She lines trays of makeup out on the vanity before finally grabbing a brush set and turning to me.
“Do you not talk?”
My face is hard from tears, my skin cracked.
She plucks out a wet wipe and gently starts working on my cheek. I’m not sure if this is a typical occurrence. “Do you know my dad?”
The girl doesn’t answer. After the twelfth question, I give up and go with what she’s doing. It beats being manhandled by a monster.
She finally finishes and begins putting the makeup away. Turning to the mirror, I stare back at myself, reaching to touch my cheek. I look… different.
Why?
I turn to ask the girl one more question, but she’s already beside me, gesturing to my feet. I decide to follow her again, since she’s gentle. Are all women like this? Gentle.
We leave through the door that I was not long forced through, and the sun smacks me in the face. Squinting my eyes, it takes me a moment to adjust. There’s an ocean bed of endless water in front of us. We left the dock? Dread fills my belly again. I’m so lost. Alone.
Strong.
The girl tugs my hand and I follow her upstairs and to yet another door. She presses it open and stands to the side, waiting for me to enter.
With a lingering look on her, I step through the darkness with a gulp. What the hell am I doing? No. I need to—I turn around to go back, but the slam of the door cuts daylight.
Turning, I rest against it, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but every time I blink, I make it worse.
“Hello, Ivanya. I’m so glad to see you again.”
It’s him. The man in the suit.
His hand drops to his zipper, his ring catching my eye. Old and ugly. Like him.
Chapter 11
Ivy
Ispent a great deal of my life in positions that others would call terrifying more than they would weak. Most people are scared of having demons. Me? I’ve carried mine through my life every step of the way, used them as weights to build strength.
What I’ve done.
What I’m yet to do.
It’s a big fuck you to those who put them there in the first place.
Only all demons answer to a Devil, and people do not mention how most of the time, that asshole comes as everything you never knew you wanted.
So here I am. On Asher's Instagram just to see what people really have been saying, and, a bit to see if he has ever put her on his feed.
He hasn't. Not a single speck.
But as I fly through the photo grid, swipe after swipe, I pause at the last photo he shared of us. I mean, not many people would know it was me, but judging by the comments, everyone knew anyway. With his tatted arm hooked around my throat, and with nothing but my smile shown in the photo, it's obvious. That night was something else…
Actually, if I'm being honest, it could very well be one of the final times I ever saw him for who he was…
“Come on, Venom, stop being a buzzkill!” Asher's fingers lace through mine, rough and insistent as he drags me toward the arena entrance. The concrete vibrates beneath our feet from thousands of fans streaming through the gates. Rubber soles squeak on hardwood. “I got these tickets, hey!” His grip tightens and suddenly I'm yanked forward, colliding with the solid wall of his chest. His arm locks around my waist, holding me prisoner against him. “I got these tickets for us. Because it's my birthday.”
I tilt my head back toward him, his intensity burning through me with that familiar, unsettling precision.
“Fine.” The word tastes like surrender. “But only because as much as I'm a Bulls fan, I'm also a Kobe fan, and so, well…” My voice catches, betraying something I don't want to name. “I never got to see one of his games.”
