Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Now I feel nothing.
That’s a lie.
I feel everything. That’s the problem. Dovecrest tried to burn it out of me. Months of drugs and darkness, Aléia’s voice telling me Ivy left me to die, that Ivy never cared, that I should hate her. Hate everything she worships.
I do hate her.
I also can’t stop staring at her face on this screen, memorizing the exact shade of green in her eyes, the exact curve of her jaw. My phone buzzes, a text from Atlas sliding down the screen.
Don’t worry. I’ll keep her occupied ;)
He’ll do no such thing and he fucking knows it.
Another buzz.
Damn. For sure thought that would have sent you flying back down the mountain.
I take one last look at the photo. Her eyes, her mouth, the ghost of a smile I’ll never see again.
Then I delete the album.
Every photo, every memory, every piece of evidence that I was ever stupid enough to think she could love me back.
My thumb hovers over the confirmation.
Delete 1047 photos?
The wind kicks up, throwing ice crystals against my face. A dog barks in the distance. Normal sounds, a normal morning, but nothing about this is normal. As soon as we landed, I ran for my board like a fucking coward.
I hit cancel and pocket the phone.
Pushing off down the hill, my board cuts through powder. Speed builds as wind tears at my jacket. The tree line blurs into streaks of black and white, and for three seconds, maybe four, there’s nothing but gravity, the board beneath my feet, and the cold air shredding my lungs.
Snow sprays in a white plume as I kill the momentum, sliding to a stop twenty feet from the bottom.
Movement inside catches my eye.
There.
Ivy.
In my house.
She moves past the island, one hand trailing along the cement countertop. Her hair’s down, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. She must have showered and changed. Jeans sit low on her hips, and that fucking top, black and tight, rides further up when she reaches for something on the top shelf. The fabric lifts, exposing the clear curve of her tits.
Heat slams through me, igniting from watching her move through my space like she has every right to be here.
She doesn’t.
Her hips sway as she crosses to the fridge, that same fluid grace she’s always had.
I grip the edge of the shed.
Wood bites into my palm, grounding me before I do something stupid. Like kick in the back door. Like pin her against the nearest wall and make her explain why she’s such a fucking disappointment, why she still looks at me like she does, why my body doesn’t give a fuck about the scar on my rib and throat or the year I lost to Dovecrest.
She opens the fridge, leaning in until denim stretches tight across her ass.
I look away.
This is the problem. It’s always been the problem. Ivanya Dubois, or rather, Delacroix, walks into a room and my brain shuts down. Logic dies, strategy crumbles, and all that’s left is want.
Guess I forgot about that little detail when I came up with the brilliant idea of marrying her.
She straightens, bumps the fridge shut, and turns.
For half a second, I think she sees me. Her gaze sweeps toward the window, going perfectly still. Ditto.
Snow clings to my hair by the time I hit the back door. I kick off my boots, peel out of my jacket, and toss it onto the first step in the foyer.
She walks in from the kitchen with a glass of water, freezing with the rim an inch from her mouth.
Her cheeks flush. “Atlas showed me my room.”
Is that fucking embarrassment? A first for her.
I keep my expression dead, moving past her toward the living room and the large windows looking over the powder I just carved to pieces.
My shoulder brushes hers.
Her hand snaps out, landing on my forearm before I pass her.
I don’t turn. I stare at the glass and the world beyond it, the faint reflection of us standing way too close.
“If it’s any consolation,” she says, lowering her voice and dropping her hand. Thank fuck. “I’m glad you’re alive. Despite all of this…”
I turn, eyes narrowing. Is she fucking for real?
She backs up without a thought, a step, then another, until her shoulder blades hit the wall by the staircase. I keep closing in until her anxiety spikes the air between us, her fucking pupils blown wide.
“Consolation?” My lip twitches.
For the first time, I catch it. A flicker of Fear. It knocks the rage clean out of my chest.
I study her face, taking in the scar near her hairline I traced the night she fell asleep in my arms, and the swell of her lips I’ve felt against every inch of my skin. It’s the proof that whatever this sickness is, it’s gonna keep dragging us back together, no matter how much blood spills.