Chapter 11 - What a view.

Ivy's POV

I haven't had a proper conversation with Satan's favorite child in three days, and I'd like it to be officially recorded that those three days have been fucking peaceful.

I've seen him, obviously. Avoiding Roman should be easy considering Blackthorne is huge, yet the universe seems determined to throw him into my line of sight whenever possible. Tuesday, I spotted him leaving the business building. Yesterday, he was leaning against some ridiculously expensive car with who I assume is Cole, looking like the poster boy for rich men with anger issues. Both times, he noticed me. Both times, I looked away first. Not because he intimidated me. - I mean, he does but I won't admit that out loud - Absolutely not. I simply had somewhere else to look. More importantly, we've managed seventy-two hours without arguing, threatening each other or staring at body parts neither of us has any fucking business staring at.

Unfortunately, the camera incident hasn't disappeared quite as successfully. The photographs are gone, yet my brain has apparently created its own backup folder. Every now and then that final image appears. Roman beneath the stone archway. Hands buried in his pockets. Head slightly lowered. Everyone moving around him while he stood completely still. But it isn't even the photograph that bothers me anymore. It's what happened afterward. My back against the wall. The way my body panicked even though my mouth refused to. Then him moving when I told him to. That's the part I keep returning to. Not because it suddenly makes him a good person. Satan probably occasionally holds doors open for people too. Doesn't mean I'm inviting him home for Thanksgiving, even though he is Alex's family. Still, he listened, and apparently my brain has decided that's something worth remembering.

Which brings me to the thick black envelope inside my bag and the fact I'm currently crossing Blackthorne's residential courtyard because my mother has apparently become a criminal mastermind capable of manipulating her own daughter. I stopped by the house earlier because Mom texted to tell me I'd left a camera battery there. I intended to collect it, raid her refrigerator and leave. Instead, Roman's father appeared holding an envelope his son apparently needs tonight. He couldn't deliver it. Mom was busy. I was already returning to campus. Could I take it? I said no. Mom gave me the look. I said absolutely fucking not. She continued looking at me. Five minutes later, the envelope was inside my bag. I don't know why she bothered raising me with free will if she planned on completely ignoring it whenever convenient.

Finding his building is easy. Finding his room takes longer. I end up on the third floor after asking a guy downstairs who visibly straightens when I mention who I'm looking for. Maybe Satan's heir has been terrorizing his neighbors. Maybe they hold weekly support meetings whenever he's out. Either way, I eventually find his room at the very end of the hallway. Of course he lives here. Apparently even his accommodation needs to communicate 'stay the fuck away from me.' I check the number his father gave me and pull out my phone. The message I sent ten minutes ago is still unanswered.

Ivy: Your dad gave me something for you. I'm outside your room.

Typical.

Heaven forbid His Royal Assholeness acknowledge another human being when he could leave them standing outside like an unpaid delivery driver.

I knock.

Nothing.

“Roman?”

Silence.

I knock again.

“Your dad sent me!”

Still nothing.

“I'm leaving your shit outside!”

Apparently even threatening his precious envelope isn't enough to summon him to the door. I bend down, fully intending to abandon it beside the door, when my hand brushes the wood and it moves. Maybe an inch. I straighten. The door isn't shut. There's a narrow gap between the frame and lock, darkness visible beyond it. Fantastic. This is exactly how women die in horror movies. They find an unexplained open door, ignore every survival instinct they've ever developed and wander inside. I should leave. I know I should leave. Instead, curiosity grabs me by the throat and I push the door wider.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“If you're naked, I'm throwing this envelope inside and running.”

Still nothing.

“If you're having sex, I'm transferring universities.”

Silence.

Well.

That's reassuring.

Sort of.

I step inside and immediately find myself disappointed by how normal everything looks. No sacrificial altar. No collection of human skulls. Not even a dartboard covered in photographs of his enemies. His room is clean to the point of being suspicious. Black bedding. Dark furniture. Books lined neatly across one shelf. Laptop on the desk. Everything has a place, but nothing feels personal. No photographs on the walls. No stupid souvenirs shoved onto shelves. No mess. It's less like a dorm room and more like a hotel occupied by someone prepared to disappear overnight. Even his bedroom has commitment issues. Somehow, that feels exactly right. I take another step, intending to dump the envelope on his desk and escape before Lucifer returns from wherever he spends his evenings ruining lives.

Then I hear something. Not loud, just the unmistakable sound of a door opening somewhere deeper inside the room, followed by footsteps against the floor. Oh. So Satan is home. I straighten and turn towards the sound, already preparing something appropriately insulting about answering doors when the bathroom door opens and every single coherent thought inside my head packs its bags and fucking leaves. Roman walks out. Shirtless. Wet. And wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants sitting dangerously low on his hips. For one horrifying second, I forget why I'm here. I forget about the envelope, his father, the open door and every reason I shouldn't be standing inside his bedroom without permission because there is only one thought occupying every available inch of my brain.

