I bare my teeth. “I’ll block your whole fucking world if I have to, Venom.”
Kicking the door closed, the wood rattles behind me. Her eyes flare, but she doesn’t flinch. Of course she doesn’t.
Rage climbs, slow and hot.
“Let me see,” I say, stepping closer.
“You’ve seen me plenty.” her eyes drop to my feet, countering. “Get over yourself.”
Focus, Asher. Pull your shit together. Be the smart ass she prefers so you can hide the feral monster that lives beneath.
My tongue glides over my lip. “Wanna take those clothes off for me, Venom?”
She stills, still backing up. “No.”
We both stop, standing there, a foot apart, air electric with all the shit we’re not saying. Her eyes are bright, mean. There’s a faint line at the corner of her mouth that wasn’t there last time. Sleepless nights, pain, or both.
“Where’s Parker,” I ask, head tilting.
She shrugs. “Not here.”
My eyes widen. “Where.”
“Last I heard he was in Dubai.” I can see her restraint waning. “Why?”
My lip curls. “Because I’m going to cave his skull in.”
Her brows rise. Barely. But it’s there. “Firstly, it wasn't Parker, you idiot. Second, you vanish for two weeks and show up ready to murder my husband. Adorable, Asher. Real cutesy movie of you.”
“Don’t fucking joke.” The words snap out. “Who did that to your face?”
She makes a frustrated sound and moves at the last second, letting me advance on her if I want like she hates herself for it.
The house smells like her—jasmine, soap, and coffee—and under it, the sterile hotel-clean of a place no one really lives in.Shoes lined up with military precision by the door. No Parker. No extra jacket. Just her sneakers thrown sideways like she kicked them off mid-stride.
I spin back to her. “Take the fucking makeup off.”
She actually laughs. It’s not nice.
“Wow. Bold. You ghost me—”
“—Ivy,” I growl, low.
She has the intelligence to stop. “What.”
“Who touched you.”
“Maybe I walked into a door. Isn’t that the script?”
My hands curl. “I’ll burn this whole neighborhood down before I let you make that joke again.”
“Relax.” She folds her arms, tank stretching over her chest. The gesture drags the fabric higher, and the bruise on her ribs shows clearer now. Deep, ugly, like a boot or a blunt handle. My gut twists. “No one’s burning anything. Except maybe the quinoa I forgot on the stove.”
I catch her wrist before she can drop her arms.
“Asher.” Warning.
I twist her hand, exposing the inside of her forearm. Old grazes, faint pink lines on tanned skin. Knuckles scraped, healing. One of them split, scabbed, cracked along the line. She’s hit someone recently.
