Page 184 of Salvatore

“He’s good people… for the most part.” Matthew steps forward and claps my shoulder in farewell. “Once this blows over, we’re going to sit down and have a chat about what actually went down between you and our parents.”

“Can’t wait,” I mutter.

“I want in on that conversation, too.” Abri approaches, surprising me with a hug that feels far too fucking sincere. “I’m sorry I lashed out yesterday. I’m glad you offed the bitch.”

I stiffen at the unexpected approval, my hand patting her back awkwardly. “Yeah… thanks.”

Olivia and Ivy murmur quiet farewells, their embrace long and painfully heartfelt as I pull away from my sister.

“I’ll call you.” Olivia squeezes Ivy’s hand. “Make sure you rest, okay?”

“She will.” I approach as my siblings walk for the hall. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Olivia stares down her nose at me. “You’d better.”

You’d better watch your fucking mou?—

Ivy’s hand finds mine, her fingers squeezing in a silent plea. I grind my teeth. Force a smile.

“Of course,” I grit out.

Ivy snorts, her restrained chuckle dancing down my spine. “I’ll be fine, Liv. He’s a teddy bear.”

Olivia rolls her eyes and mutters, “Teddy bear, my ass,” under her breath before walking toward a smirking Remy waiting at the archway to the hall.

Ivy’s still smiling when the front door clicks shut, her features softened, her gaze distant and fixed on the floor—lost in thought.

I can picture her just like this—head bowed, face lit with tender joy, smile infectious—only it’s our baby she beams down at. A tiny bundle of dark hair and dark eyes that mirror her perfectly.

“Have my child, Ivy.” The words slip free before I can temper them.

She snaps out of the trance, her startled gaze pinning me.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. All I get is shocked bewilderment and the faintest hitch of her breathing.

“Have my child,” I repeat, stepping closer, needing her to concede.

“I heard you the first time.” She shuffles backward. “I’m just trying to figure out how I can demonstrate your need to back off without relying on bodily harm.”

A smirk tugs at my lips, the hollow threat making my dick hard. “Consider the demonstration unnecessary.”

“I hope so.” She gives me an evil glower, then painstakingly shuffles from the room.

Time movesin fits and starts after that.

The days blend in a mix of calm and chaos, a rhythm I can’t seem to break even when I try.

The highs are there—the way her stare lingers on me when she thinks I don’t notice, and how mine does the same everytime she withdraws into her own thoughts. It’s in the brush of our fingers when I pass her a drink. The soft, begrudging gratitude when I make her a meal.

But the lows cut deeper.

I catch myself slipping, my patience fraying with how she keeps her plans for the pregnancy to herself.

I demand answers. She shuts me down with sharp words and sharper eyes.

Then nightfall comes and we slip into a wordless ritual—her body curling beside mine on the sofa, her warmth nestling close as we watch television, her silence a language I’ve come to understand as a cautious offering, one she only seems willing to give in the dark.

She lets me thread my fingers through her hair, never acknowledging the intimacy, not even when I follow her to bed, worship her with my hands, my mouth, my body, taking my time to unravel her until she falls asleep with my name on her lips.

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