Page 8 of His Orders

Because I see it—the way you keep checking the room, the way you roll your shoulders like you’re shaking something off.

But I don’t say that.

Instead, I let a small smirk pull at the corner of my mouth. “Because you’re you.”

She huffs a short laugh, but there’s something else behind it. A wall, built fast, set firm.

The thing about Ivy is, she’s good at pretending. Always has been.

But I spent years in medical school, years studying the minutiae of human expression, learning how to read what isn’t said.

And right now?

She’s saying a hell of a lot without speaking.

I don’t just want her.

I want to know what put that look in her eyes.

Cassie makes a noise beside her, something smug, something that saysshe sees exactly where this is going. She leans in toward Ivy, murmuring something too low for me to catch, then shoots me a knowing smirk before grabbing her clutch. “I’m calling it a night,” she announces, more to Ivy than to me, already slipping off her stool. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Ivy barely acknowledges her, just lifts her glass in a lazy farewell, her attention still locked on me. Cassie gives me one last glance—half amusement, half warning—before disappearing into the crowd.

And then it’s just the two of us.

Ivy leans in, close enough that I catch the scents of vanilla and smoke, softness wrapped in danger.

“You always did like control, Ethan,” she murmurs, lips curving like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “But I don’t think you’d know what to do with me now.”

She holds my gaze for a beat longer, then stands, finishing the last sip of her drink before setting the empty glass on the counter. She doesn’t have to say a word. The invitation is there, hanging in the air between us, as clear as a hand curling into a fist around my collar.

I don’t hesitate and push up from my stool, tossing a few bills onto the bar, and follow her out.

The night is cool, the air thick with city sounds—distant laughter, the low drone of engines idling at a red light, the uneven rhythm of footsteps against damp pavement. Ivy moves ahead of me, confident, unhurried, leading me down the sidewalk like she’s done this before. Like she knew from the moment she saw me that this was how the night would end.

It’d be sensible to let her disappear into the dark, tell myself this is a line I won’t cross, but I can’t bring myself to do that tonight.

Because this isn’t about right or wrong anymore. It’s about the way my pulse has been hammering in my throat since the second I saw her. It’s about the way she looked at me across the bar, like she knew exactly where this was going and dared me to stop it.

She doesn’t bother with a cab. I follow her through the winding streets, past elegant brownstones and ivy-covered gates, the hush of wealth settling over this part of town. But when she stops in front of a smaller guesthouse, tucked between two larger estates, I lift a brow. “Not staying with your family?”

She snorts, pulling out her keys. “I’d rather set myself on fire.”

Fair enough.

She unlocks the door, stepping inside without hesitation, and I do what I shouldn’t—I follow.

Inside, warmth settles around me, laced with a faint trace of something sweet—vanilla again, maybe, but softer. The lighting is low, shadows stretching long across the hardwood. A couch sits in the center of the living room, a well-worn throw draped over the back, books stacked haphazardly on a side table. It’s… cozy. Lived-in. Unexpected.

I shut the door behind me, watching as she toes off her shoes.

Ivy turns, tilting her head slightly, studying me with the same expectant, knowing gaze she’s always had. But this time, there’s nothing cautious about it.

I take a slow step forward.

“You sure about this?” My voice is strained with poorly restrained longing.

She exhales, stepping toward me, closing the space between us.

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