Victor’s arm was heavy around me, an anchor I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to. His breath was steady, calm, completely unaware of the storm raging inside me.
But I couldn’t pretend any longer. Not with the raw memory of Killian still searing in my mind, burning into my skin.
I lay still, my body betraying me, aching for something that had no place in my life. Not when I was supposed to be Victor’s.
But everything about tonight felt like a lie. From the engagement ring on my finger to the gentle press of Victor’s lips on my shoulder, nothing felt right.
And then I remembered Killian. His face. His eyes dark with desire. His mouth. God, his mouth.
I felt the heat rush through my body again, as though I could still feel the press of his lips, the fierce grip of his hands, the savage way he’d taken me.
I needed to stop thinking about him.
But the more I tried, the more my body betrayed me. The pulse between my legs throbbed, reminding me of what I’d lost control of. What I’d given control to.
Slowly, quietly, I pulled away from Victor’s embrace and slipped out of the bed. The cool air hit my bare skin as I made my way toward the bathroom, desperate to splash some water on my face, to wash away the desire that clung to me like a second skin.
I looked at myself in the mirror, my lips bruised, my neck marked with the evidence of Killian’s hunger. I wiped away the dampness on my face, but nothing felt clean. Not anymore.
I knew what I had to do. I had to act like everything was fine. I couldn’t let Victor see the wreck I had become inside. I wasn’t allowed to.
I returned to the room and climbed back into bed beside Victor, trying to hide my unease. His arm draped over me again, and I stiffened beneath the weight. His lips brushed the back of my neck, but I couldn’t push away the memories of Killian’s kiss.
“Ivy?” Victor murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
“Yeah?” I forced a smile, trying to sound convincing.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, his hand slipping beneath the sheets to rest on my hip. “Everything okay?”
I nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just tired. Long day.”
He didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t press further. His hand slid down my body, slipping between my thighs. My stomach flipped in a way I didn’t expect. This isn’t right, I thought. But it was Victor’s touch, steady and sure, nothing like the desperate, raw craving I had felt earlier.
I should’ve stopped him.
But I couldn’t.
When his fingers slid against me, I froze. The desire I felt for Killian rushed back at once, making it impossible to ignore. But I wasn’t ready. Not now. Not with Victor.
“I’m not feeling well,” I blurted, pushing his hand away gently. “Headache. Just… tired.”
Victor paused, his fingers still hovering near me, his expression unreadable. “Alright,” he muttered. “We can just sleep then.”
I nodded, forcing my body to relax as his arm wrapped around me again, pulling me close. I breathed deeply, counting each second until I could escape. I had to.
****
The house was quiet, but I wasn’t ready to face it. Not tonight.
I waited until Victor’s breathing deepened, before slipping out of bed and padding toward the door. I needed air. I needed to breathe.
The cool night air hit my skin as I stepped outside. The tension between my legs, the ache in my body, gnawed at me, but the garden was empty. Or so I thought.
There, near the stone wall, stood Killian.
I didn’t need to see him to feel the tension in the air. It hit me like a wave, making my heart race and my breath catch in my throat. I should turn away. Should go back inside. But I couldn’t.
His dark eyes found mine immediately, and I felt a pull, like gravity itself had shifted.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, but the tremor in my chest gave me away.
He didn’t answer immediately. He simply watched me with those predatory eyes, his gaze trailing over my body, lingering just a little too long on the marks he’d left on me earlier.
“Your parents asked me to stay the night,” he said, voice low, almost mocking. “They don’t want me driving back at that hour. It was late.”
I clenched my fists at my sides. “Why didn’t you say anything inside?”
Killian took a step forward, his body impossibly close, until the heat of him seemed to press against me. “I didn’t think it was necessary.”
His lips curved into a smirk, but it was his eyes, dark and filled with desire, that had me frozen in place. I tried to move back, but there was nowhere to go. The garden wall stopped me.
Killian leaned in, his breath hot against my ear, his voice a whispered threat. “I see the way you look at me, Ivy. You can lie all you want, but I know what you really want.”
“No,” I whispered, but the word didn’t have the strength I wanted it to. “You… can’t. This is wrong.”
He laughed, a low, sinful sound that made my insides tighten. “It’s too late for that, sweetheart. You can pretend all you want, but you know as well as I do that this was never about right or wrong. This is about us.”
His mouth found my neck again, his lips brushing over my skin as his hands roamed down to my waist. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All I could feel was him, his hands on me, his lips burning every inch of me.
I didn’t fight him this time. I couldn’t.
Before I knew it, his mouth claimed mine, hot and demanding, and I was lost.
I let him kiss me, let him claim me again. His tongue slid into my mouth, deep and possessive. And when his hands slid beneath my dress, pulling it up, lifting me against him, all I could do was moan in response.
“Ivy,” he growled, his lips parting from mine, eyes dark with something savage. “You’re mine.”
“No,” I gasped, but my hands found his chest, pulling him closer, my body arching into him, betraying me.
“Yes,” he snarled. “You’ve been mine since the moment I touched you.”
