Page 73 of Gravehouse

Khloe tugs her onward. “Don’t look at him. He’ll make it weird.”

Elea descends the last few steps, gaze following Khloe and Ivy until they disappear around the corner. Her eyes find me and I already know what she’s thinking.That right there is why this is a bad idea.

Yeah. I know.

I’m out-fucking-voted.

I always knew Mother would love her. Khloe too. Hell, Khloe would love a loaded gun if it rolled its eyes at me and wore black.

My family took one look at Ivy and saw exactly what I did. A woman who doesn’t give a fuck about the riches of a man, or the power one may think he has. They see the fight in her the same way I always have.

Aléia smooths a hand over Camille’s hair before looking at me. “We’ll need to discuss a lot.”

I let out a dry laugh. “We won’t.”

Aléia’s mouth tightens. “Asher…”

“No.” I hold her gaze. “I won’t talk this shit with you in my house.”

Atlas whistles under his breath. “Damn.”

I cut him a look. “Shut up.”

Elea crosses the foyer, brushing past Aléia without touching her.

“We’re doing dinner on the rooftop,” she announces to no one in particular. “At sunset. I’m making my famous roast.”

I bet she is. I’m just wondering which of us she’s gonna cook first.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

IVY

For thirty minutes straight,Khloe yaps on about—I don’t even know at this point.

She paces with the spatula she grabbed mid-rant about Camille. Clearly, She’s protective of a brother who definitely doesn’t need protecting from anyone but himself.

I shouldn’t like her. She’s every conversation I’ve learned to dread, wrapped in designer clothes and a Victoria Secret smile. She’s inquisitive and quick-witted with good cheekbones.

I don’t say any of this out loud. I just watch as she continues on about the time Asher and Atlas crashed her first date. It’s strange, to hear these stories. I almost forgot that Asher was a simple man, and not a complication that I created.

“Anyway!” She releases a breath. “You look amazing.”

I catch my reflection in the mirror and almost laugh.

Cinched tight enough to make breathing a privilege, the black lace plunges low at the neckline with a sit that rides high up my thigh. It gives me straight Maleficent with a body count vibes. Khloe’s is the same, only red, looking all expensive and dramatic. On me, it gives death.

Which… fair.

My hair stays down, ironed flat along my back, since I’ve got no clue how to do anything else but drag a brush through it.

Twisting the lid back on a tube of lipstick, Khloe leans in and drags her thumb over the corner of my mouth to fix what I missed.

“There,” she says, pleased with herself. “Perfect. I can’t wait to see Asher’s face.”

I inspect her work. “Why?”