Even if I know I'll have to go back.
Even if freedom is just another word for running.
* * *
Sulfur doesn’t wash off as easily as your sins do. Twenty minutes under hot water, and the scent still sticks to me like a clingy ex.
Steam drowns the bathroom mirror, but I swipe the congestion away and drag the white midi over my head. Silk slides down, catching every curve I'd forgotten existed. The split climbs my thigh as I tug it into place. White. Like I'm some virgin sacrifice. Like I'm not the bloodstain to the color.
I quickly make my way down the stairs to find Luce, when voices catch my attention from the kitchen. A woman curses in German, tangled with Jasper's laugh. Their battle over seasoning sounds like the start of every love story. Jasper and Jord knew each other from their earlier training days, and when Jord mentioned he was looking for work, I jumped at taking him. Turns out he loved Veilarath after his first visit, and now lives here on the island.
“—Sauerbraten zuerst, das ist tradition—”
“Nein, nein, die Vorspeisen—”
Jasper and his sous chef square off across the steel prep station, knives flashing like switchblades in afternoon glare. The woman swats forward, gray braid snapping as she brandishes her ladle like whoever controls the gravy controls the war.
“Mir ist es egal, womit ihr anfangt,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.I don't care what you start with.“Solange es essbar ist.”As long as it's edible.
The ladle clatters to the floor.
Jasper's knife freezes mid-chop, his eyes widening like I've just materialized from thin air. Which, given my profession, isn't entirely inaccurate.
“Sie sprechen Deutsch?” The woman's voice pitches high with shock as she asks if I speak her tongue.
“Offensichtlich.”Obviously. I push off the doorframe, moving into the kitchen with measured steps. The dress whispers against my thighs, a sound too soft for this house of soon-to-be ghosts.
Jasper recovers first, a grin splitting his face. “All these weekends, and you never told me.”
“There's a lot you don't know about me, Jasper.” I wink at him.
Movement in my peripheral. My body recognizes him before my mind catches up—heart jumping while my gut twists itself into knots. Asher fills the doorway, snow melting in his disheveled hair, still wearing his gear from the Games. His jaw works, grinding hard enough I swear I can hear his molars crack. But there's something raw in his eyes that makes me want to both slap him and smooth away the crease between his brows.
“Asher.” Jasper brightens, oblivious to the war raging inside me. “The conquering hero returns! How were the Games?”
Those blue eyes stay locked on mine. A muscle jumps beneath the dirt smudged across his cheekbone. His fingers tighten around the doorframe until the wood groans beneath his grip, knuckles white and straining, the skin pulled so thin I wait for bone to split through.
“It was great, Jasper. Raised a ton of money,” he grinds out, as if it pained him to do so. “Ivy, we need to talk.”
“Do we?” I turn back to Jasper, dismissing Asher with the kind of casual cruelty I've perfected over years of emotional warfare. “What time are we serving?”
“Seven, but--”
“Then you better sort out your menu dispute.” I snag an apple from the bowl on the counter, taking a bite that's all performance. The fruit tastes like shit. Everything tastes like shit these days. “I'd start with the Vorspeisen, personally. But what do I know?”
“Ivy.” Asher's tone cuts through the kitchen's clatter, sharp enough that Jasper's sous chef jerks backward like he took a hit.
I finally look at him properly, letting my gaze travel from his snow-caked boots to the muscle jumping in his jaw. He looks wrecked. Destroyed. Excellent. Welcome to my personal hell, pretty boy.
“You're dripping on Jasper's clean floor.”
Raw violence flares in his eyes. He eats the space between us in three long strides, sudden enough that Jasper buries his face in diced onions.
“Outside.” A command.
“I'm busy.” I don’t blink.
He bares his teeth. “Now.”
