Page 13 of Gravehouse

There.

Ivy.

In my house.

She moves past the island, one hand trailing along the cement countertop. Her hair’s down, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. She must have showered and changed. Jeans sit low on her hips, and that fucking top, black and tight, rides further up when she reaches for something on the top shelf. The fabric lifts, exposing the clear curve of her tits.

Heat slams through me, igniting from watching her move through my space like she has every right to be here.

She doesn’t.

Her hips sway as she crosses to the fridge, that same fluid grace she’s always had.

I grip the edge of the shed.

Wood bites into my palm, grounding me before I do something stupid. Like kick in the back door. Like pin her against the nearest wall and make her explain why she’s such a fucking disappointment, why she still looks at me like she does, why my body doesn’t give a fuck about the scar on my rib and throat or the year I lost to Dovecrest.

She opens the fridge, leaning in until denim stretches tight across her ass.

I look away.

This is the problem. It’s always been the problem. Ivanya Dubois, or rather, Delacroix, walks into a room and my brain shuts down. Logic dies, strategy crumbles, and all that’s left iswant.

Guess I forgot about that little detail when I came up with the brilliant idea of marrying her.

She straightens, bumps the fridge shut, and turns.

For half a second, I think she sees me. Her gaze sweeps toward the window, going perfectly still.Ditto.

Snow clings to my hair by the time I hit the back door. I kick off my boots, peel out of my jacket, and toss it onto the first step in the foyer.

She walks in from the kitchen with a glass of water, freezing with the rim an inch from her mouth.

Her cheeks flush. “Atlas showed me my room.”

Is that fucking embarrassment? A first for her.

I keep my expression dead, moving past her toward the living room and the large windows looking over the powder I just carved to pieces.

My shoulder brushes hers.

Her hand snaps out, landing on my forearm before I pass her.

I don’t turn. I stare at the glass and the world beyond it, the faint reflection of us standing way too close.

“If it’s any consolation,” she says, lowering her voice and dropping her hand. Thank fuck. “I’m glad you’re alive. Despite all of this…”

I turn, eyes narrowing. Is she fucking for real?

She backs up without a thought, a step, then another, until her shoulder blades hit the wall by the staircase. I keep closing in until her anxiety spikes the air between us, her fucking pupils blown wide.

“Consolation?” My lip twitches.

For the first time, I catch it. A flicker ofFear. It knocks the rage clean out of my chest.

I study her face, taking in the scar near her hairline I traced the night she fell asleep in my arms, and the swell of her lips I’ve felt against every inch of my skin. It’s the proof that whatever this sickness is, it’s gonna keep dragging us back together, no matter how much blood spills.

I lean in close enough that my words ghost over her skin.