Page 95 of Gravehouse

I chuckle when he bites my skin, shoving at his chest with everything I have until I roll onto my side.

He groans but lets it happen, landing on his back with his arm still trapped beneath me.

It gives me a direct, daylight view of the scar on his neck. The closer I look, the more I see. People don’t answer hard questions by being asked. Most times, you have to prod around the surrounding details before you can get to the center.

“How did you get out?”

He looks up at the ceiling. “Out of what.”

“You know what.” And sometimes, you have to tie them to a chair and torture it out of them. I’m not above that option.

He swallows. “It doesn’t matter.”

I push on. “It matters to me.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “It fucking shouldn’t.”

“What are you talking about?” I snap, failing to bury my annoyance. “You’ve always mattered to me.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Because how fucking dare I. I don’t get to say shit like that to a man I tried to kill. Or at least, he thought I tried to kill.

“Venom.” He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard into his eyes. “Leave it alone.”

Is he insane? I can’t let this go. There are a hundred questions I haven’t even begun to ask because I’ve been marinating in my guilt over what I did.

“I can’t.”

His jaw tenses, and the part I love most about him disappears under my questions.

“You’re gonna need to.”

Fine. We tried the codex way. New plan.

“The scar. On your throat.”

Nothing.

Every muscle in my body pulls tight. “Who’s Dovecrest? What Elea said at dinner?”

He shoves himself upright, the sheets pooling at his waist. “I ain’t doing this with you right now, Ivy. Give up.”

Heat prickles over my scalp.

“What happened after, Asher?” I push up off the pillow. “How did you get out of the house? People don’t just resurface with a scar on their throat?—“

“Ivy.” One simple word and my mouth snaps closed.

He pulls on his sweats and I plant myself in place instead of getting lost in how hot my scratch marks look over his back. “I’m not doing this.”

“Then what are we doing?” I ask, and ugh! I hate that. I hate I asked it. “Because every time I think hey, we’re making sense, some shit comes in and reminds me why I can’t have the one fucking thing I’ve ever wanted!”

“Don’t.” He turns, and there it is. That cold, detached look I’ve despised since he’s been back. “Don’t make me answer shit I can’t.”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

Neither of us moves.