My blood turns to fire.
My grip tightens on the phone. “If you touch her, I’ll rip out your spine and mount it on my wall.”
Ezra snorts. “Relax, brother. She’s unharmed. Impressive, though. Not many people can talk me down. Most people just bleed. Besides, I’ve got the blonde tornado to deal with, remember?”
He says it like a compliment. Like he’spraisingIvy.
I’m already walking—through the hall, to the bedroom, yanking open the closet. Ivy’s towel hangs in the bathroom. I hear her humming. Oblivious to the sociopathic murder spree she’s almost inspired.
“Relax, Roman. Like I said, I need your help. Are you coming?”
“I’m bringing her with me,” I say, flat.
“To help fix my love life?” Ezra chuckles. “Adorable. Bring flowers.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You never are.” A pause. “See you soon.”
He hangs up.
I stand there for a moment, phone still in my hand, the quiet hum of Ivy’s voice like a thread tethering me to sanity.
Ezra thinks it’s funny.
But I know him. Iknowwhat he is because we’re the same. Two sides to the same murderous coin.
And if Ivy got under his skin even a little, it means she’s not safe.
Not from him.
Not from me.
She’s coming with me.
I’ll keep her close, where I can see her.
Where no one else ever gets the chance to get close to her.
By the time I slip the small black box I bought the first time I saw her in that coffee shop into my pocket, my mind is made up.
If Ezra even breathes near her in the wrong way, I’ll put a bullet in his head.
But I’m not about to rush her out of the bath, and Ezra should spend some time thinking about the mistake he made in talking to my Ivy.
It’s at least two hours before I finally manage to force myself to leave, carefully navigating Ivy through the mess I made of the house.
Once I get her seated in the front seat of the car, I shoot a text to Asher.
Roman: House is trashed. I’m taking her to the penthouse in the city. Make arrangements.
Asher: Done.
Ezra’s building is an old converted bank, all glass and stone—cold, brutal, unapologetically rich. I hate it. I hate that Ivy’s going to see it. But it was either this or let her out of my sight again, and that’s not happening. Not after this morning.
She sits beside me in the car, quiet but watchful. She hasn’t asked where we’re going. She hasn’t askedanything. Her fingers rest on her thigh, close enough for me to reach out and grasp, and I ache with the need to close the space between us.
“Where are we going?” she asks finally, voice soft and steady.
