Page 7 of His Orders

I don’t know how long I’ve been watching before she finally turns. Her eyes catch on mine, and there is a shift.

She doesn’t look away.

Neither do I, though it would be far wiser to break the moment, return to my drink, pretend that whatever just moved through my bloodstream wasn’t real. But Ivy? She knows exactly what she’s doing.

She smirks and lifts her glass in a silent challenge to me. My fingers tighten around the rim of my whiskey.

As far as I know, Ivy should still be overseas, halfway across the world, throwing herself into volunteer work, rebuilding houses, whatever excuse she found to keep moving. She should be anywhere but here, anywhere but this city, this bar, in front of me wearing that dress.

Ivy Dawson has spent years lingering at the edge of my awareness, always present, always watching, but never within reach. My best friend’s little sister. A line in the sand I’ve never had trouble keeping my distance from—except for the moments I let myself wonder what it would feel like if I didn’t.

Because tonight, she’s not on the periphery. Tonight, she’s standing right in front of me, in a low-cut dress, her mouth painted in dark red, looking like every goddamn sin I’ve spent my life avoiding. I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe in signs, in unavoidable paths, in destiny. But tonight?

Tonight, I don’t get a choice. So I stand and I close the space between us in measured, even strides, stopping just short of her barstool. She doesn’t look surprised.

“Dawson.” Her name leaves me evenly.

She tilts her head, those dark eyes gleaming. “Cross.”

Her lips curve, like she expected me to come to her. Like she knew, the second I saw her, that I’d have no choice.

She’s changed. That much is obvious. She was always quick, sharp-witted, but now there’s something harder beneath it. “You should be halfway across the world right now,” I say, studying her.

She leans back against the bar, crossing her legs. “And yet, here I am.”

I let my gaze sweep over her, taking in the curve of her bare shoulder, the way the dim light casts shadows against her skin. “Shame. Valleria was doing just fine without you.”

She laughs, the sound rich, unbothered. “Please. This city has been begging for me to come back.”

The smart move would beturn and walk away.

Instead, I settle onto the stool beside hers, waving down the bartender. “Whiskey. Neat.”

Ivy watches, tapping her nails lightly against the side of her glass. She’s waiting for me to say something else. Maybe give her a lecture about how she’s not supposed to be here, and if Drew caught sight of his little sister in a dress cut that high, he’d lose his mind. Especially when it clings like that, barely skimming over what no one else should be seeing. But the truth is I’m not thinking about Drew. I’m not thinking about the rules I’ve always followed.

I’m not thinking at all.

She exhales slowly, swirling the remnants of her drink, her gaze flicking to the room beyond me. I glance at the bartender as my drink is set down, then turn my attention back to her.

Her eyes are fixed on my face.

I raise a brow. “What?”

She shrugs, taking another sip. “I’m just trying to figure out whether you’re actually happy to see me or you’re just mentally drafting the speech you’re about to give.”

That pulls a low laugh from me. “You think I put that much effort into speeches?”

I notice it the moment her posture shifts—just barely, but enough. A man brushes too close as he moves past, and I see the flicker of unease in her expression, the slight stiffening of her shoulders. It’s subtle, something most people wouldn’t catch.

But I do.

Ivy is sharp edges now, her independence worn like armor. But there’s something else beneath it, something I wasn’t expecting. A tension that doesn’t belong.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the bar. “So. Are you going to tell me why you’re really back?”

She tilts her head, giving me a slow, mocking smile. “What makes you think there’s a reason?”

Because I know you.

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