Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Parker's grip tightens, possessive in all the wrong ways. “You'll play nice, won't you, baby?”
I meet Asher's stare over the rim of my mug. His tongue traces his bottom lip—the one I bit enough to draw blood—and I know he's remembering how I looked under him. How I sounded when he fisted my hair and made me take everything.
“I always do,” I say, but I'm not talking to Parker.
I force a smile up at Punk, both hands wrapped around my mug like it might protect me from whatever disaster is about to pop off this morning. This is robotic. From the outside, I seem engaged. Nodding, a few mmhmm’s and aha’s.
She drops onto Jord's lap. “Ivy, have you got all the ingredients you need?”
Fuck. I almost forgot all about my promise to cook tonight.
Punk quickly continues her chatter. “So are you guys going to come and drink tonight with us?”
I shake my head, doing my best to ignore Asher. “We'll be here. Making s'mores and letting you young people—” I wave my hand in front of me, the gesture dismissive enough to hide the knot forming in my throat. “—do all the young people things.”
Lucinda kicks her legs up and folds them beneath her butt. “Nah uh. I want to party too!”
Camille’s scoff comes like a bucket of ice water and my teeth clench. “No one is stopping you, Lucinda.”
Resting my head back against the bench, a lazy smirk tugs at one corner of my mouth.
Jord barks out a laugh. “That’s Ivy’s absolutely fucking not face.”
I flash a smile at Jord.
Hands come to my shoulders and I jerk upward, adrenaline splitting my muscles open.
“Relax, it’s just me.” Parker’s voice creeps through my spine. “Jesus, why are you on edge this morning. Are you heading into town?”
I flash him my widest smile. “Sure. I have no idea what I’m cooking yet.”
Parker clucks his tongue, drawing in his lips. “That’s right. You don’t cook.” His attention snaps across the fire pit. “A woman who doesn’t cook. Where do I get a refund?”
His joke leaves no one laughing, and both muscles on the side of my jaw tense.
After a moment, a small laugh draws out of me. “Mmm. Hilarious.” I pat his hand that’s on my shoulder. “Mind your misogyny, husband.”
My neck straightens and both twins have their eyes locked on Parker. Atlas's brows climb high. Shock mixed with something like disgust. But Asher? Nothing. His mouth forms a flat line, and the temperature drops ten degrees where his stare lands.
Christ. That's the kind of look that precedes body bags.
I file it away. Never piss off Asher enough to earn that particular brand of nothing. This version of him isn't the kind I'd particularly like to know.
I finish my sentence. “Our friends might think you're fragile.”
His fingers dig into my shoulder like five pressure points grinding against bone. The muscle beneath my temple jumps. I swallow the wince threatening to crack across my face, keeping my expression neutral while Parker tests how much force it takes to make me break.
Moisture pricks behind my eyes, hot and unwanted. Oxygen vanishes. His rage fills every molecule of space between us, thick enough to choke on. Whatever easy warmth existed seconds ago dies instant and absolute.
My body locks down. Every muscle frozen except my lungs, which keep pulling in air like nothing's wrong. Like my husband isn't one squeeze away from snapping my collarbone in front of everyone.
Like this is normal.
Like I haven't put my body through hell to know the exact amount of pressure it would take to snap my bones.
Like my throat hasn’t felt screams that left scar tissue behind as if it were confetti.
I'm falling forward until I slam into something soft, warm, and alive.
Arms catch me—small hands, trembling fingers that dig into my ribs like they're trying to keep me upright and push me away at the same time.
“Clean her!” He barks at the maiden, before something to his left catches his attention. He disappears, the door flapping shut.
“Merde.” The voice belongs to a girl. Young. Terrified. Her French slips out before she catches it, stuffing the word back down her throat.
My vision swims. Blood pools in my mouth where my teeth cracked against my tongue. Copper and salt. The taste of failure.
I blink, forcing the world into focus.
She's nineteen. Twenty at most.
She quickly grabs for the veil, shoving it over her head. Hair pulled back tight, uniform pressed crisp—one of the new ones they brought on in Monaco, probably.
“You need to—” Her grip tightens on my arms, nails biting through the thin silk of my dress. “Shit. Fuck!”
What is her problem? The maidens are usually calm. Demure. Sedated, most likely. They don't speak.
“Ivanya.” My name falls from her mouth and the world around me caves in.
Two years. Two years I've been gone. Who is this woman?