Me: Pretty sure you don't want to know.
I lock the phone, lean my head back, and focus on breathing through the pain.
In my ear, Luce, and Punk are already dissecting the job, analyzing what went wrong, what went right. Professional. Clinical.
But underneath it all, I hear what they're not saying.
You're slipping.
You're distracted.
This almost got you killed.
I know. Tonight was my last until my current…
Chapter 7
Asher
It's been two weeks since I left her, saying I'd be back the next morning. Two fucking weeks that felt like my damn heart was being ripped out of my chest. I'd had friends before. Fucking many. Hell, I'd been well acquainted with a social system, yet never.
Never had I ever felt the way I do about anyone the way I do Ivy.
Shit is fucked up and will have me checked into rehab.
I tell myself I’m over it by the time I hit Lake Shore.
I’m not.
I slam the doors to my Aston Martin, rolling my shoulders back, settling into the smug asshole I wear for her. Go in cocky, keep it light, pretend I haven’t spent two weeks thinking about her mouth.
Door opens, and every planned word evaporates.
She stands there in tiny shorts and a ribbed white tank that hides nothing, hair yanked into a knot like she did it while moving. Bare feet. Necklace I put on her shining at her throat, the white gold and barbed wire hugging her skin.
And her face. The right side of her face is fucked. Yellow-brown bloom under the concealer, skin swollen along the edge of her eye socket. Healing bruise, two weeks old, maybe a little less.
My first thought is kill. It’s not poetic. It’s not noble. It’s just that. A blade of intent dropping through my body, clean, simple.
Her eyes flick up to mine, and her mouth tightens. “Asher.”
Just my name. No smile. No soft anything.
I step forward on pure reflex, then stop. My gaze scans down her body—careful, clinical, hunting damage.
She shifts her weight. The tank rides up, flashing a band of mottled green and blue along her ribs, the hard ladder of bone under purple fingerprints.
My hand hits the doorframe before I know I’ve moved. “What the fuck is that.”
Her shoulders hitch, like she’s resisting the urge to step back.
“I’m not doing this with you,” she says. “Either come in or go back to your fan club, Wonderboy.”
I don’t move. My throats dry, and I'm about six seconds away from blowing everything the fuck up.
My tone is low. Level. “Who hit you, Ivy.”
Her jaw locks. “Get in the house, Asher. You’re blocking my door.”