And with that, he pulled me fully against him, his hands lifting my dress higher, his fingers working quickly, desperately.
And I let him. I let him make me his again.
I drove home with the windows down, letting the night air cut through the stench of gunpowder and the faint copper of blood that still clung to me. My knuckles ached from the fight. My jaw was tight, teeth grinding with every mile. Silas’s voice still echoed in my head, the way he’d said Robert’s name, the way he’d talked about my father like he was nothing but dirt in the ground.I wanted to punch the steering wheel. I wanted to turn the car around and make him die all over again.By the time I reached my building, the world felt quieter. Not calm, never calm, but muted, like everything was underwater. I parked, took the service elevator straight up, and keyed in the security codes without thinking.Inside, I stripped down before the door had even shut behind me. My clothes went into a black trash bag. Not the laundry. Not ever again.The shower was hot enough to scald, but I needed it. Steam swallowed the bathroom, and I stood there with my head bowed, water pounding down over my s
His body was still warm when I stood over it.Silas Hayes lay sprawled on the floor, the pistol I’d ripped from him just minutes ago lying a few feet away. My own breathing was sharp and uneven, the air thick with the stench of gunpowder. My hands weren’t trembling, not exactly, they just hadn’t decided whether to stay clenched or open.I’d killed him.And now I had a problem.The clock had started the moment his eyes rolled back. Every second I stayed here, the odds got worse. But walking out now, leaving things as they were, would be suicide. I’d as good as written my name on the walls in my own blood.I forced my lungs to slow down. Focus.First rule: don’t think about the body. Not yet. Think about the room. Think about what they’ll see when they get here.I pulled a pair of thin leather gloves from my pocket, ones I’d kept in case the night turned dirty, and slipped them on. I crouched beside Silas. The smell of him was different now, sweat, gunpowder, that copper tang of blood
The neighborhood was quiet, the sun dipping low behind cracked rooftops and faded fences. The kind of place where hope came to die a slow, gray death. I parked the car a few blocks away and crept forward, eyes sharp, heart steady but burning with cold rage.Silas Hayes’ house sat at the end of a narrow street, a ramshackle relic squeezed between newer, better kept homes. The windows were dust covered and cracked. The paint peeled like dead skin. A rusted gate hung from one hinge. No flowers. No laughter. Just shadows.I studied it from the street. This was the kind of place where promises went to rot. Where secrets got buried under layers of neglect.I stepped closer, boots crunching on broken glass and dry leaves. The door was cracked, just a sliver open, like a wound waiting for me to enter.Inside, the air was thick with dust and stale smoke. The faintest scent of decay clung to the walls. I moved carefully, stepping over torn newspapers, broken chairs, and empty bottles. The silen
The car’s engine was a low hum beneath the quiet of the street, the soft dusk settling like a shroud over the neat houses lined with trimmed lawns and flowering shrubs. I sat behind the wheel, the leather cool under my fingers, eyes fixed on the modest house across the street, white picket fence, flower boxes under the windows, a small porch swing where a child’s jacket hung limp.Marisol Vega’s home.I had read everything I could find about her. The old files painted a stark, ruthless picture, a woman who once moved in the shadows of Robert’s empire, involved in whispers I couldn’t yet confirm, someone who might have played a part in the erasure of my father’s name. But here, under this softening light, the woman I saw was different.Through the large living room window, I watched her move with easy grace, carrying a toddler in one arm, laughing as she handed a plate of food to another child at the table. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, the wrinkles near her eyes softened b
The ride from the station to the safehouse was quiet, the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums until it feels like a weight. I didn’t bother turning on the radio. The city outside the tinted glass was all smudged lights and thin, restless fog. It didn’t matter. My mind wasn’t here.The moment the car stopped, I stepped out, my boots crunching against the gravel drive. The safehouse looked exactly as I’d left it, plain, shadowed, forgettable. The kind of building no one would remember passing. That was the point. I had bought this building in a different name. I punched in the code, pushed the heavy door open, and was met with stale air. The place always smelled like paper and metal, old documents, gun oil, cold steel.Inside, I didn’t take off my coat. I went straight to the desk. The only light came from the desk lamp, a harsh yellow pool that barely reached the corners of the room. My laptop sat there, waiting.I switched it on, the familiar hum filling the air. While i
The morning came too early.I lay there, eyes still closed, not wanting to leave the one small pocket of safety I’d found, the space between sleep and waking, where the walls around me didn’t exist yet.But the knock shattered it.It wasn’t Victor’s knock. No… he never knock,just walked in always. This knock was softer, hesitant, followed by the rustle of fabric and the creak of the door opening just far enough for someone to slip inside.I pushed myself up, the blanket falling to my lap.A young servant, a girl I’d seen before but never heard speak, came in carrying something that seemed out of place here. A tall, glass vase overflowing with blooms.White roses. Deep crimson peonies. Sprigs of eucalyptus.They looked like they belonged on a wedding table. Or in a lover’s arms.She crossed the room quickly, set the vase on my desk, and without meeting my eyes, left. No explanation. No note. Just the scent, already unfurling into the air, filling every corner of my room.I sat there f