Page 61 of His Orders

“You touch her again,” I grind out, the words rasping from deep in my chest, “and I swear to God, I will not stop next time.”

He chokes on a half-laugh, blood smearing the corner of his mouth. “Big words, Cross. Real heroic.”

My fist clenches, teeth grinding. I want to do more. I want him to feel what she felt, even a sliver of the helplessness he wrapped around her for months, maybe years. But I don’t give him that power. I pull back just enough to let him breathe, let him stumble, let him remind himself that cowards always fall the hardest when cornered.

And Daniel Holt is nothing if not a coward.

He does not fight back when I step away. He doesn’t try to follow or strike when my back is turned. He simply leans against the car, licking his lips, wincing as he wipes the blood away with the back of his hand. Because that’s who he is. All pretense and manipulation, a man who plays God behind closed doors but folds like paper when the lights hit him too directly. His silence now is not fear of consequence but calculation. He believes he’s above retribution, that men like him don’t have to get their hands dirty. Not when they can let others bleed for them.

I don’t care what he’s planning next. Not right now. My eyes are already on Ivy.

She’s trembling where she stands, one hand pressed flat against the side of the car, her skin as pale as the streetlight haloingabove us. Her eyes meet mine, wide with disbelief, with relief, with something more complicated than either. I close the space between us quickly, gathering her face in my hands as I tilt her chin up, scanning for bruises, cuts, anything more than what I already saw.

“Did he hurt you?” My voice is low, but the tension in it is undeniable.

She shakes her head, but it’s a lie told gently. I can see it in the way her lips part, in the way her shoulders coil tighter. Not physically, maybe. Not yet. But he got too close. He reached her, touched her, pulled her back into that place where fear speaks louder than memory.

“I’m okay,” she whispers, but her voice trembles. I press a kiss to her forehead, then to the spot just below her ear, not for softness, not for romance, but because I need her to feel anchored, real, alive.

“You’re safe now,” I say, and I mean it.

She leans into me, hands curled into my jacket, and for a heartbeat the night stills.

That’s when the bastard speaks again.

Daniel’s voice cuts across the parking lot, slow and easy, like this is just another boardroom tactic, just another script he’s rehearsed in front of a mirror.

“You think this is over?” he says, his tone rasping but smug. He’s leaning against the car now, one leg slightly bent, still trying to look like he’s the one in control despite the blood on his teeth and the bruises starting to swell across his jaw. “You have no idea what you just did.”

I don’t answer. I don’t give him the satisfaction of my anger again. I keep Ivy close, turning slightly so she’s behind me, one arm still protectively around her waist.

Daniel laughs, low and broken. Then, as if this were his curtain call, he wipes his mouth and straightens just enough to let his final line cut where it will hurt most.

“You think she’s told you the truth, Ethan?” His voice is louder now, like he’s waiting for an audience to arrive. “You think she’s really yours when she’s been lying to you about who the baby daddy is all along?”

Ivy stiffens beside me. Her breath catches. My hand tightens against her waist, grounding her before she can spiral.

“If she really loved you, wouldn’t she let you know, you think?” he continues, as if he’s letting me in on a little secret between him and Ivy. “I mean… given how involved you could be if you knew, it’s such a shame…”

I don’t immediately look at him. Instead, I look at her. Because she matters more than anything he could say. Her eyes are wide again, but this time, it’s something else entirely—shame, hurt, fear of what I will do with the seed he just tried to plant between us.

But I know his type. Men like Daniel Holt don’t fight with fists. They fight with doubt. With insinuation. With shadows and slivers of truth twisted into weapons designed to isolate and control. And more often than not, they take the truth and use it like a weapon of destruction. I release my hold on Ivy. The distance between us shrinks to feet, then inches, the space thick with heat and silence. Daniel’s mouth is pulled tight, the bloodfrom his split lip now dry along the corner of his mouth, but his eyes glint with something close to victory.

I stop just short of him, letting the cold air slide between us, and I speak low enough that Ivy might not hear if she weren’t already holding her breath.

“What did you just say?”

He smiles like it costs him nothing, the lazy tilt of his mouth a final act of arrogance. “I said,” he repeats, slowly and deliberately, “you should ask her who the baby really belongs to.”

I turn my head slightly, not enough to take my eyes off him completely but enough to see her. Ivy. Standing there in the space between light and shadow, her arms crossed like she’s holding herself together by will alone. Her eyes are wide, her mouth parted. And I see it now—not just the fear or the grief or the guilt. I see the moment of hesitation that she cannot hide.

I step back from Daniel without another word. He watches me go, smug and satisfied, already retreating into the shadows where men like him like to lurk when the mess has been made and someone else is left to clean it up.

I cross the pavement back to her, and though my pace is controlled, my pulse is not.

She opens her mouth, maybe to explain, maybe to soften, but I stop her before she can speak.

23

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