Love you, too. Mindlessly, I click through several more screens. Unbelievable.
Was she lying when she said she didn’t have a boyfriend? Or is she back with that numbnuts at the assisted living facility? “Derrick,” I say, disgusted. From what I’ve been able to piece together, the entire time he and Ivy dated, he’s been with no less than three other women and is about to drive his personal finances into bankruptcy. “What the fuck does she see in this guy?”
Knock-knock-knock.
I check the clock. Midnight. The light tapping at the door has me to my feet in an instant. Trinity?
I throw on my sweats but forgo the shirt when the knocks grow louder. As soon as I crack open the door, I regret it.
“Can we talk?” Ivy asks. I immediately notice she’s in a flannel pajama top and boy shorts with her hair dripping wet from the shower. Coming here wasn’t planned. Something’s wrong.
“What is it? Is it Trinity?”
“No, I just . . . ” She bites her lower lip. “I think we should talk.”
This is a bad idea. An idiotically bad idea. But the second she says please, my brain misfires. I open the door wider. “Come in.”
Slowly, she makes her way into the room. Much like Trinity did, she takes in every photograph and book. Her fingers brush the pillow with Noble’s image stitched across it. “It’s beautiful,” she says.
“Trini made it.”
Her nod is slight and sad. She notices my laptop. Images from her past. A chronology of her life. All of it at my fingertips. I watch as she takes a good long look before turning those big brown eyes to me.
We stare at each other for a long moment. “What do you want?” I ask, breaking the silence.
Her words stammer. “I wanted to . . . to thank you. For hiring me. I know you didn’t want to,” she says, twisting her lips with a sad smile. “Why did you do it?”
Why? Because I’m an idiot who thinks I can have my cake and eat it, too. Because I haven’t learned my lesson—when I’m distracted, bad things happen to people I care about.
Because I care about you. Because I want more. Because I want. You.
Instead of saying any of that, I step into her space. “It doesn’t matter. You should go.”
Her nod is slight as she returns the pillow where she got it and heads toward the door, stopping just shy of it. “I wasn’t talking to a guy earlier,” she explains, turning to face me. “When I said, ‘Love you, too,’ I was talking to my aunt.”
“Your aunt?” I ask, realizing I’ve caught Ivy in a lie so sloppy, it’s pathetic. I close in on her.
“Mm-hmm,” she says, taking two steps back as I move even closer, caging her against the wall. “What are you doing, Leo?” she asks, a question in her eyes.
I keep my rage to a low simmer, wrapping a gentle hand around her neck. The wild thump of her pulse grows. I huff. “I’m disappointed, Ivy. I thought you’d be better at this.”
She shakes her head. “Better at what?”
“Lying,” I seethe. Her eyes widen, fear behind them. Clearly, she has no idea who I am or what I do. “I know everything about you.”
“You do?”
Mentally, I flip through the facts. Mother: Samara Palmer. An only child. Drunk and strung out, and once actually tried to sell Ivy for a fix. A fact that makes me sick to my stomach and one that the sheriff’s office tried to hide, but I found it. Along with a dozen other horrifying things no child should endure.
And where was her father in all this? As far as I can tell, the man is a ghost. Non-existent to the point that on Ivy’s birth certificate, the space where her father’s name should be was deliberately blank. She has no family. And she sure as hell has no aunt.
I should do it. Slice her with every unpleasant part of her past. I can deal with almost anything. But lies? Lies have consequences. I am the consequence. It would be so easy to do it. Hurt her. Scare her. Chase her far away from here. Away from me.
Why have I stopped?
Her palms are warm against my chest, up my neck. On my jaw. “Leo?”
Rage fires through me. I yank her wrists over her head, hard against the wall. “Stop lying. You come here dripping wet from the shower. At midnight. To tell me thank you? That the conversation I heard with my own ears was with some aunt?”
“It was,” she whispers as her chest raises and lowers faster. Her feeble attempt to wriggle away fades as she gives up. “Do it,” she says. Her small body begins to tremble despite her defiance.
My interest is piqued. She can’t begin to imagine what I have in store when she lies. “Do what?” I tighten my grip around her wrists. She winces, the small whimper giving me a taste of her fear. Her pain. Impatient, I snap. “Do what?”
A tear fights free. “Hurt me. Punish me for staying. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
I nod. “And for lying.”
“I haven’t lied. I came here to tell you—”
“I already know.”
Surprise fills her expression. “You do?”
I nod. “You don’t have an aunt.”
“What?” Her face twists. “Yes, I do,” she pleads, trying to reason with me.
“I don’t believe you.” I release her, disgusted. I open the door. “Go.”
Stupid and stubborn, she shuts it. “No. I’m not leaving. Not until you believe me so we can discuss—”
“Fine,” I cut her off, over with this conversation. She has no idea how easy it is for me to shut off my soul. “Turn around.”