Oh God. What a fucking view that is.

No. Absolutely fucking not. We are not doing this. We are not standing inside his bedroom admiring his body like we've accidentally wandered into some extremely inappropriate museum exhibition. Except—Jesus Christ. I've always known Roman is built like a brick shit house. It would be difficult not to notice when the man seems incapable of owning a shirt that doesn't stretch across his shoulders. I've seen the tattoos covering his arms and noticed the ridiculous width of his chest beneath sweaters despite repeatedly telling myself I haven't. But this is different. His dark hair is soaked, water still clinging to the ends before sliding down his neck and across shoulders that look like somebody carved them specifically to ruin women's decision-making abilities. Tattoos spread across his chest, shoulders and arms before disappearing around his ribs.

Then there's his stomach. For fuck's sake. Apparently the devil has abs. Of course he fucking does. Why wouldn't he? My eyes betray me completely, dropping over the defined lines of his stomach before reaching the waistband of those stupid gray sweatpants, and that's precisely when Roman notices me. He stops near the bathroom door. I stop breathing. For once, neither of us has an immediate smart-ass comment ready. His dark eyes lock onto mine before moving towards the open bedroom door and then returning to me. Actual surprise flashes across his face, and under normal circumstances, catching Roman Blackwood off guard would be an achievement worth celebrating. Unfortunately, I'm currently too busy trying to drag my eyes away from his body and remember how normal human beings behave around semi-naked men. Semi-naked men I have never had the privilege of eye-fucking before.

“What the fuck?” he shouts which brings my eyes to his lips.

I blink hard.

“Jesus!”

Roman glances down at himself before looking back at me.

“What are you doing in my room?”

“Currently? Regretting having eyes.” Lies you horny bitch.

Silence.

Fuck.

Did I actually just say that?

His eyebrows rise, and I briefly consider throwing myself through the nearest window before he can process the words properly. His mouth starts curving instead, that infuriating amusement creeping across his face while I scramble for whatever remains of my dignity that I can find. Fantastic. I've been here less than two minutes and I've already handed him enough ammunition to torment me for the rest of the semester. I fold my arms and force my attention onto his face once again. His face. Perfectly safe territory. Except even that doesn't particularly help when his wet hair is falling messily over his forehead and there's a silver piercing catching beneath the low light. Honestly, the entire man is becoming one enormous inconvenience.

“I mean—”

“Don't.”

“I haven't said anything.”

“Your face has.” I snap at him as I look away. I could have dropped the envelope off and gone by now but no. Of course I had to stay and of course he had to have been taking a shower. At least he wasn't fully naked. What a shame.

“That sounds familiar.”

“Put some fucking clothes on.”

His smile grows. “Why?”

“Because normal people wear shirts when they have company.”

“I didn't know I had company.”

“You left your door unlocked and also open.”

“So you walked in? Without my permission.” he asks with a smirk that I would love to punch off his face.

“You weren't answering!”

“I was in the shower.”

“I've gathered that, Sherlock.”

His eyes slowly travel down my body before returning to my face, and suddenly I'm painfully aware that I'm standing inside his bedroom arguing with him while he's half naked. Alone. Brilliant life choices, Ivy. Absolutely fucking outstanding. Roman reaches for the black towel thrown across the end of his bed and drags it over his wet hair, and the movement makes every muscle across his stomach tighten. My eyes drop before I can stop them. Again. Traitors. I snap my attention back to his face, but it's already too late. He caught me. Of course he fucking caught me. Roman notices everything, and apparently my sudden fascination with the architecture of his abdominal muscles isn't subtle enough to escape him.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“No.”

“Could've fooled me.”

“I was looking at your tattoos.”

His eyes flick deliberately towards his chest.

“From my chest to my waistband?”

“I have excellent peripheral vision.”

“Apparently.”

“Don't flatter yourself jackass.”

“I'm not the one who just spent thirty seconds staring. Or was it longer?”

“I was surprised.”

“By what?”

I gesture vaguely towards him because apparently forming a coherent explanation is beyond me now. “That.”

His expression becomes unbearably amused.

“That?”

“Yes.”

“Very descriptive.” he says walking away from the doorway. I should move too. Out his bedroom and out his god damn place. Maybe to a church to confess my sins and tell the father above that I think my step brother is insanely hot. And sinful.

“Your lack of clothing, asshole.”

“I'm wearing pants.”

“Debatable. Were they made for a child or something?"

