Page 33 of Gravehouse

Shit. How drunk am I?

A bottle lands in my hand. Someone tugs me toward the stairs, and I grin, following. Burning my own life down feels good as long as his goes up with it.

At some point between my fourth bottle of champagne and losing count, I end up on Asher’s bed with three strangers. Silk shifts under my feet as I move with the music.

Taking a deep drag, I let the weed crackle between my lips, watching smoke wind toward the ceiling as my phone keeps flaring beside me.

A heavy thud shakes the room, and Sinead fills the doorway.

“You’re back.” I throw my arms up like a kid who just got candy. I can’t tell if I’m drunk on alcohol, high on weed, or snorting lines of that chaos…

“Ah.” Their brows dip, shoulders tight as they step into the room.

“Or are you a ghost? A figment of my fucked-up imagination?” I sway with the music and giggle.

Fucking. Giggle.

Sinead’s eyes shift past me before snapping back. They’re closer now, standing right beside the bed.

“No, but you might be.” Their hand locks around my arm, pulling me up.

I wriggle free and wag a finger. “Nah uh. You go tell yourbossthat he wanted to marry me.” I back toward the pillows. “So he gets to keep me.”

One of the men behind me hooks an arm around my waist, hauling me back onto the mattress before covering me with his body. Another catches my wrists and pins them above my head, grinning as if he’s just claimed a prize.

Mmm. Maybe this is what I should’ve been doing all along…orgies with men ten years younger.

My phone lights up again.

I shove the man off and reach for it. Instagram opens to a photo of me taking body shots from a guy’s chest.

First comment:Whatever he did we’re on her side.

Second:It could have been cocaine. You do you, boo.

Third:I liked her better when she didn’t talk.

I snap a screenshot, sending it to the group chat with three laughing emojis. The room sways as I sink farther into the bed, silk gathering beneath my thighs.

One man traces slow circles over my hip while another leans on his elbow, watching the smoke curl upward. The third scrolls through his phone, laughing against my ear.

“Ivy!” Punk rushes in gasping, one hand on the frame. She glances from Sinead to the mess sprawled across the bed. “We have a problem.”

The mess being me.

I lift my head, squinting at her. “What kind of problem?”

Everything’s too heavy, and I drop back down onto the pillow.

She steps toward me. “The husband kind!”

The door bursts inward with a splintering crack, revealing Asher in the doorway, shirtless and streaked with blood.

My lips curve upward into a smirk. Jackpot—he’s fucking pissed.

CHAPTER

EIGHT