survive it. None of this is familiar territory. I know four-hundred and seventy ways to kill a man, but I don't know how to breathe when Asher Jameson looks at me.
Skin is temporary, this name is borrowed.
But Asher's touch still burns on my neck.
I am the void shaped like affection.
Except he's filled every empty space inside me with something terrifyingly close to hope.
My fingers dig into my stomach as another wave of nausea rolls through me.
Stage Three symptoms—critical failure imminent.
I should be requesting immediate extraction. Anything to burn this weakness out of my system before it gets people killed. Instead, I'm crouched in the snow outside a ceremony for him, shaking like a frightened child because a snowboarder with a pretty smile makes me want things I know someone like me can never have.
The door clicks behind me, and I don't need to turn to know it's him. His presence shifts the air, makes the cold bite harder against my exposed skin.
“You good?” His voice carries that edge of concern I've grown to hate, because why? Why does he care?
I straighten, pulling a cigarette from my clutch with fingers that have finally stopped shaking. The flame catches on the third try, and I take a deep drag before turning to face him. “Just needed some air.”
His eyes narrow, tracking the cigarette like it personally offends him. Something flickers across his face—doubt, maybe—but he swallows it down.
He shifts his weight, and I recognize the tell. He's about to say something that will gut me. I've memorized every one of his tells over the time I've known him.
“Ivy.” My name sounds like an apology on his lips. “What happened between us—”
“Don't.” But he pushes forward anyway, because Asher Jameson has never met a boundary he didn't want to test.
“I can't leave her.” The words hang in the frozen air between us, each syllable a perfectly placed blade. “I shouldn't have let things get so carried away, and we probably shouldn't have. Fuck.”
I laugh, stepping close enough to catch his expensive cologne.
Patting his chest, the muscle beneath my palm twitches. “I know.”
His brow furrows. “You know?”
“Of course I know.” Another drag, another cloud of smoke between us. “I'm not asking you to leave her, Asher. I'm not asking you for anything.”
“But—”
“What? You thought I'd beg? Cry? Make demands?” I flick ash onto the pristine snow. “That's not who I am.”
He studies me like I'm written in a language he can't understand. “I don't get it.”
“You don't need to.”
“Camille—”
“Is none of my business.” The cigarette burns down to my fingers, but I don't flinch. “Whatever hold she has on you, whatever game you two are playing—” I crush the ember under my heel. “It has nothing to do with me.”
“Doesn't it?” The question cracks something open between us.
I could ask. Could dig into whatever twisted history keeps him tethered to a woman he doesn't love. Could demand explanations for the way he looks at me like I'm salvation and damnation wrapped in one. But questions only delay the inevitable, and I've already wasted too much time pretending this could end any other way.
“The ceremony's starting.” I move past him, but his hand catches my wrist.
“Venom.” He stops, searching for words that don't exist. “This could have been different.”
I pull free, my skin burning where he touched. “You should get back inside. Your fiancée will be looking for you.”
I don't wait for his response. Can't. The door swallows me back into the warmth and noise, but his heat brands my back through the open doorway, a ghost press that lingers long after the latch clicks shut.
Chapter 24
Ivy
Thirty years of breathing, and somehow this birthday feels like a funeral. Every birthday feels like a damn funeral. This one in particular can simply go fuck itself.
White lace clings to every curve on my body, like some virgin sacrifice. Fitting. Honestly. In some ways more than others.
The crowd parts as I reach the bottom step of the patio. 888 Veilarath Lane has been transformed into a nightclub. Faces blur together, none of who I really know.
White lace clings like a second skin, and suddenly I'm thirteen again, a maiden painting my face, making me beautiful for monsters.
The crowd watches. They always watch.
Somewhere in this chaos, Parker plays the devoted husband, already three whiskeys deep and charming some socialite half his age.