"Why not? We can grab breakfast in town, be back before anyone knows we're gone." His fingers lace through mine. “What do you say?”
"Give me five minutes to get dressed."
His grin widens, and for a moment he looks younger, lighter. "Meet me in the garage."
I grab my clothes, praying I don’t run into Madison. I peek into her bedroom and sigh with relief when I see she’s asleep.
Closing her door, I cross the hall and slip into my bedroom. The echo of Thorne's hands on my skin, the brand of his mouth everywhere. My legs are pleasantly unsteady as I cross the plush carpet toward my dresser, pulling out jeans and a long-sleeve shirt suitable for riding.
The man is dangerous.
Not because he fucks me like I'm the only woman who's ever mattered, like every touch is both worship and claiming. Nor is it because afterward, he took such careful, tender care of me with hands turned gentle, cleaning me, kissing the marks his belts left on my skin like each one deserved its own tender acknowledgment.
No, Thorne Blackstone is dangerous because he makes me want things I shouldn't. Impossible things. And because when he keeps secrets, like where he disappeared to last night, I let him.
I turn the light on in my bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my lips are kiss-swollen, and my eyes are too soft. I grab my brush and flick the switch off.
Get it together, Ivy. This is temporary. A fling. An arrangement that ends when Madison’s three months are up.
Except it doesn't feel temporary anymore.
I drag the brush through my hair, then braid it to fit under a helmet. In the quiet of my room, I’m reminded of what Thorne hasn’t told me, specifically, where he disappeared to yesterday. The way he kissed me when he came back—desperate, almost frantic—that wasn't just desire. That was a man avoiding something.
But today, on the bike, maybe I can let it go. Maybe we both can.
I sink onto one of the cream-colored chairs, the chandelier overhead casting soft light as I pull on my riding boots. Through the windows, the estate grounds stretch out in golden light. This room is too big, too elegant, too much like something from a magazine spread, but in the glow of what just happened, it feels closer to home than anywhere I've lived in years.
There’s a light knock on my door, and then Madison appears from around the frame. Her hair is sticking up in the back, and she has a pillow crease on her cheek.
She takes in my outfit. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going for a ride.”
Her eyes light up. “On the ATVs?”
“No, on a motorcycle.” Heat crawls up my neck. She’ll start to suspect something’s going on between Thorne and me. She is fourteen and definitely wasn’t sheltered by our mother. I shrug, trying for casual. “Thorne asked if I wanted to. I figured it might be nice to get out of the house for a bit.”
Madison bounces on her toes. "Can I see them? The bikes?" She's already moving toward the door. "I've always thought motorcycles were cool, but I've never been close to one."
"Sure." I gesture toward the hall. "Come on, they're in the garage."
We make our way through the house together, down the curved staircase and through the family room where the morning sun slants across the floor. Madison chatters about how one of her friends from school has an older brother who rides. “I told mom I wanted to get one when I turned sixteen.” Her voice catches slightly, and she looks away, blinking hard. A beat passes, then she straightens, and I can see the way she forces brightness back into her expression like armor. “She was pissed.Told me you gave her first gray hair when she learned you’d gotten one in college.”
Mom worried about me back then? After Louis Blackstone and Madison, I'd figured Dad and I had been scrubbed from her memory entirely. I’m not sure how I feel about this information.
“Guess I can get one now,” Madison continues. “No one to spot me now.” My chest tightens. Fourteen years old and trying to joke about the crater her mother left behind. And I'm planning to drag her to New York in a couple months, rip her away from the only home she has left.
“Um, I might stop you,” I say, half-joking, hoping to lighten the mood.
Madison narrows her eyes, but there's a spark of amusement fighting through. “Doesn’t that make you a hypocrite?”
I grin. “Definitely, but you’re my little sister. I’d wrap you in bubble wrap if you’d let me.”
She snorts. “No thanks. But I’m not dumb. I’d wear all the gear.”
“And take a formal class,” I add as we pass through the loggia, my old Docs silent on the marble floor.
The garage door is open when we arrive, and my eyes go straight to what's parked next to Thorne's Ducati.
