Abel is a distant memory. My hatred for Eli is eclipsed by something bigger. Something that seems to have snuck inside me like a thief in the night, replacing the darkness with a glowing ember. An ember that Ivy stokes every day.
"You are poisoning me." I toss the knife onto the floor, and it skitters away. My fingers wrap around her face, hard, and she mirrors the action with her own fingers on my jaw.
"Accept it," she bites out. "Quit fighting what you feel."
"I have no feelings."
"You're a liar."
I don't know who moves first. One second, we're ready to strangle each other, and the next, our lips are colliding. She's dragging up her nightgown as I pick her up and stumble over to the entry table with a decorative vase on top. I plant her ass on top of it, spreading her thighs open, baring her pussy to me as she fumbles with my belt and zipper.
A groan of frustration leaves my lips as I yank down the lacy material of her silk gown to expose her breasts. My mouth latches onto her nipple and tugs at the same time she finally makes entry into my trousers, pulling my dick free.
She guides me between her thighs, and I thrust into her warmth, pounding the table against the wall as I do. I fuck her like a madman, forgetting to be soft or gentle, but she makes no protest as she pulls at my hair, dragging her nails down the back of my neck and into my sweater.
She comes around me at the same time the vase shatters to the floor. We both pause long enough to look down at it, and then she grabs my ass and urges me forward.
"Come for me," she begs. "Please."
Fucking Christ.
I'll never get enough of that. My dick jerks and spasms, and I give the woman what she wants. With a long, agonizing sigh of relief, I spill inside her. I nearly collapse from exhaustion and drunkenness in the aftermath, and Ivy looks up at me with warmth in her eyes, a sign that I am forgiven. For now.
"Let's get you to bed," she says softly. "Where I can keep an eye on you."
"Lift your foot," Ivy orders.
I'm trying, but when I lift it up from the bed, it falls back down like it’s weighted with lead.
She sighs and wiggles the leather Oxford free from my foot, tossing it aside as she repeats the process on the other side. Next come my socks, which she slides down, gently stroking my skin as she goes.
I close my eyes and fall into the moment completely, sighing when she massages the arches of my feet. It's a strange sort of intimacy to have someone touch you there. Nobody ever has before. I never realized it could feel so... pleasant.
When she finishes, I'm half asleep already, and she stirs me back to life, forcing me to cooperate as she tugs off my trousers and dress shirt and discards them on the chair across the room. She returns to bed and climbs in next to me, dragging the covers up over both of us. Beneath them, in the dark, my hand finds hers, and our fingers tangle together.
It all seems too easy, and I have a feeling I will hear more about what happened in the morning. Perhaps by then, I will have the solution that seems to evade me.
"Thank you," she whispers in the blackness.
I swallow the upheaval of emotions warring in my chest. I feel like I need to give her something, but I don't know what. When she pulls both of our hands to her belly, flattening my palm against the bump and covering it with hers, I think it is a silent question. An expectation perhaps, or a reminder. We are growing every day. Too slow at times, too fast at others. And I know before I can really wrap my mind around it, this tiny human will be here, bundled in her arms.
"I won't make you a promise I can't keep," I tell her.
She's quiet for a moment, her hand tightening slightly against mine. "We can talk about my father in the morning."
"I'm not talking about your father. I'm talking about me."
"What do you mean?"
The words eject from my mouth before I can filter them. "Don’t expect me to be a good father."
Silence. It fills the space between us for so long, I think she has gone to sleep.
"I think you might surprise yourself," she says finally. "Look at the way Eva has taken a liking to you. If you can win her over, you can win anyone over."
"She is different," I mutter. "There's something wrong with her."
"Because clearly there would have to be for her to like you," Ivy huffs. "That's what you mean, right?"
"I terrify children."
"You won't terrify your own. Not if you make an effort."
"I am not sure I know how," I admit.
She turns into me, stroking my arm. "Your father didn't show you?"
"My father showed me how to be cruel," I answer. "Cold and unyielding. I learned all my best qualities from him. Every lesson I learned from him came as a punishment or a beating. For many years, I thought that was how fathers expressed their... affection."
"That isn't love," Ivy says softly.
"I suppose it isn't."
"You aren't your father." She reaches up to touch my face, humanizing me in a way nobody else ever has. "You won't ever do those things to your own children."
My fingers trace over her arm. "I know I won't. I also know the limit of my capabilities. I can provide for them. I will protect them. But the softness must come from you."
"I believe you are capable of far more than you give yourself credit for." She presses her lips against my cheek. "You will see."
I don't respond because there's nothing else to say. She has expectations of me that I'll never meet. And at some point, she will be forced to accept it.
I turn into her and kiss her face. "Good night, sweet Ivy."
20
Ivy
As the sun rises, I lie still beside him, listening to his even breathing. He’s passed out. Exhausted probably from days, weeks even of not sleeping. Of drinking too much. Of worrying.
And I am only going to add to that worry when he wakes.
Sitting up on the bed, I pet his dark head, brushing the hair from his face.
God. What a mess this is.
He stirs but barely, and I pick up the dagger he’d been carrying last night. I went back downstairs to get it after he fell asleep when I couldn’t sleep.
It’s as beautiful as it is deadly. Roses and skulls always with him. I bring the tip to my finger, and it takes just the littlest bit of pressure to break the skin. I watch a droplet of blood pool, then another. I smear it on the inside of my palm. Lay the blade flat there.
Blood on my hands. No. Not on mine. Not yet.
But on Abel’s.
On my father’s.
On my husband’s.
“What are you doing?” comes his deep, steady voice.
Startled, I look over at him. Not asleep. Not even sleepy. Alert. Awake. Like any good predator. He’s dangerous. Not to me, but to those I love. And I’m torn.
If I tell him, I betray my friend.
If I don’t, I betray him.
And betrayal may be the least of my concerns. I’m sure I will have to tie him down for him to hear what Colette confided in me. If he is to remain still and listen to reason after the words are out. If not, I know my husband. This dagger will have much more blood on it than the few drops from my finger.