"Why?”
“You want me to believe you? Then let me show you how I uncover the truth. It’s not too late to leave.”
She doesn’t run like she should. She does what she’s told. She turns around, hugging the wall. My hand lands on her ass, angry and hard. “Who were you on the phone with?”
“My aunt,” she insists so innocently, it must be practiced.
I grip her hair, fisting her damp ink-black waves until she yelps. “I’m just getting started. The door’s right there.” I don’t wait for her answer before laying down another hard smack.
Again, she takes it.
The more my fury builds, the calmer my tone. “Stop lying about an aunt. Tell me who he is.” Adrenaline pumps hard through my veins as I accept my role. All I need is a name. One name. Whoever he is, I’ll punish him, too. My hand cracks her ass so hard, it throws her into the wall.
Sobs starts. I expect her to confess. To beg me to stop. To break.
Instead, she stays with her story. “Leo, please. She is my aunt.”
Unfeeling, I lean to her ear. It’s there. That scent. Her. And I shut it down. “Your lies have earned this, Ivy. Remember that.”
If she didn’t know who I was before, she will soon enough.
This time I consider the strike. It’s one I know will hurt—leave a bruise. It’s what she deserves as she spews more lies.
“She’s mine as much as I’m hers,” Ivy cries, and I drown her out. “As much as she’s Brooke’s. I love her. And she loves me.” She sobs. She’s strong. Stubborn.
I’m ready with a punishing blow when I freeze. An image comes to me. Red hair. Green eyes. Her friend, Brooke. Everly. Sheriff Everly’s daughter. The same sheriff that tried to seal her mother’s records. The one with the sister—Grace.
Grace Everly. Aunt Grace.
I stare at my arm, mid-swing. What am I doing? What have I done?
Stunned, I release my grip and strain to lower my hand. In a detached state, I stare. Slowly, Ivy turns in place. Harmed because of me. Crying because of me.
Red and weepy, her eyes search mine. In warning, I growl. “You have to leave. Now.”
Softly, her hands stroke my jaw. The gentleness is undeserved.
“Do you believe me?” she asks, her breath shaky.
I’m empty. Devoid of any connection. “What does it matter?”
“Because I need you to believe me, no matter what I tell you.” More tears stream down her cheeks. “I need you, Leo. Need this. Do you believe me?”
I nod, swiping the wetness from her cheek. Frowning, my forehead falls into hers. “Do you understand now? Why you should keep your distance? Why you should go?”
She shivers. “I’m not leaving. Not like this.” Her kiss meets my lips.
Why hasn’t she left? Her kiss was soft and feeling. Mine is rough and fevered. Controlling. Possessive. When she whimpers, I grapple for control. “I won’t be gentle. I can’t.”
“Then show me who you are, Leo,” she whispers to my mouth.
Her fingers trail lightly down my abs until her nails slice beneath the hem of my sweats. And I know. She doesn’t want gentle or sweet. She wants me just like this. Tortured. Pained. Angry at everything that’s gone wrong in my life, and angrier still that she’s here in Chicago . . . in a dangerous space where, despite my confidence and arrogance, only time will tell if I have the fortitude to do what I need to do. Protect the D’Angelos while keeping her safe.
My training says to send her away, but my instincts are stronger. Feral.
I peel away her clothes and slide a finger between her legs. She parts them. I’ve barely touched her, and she shivers, soaked and moving her body in an eager rhythm against my hand.
“Is this what you want?” I ask low.
Ivy’s voice comes out on a ragged plea. “Please.”
The more she chases her desperate need against my fingers, the longer I tease her orgasm, dangling its promise just out of reach until I whip my hand from her thighs. Her whimper drives a wedge between my sanity and self-control.
I line up the head of my cock at her hot entrance, a move that makes me sure I’m seconds from ramming the gates of both heaven and hell—like Ivy holds the keys to my damnation and my salvation all at once.
Uncontrolled, I push inside with one forceful thrust, driving all my anger and pain into her in the worst possible way, showing her that I’m a monster. One she needs to walk away from.
Her cry is soft, but it’s enough to wake the madman from his trance.
Ivy.
I need this. Her. The tight grip I have on her hips unlocks, but before I pull out completely, she runs her hands up my thighs, and this time, she’s the one taking me.
It’s her turn to thrust. To take this lust between us to blazing fire so carnal and raw that nothing exists but the feel of her heat and the scent of her body and my desperate need for her.
I can’t think or speak or stop. In the space of her thrusts and mine, I simply am. And as soon as the rush of her climax explodes, I come with such force, it takes all my strength to keep from crushing her against the wall.
All I can do is hold her up. Hold her close. Hold her tight.
Because the thought of letting her go finishes me.