Roman looks down at his sweatpants as though he's genuinely checking whether they've disappeared without his knowledge, or shrunk, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing. Unfortunately, looking down means my eyes follow his, which means I'm once again staring directly at the waistband I have already spent far too much time thinking about. The outline of his crotch visible in the tight expanse of the material. This is getting embarrassing. I force my gaze upwards and find him watching me with a look that says he knows exactly what's happening inside my head. He probably doesn't. Hopefully. Because if Roman discovers that my first reaction to seeing him shirtless was Oh God, what a fucking view, I will transfer universities before sunrise.

“They're doing their job.”

“Barely.”

The second the word leaves my mouth, I want to die.

Roman goes completely still before his eyes lift slowly to mine. “Barely?” he asks and I give that sheepish smile I normally give my dad when I have done something but I don't want him to be pissed off with me. Works all the same.

“Shut up.”

“Ivy—”

“Don't.”

“You seem very concerned about my pants.”

“I am concerned about the structural integrity of your- you know what... never mind."

His laugh catches me completely off guard. Not the smug little breath he usually gives when he's pleased with himself, but an actual laugh—low, rough and irritatingly nice enough that I forget my humiliation for a second. Apparently the demon is attractive and has a good laugh. Unacceptable. I reach into my bag before my dignity can suffer any further and pull out the thick black envelope his father handed me. This is why I'm here. Not to stare at tattoos, wet hair, abs, gray sweatpants or dicks. It was to deliver the envelope. Leave the dorm. Pretend none of this ever happened. Simple. Except Roman's amusement disappears the second he notices what's in my hand.

“This is why I'm here.”

His attention fixes on the envelope. “Where did you get that?”

“Your dad handed it to me to hand to you.”

He tosses the towel onto the bed and comes closer. Not too close, but close enough for me to realize he smells like soap and something darker underneath that I recognize as distinctly him, which is information I absolutely did not need. I hold the envelope towards him and focus very deliberately on his face while he reaches for it. His fingers brush mine. Barely enough contact to count, yet warmth shoots through my hand like the asshole has personally electrocuted me. I immediately let go but I clearly wasn't subtle about it because Roman notices. Obviously. His eyes drop briefly to my fingers before returning to my face, and that tiny flicker of interest makes me shove both hands straight into the pockets of my sweater before they can betray me again.

“Your dad said you need it tonight.”

“Did you open it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

I stare at him.

“Because it doesn't belong to me?”

Something shifts in his expression. Tiny. Almost invisible. But it's there, and because noticing things is quite literally what I'm training to do, I catch it. For a moment, the teasing disappears and something more serious replaces it. Then he shuts it down before I can work out what the hell it means. Good. Fine. Whatever. I didn't come here to analyze Satan's emotional range. I came here to deliver an envelope, and I've successfully accomplished that without dying from embarrassment, although the evening isn't over yet. I grab my bag and pull the strap onto my shoulder, refusing to look anywhere below Roman's neck because I have finally learned from my mistakes. Probably.

“What?” I ask as I take a step back on one foot but not the other. The other is placing claim on this floor and staying there.

“Nothing.”

“No. That was definitely a look.”

“You study everyone's face this much?”

“Only the suspicious ones.”

“So everyone then?”

“Mostly you.”

I head towards the door, ready to leave all of this behind and go back to my room, mainly so I can lay in bed in bed and dream about the things I should most definitely not be allowed to dream about.

“Anyway. Delivery complete. Goodbye, Lucifer.”

I make it two steps before his voice stops me.

“You could stay.”

My hand freezes around the strap of my bag.

Well.

Fuck.

That wasn't what I expected.

I should leave. Every sensible thought in my head tells me to leave, but apparently sensible Ivy packed her bags and abandoned me somewhere around the moment Satan walked out of the shower half naked. Ten minutes later, I'm sitting on the opposite end of his couch with my camera between us and several printed photographs spread across the coffee table. Roman has finally put a shirt on, thank fuck, although the gray sweatpants remain an unnecessary distraction. I'm showing him photographs from an assignment I finished earlier this week, mostly because sitting in silence felt weird and apparently showing him my work feels less dangerous than having an actual conversation. He doesn't say much, but he looks at every photograph properly. Not the quick glance people usually give before telling me they're nice. He actually studies them.

“What's that?”

I follow his finger towards one of the prints.

A black rose lies across pale gravel, its stem slightly bent and dark petals opened beautifully against the stones. I remember finding it near the edge of campus and crouching down to photograph it because the contrast looked strangely perfect.

“The rose?”

Roman picks up the photograph. A little more force than needed. No point in telling him to be careful because he doesn't listen to a word anyone says.

“I found it outside.” I say as I carefully take it back and study it.

His entire body goes still.

I smile, completely oblivious to whatever just changed.

“It's cute, right? Well, creepy-cute. It was just sitting there like someone dropped—”

The photograph disappears from my fingers.

Roman is staring at it.

Not admiring it.

His expression has changed so completely that my smile slowly disappears.

“Roman?”

His eyes snap to mine.

“Where the fuck did you get that?”