Page 29 of Poisoning Ivy
I know, somewhere in the back of my head, that what they did to me was so fucking wrong. I know, in the back of my head, that the fact that I don't hate them for it is so fucking wrong. And I know in the back of my head that I crave their presence so muchI'd let them light me on fire and talk about what a pretty candle I make.
I also know that I can never let them know that, because if they figure out that I am so fucking starved for the smallest bit of affection that I'll let them do practically anything to me, they won't bother stopping until they destroy me. So, I do what I've learned to do from the first time my father's knuckles caught me in the stomach and my mother made no move to reprimand him. I do what I've done since my mother grabbed me by the hair and threw me down the steps here. I do what I've done ever since I met Killian's mom, with her soft smile and pretty eyes, and pretend that everything is fine.
In private, I let myself fall apart. In the moment, I let myself feel the pain. But when the moment passes and I'm alone, I let myself feel it again, knowing that I can control it. And the next time I face whoever hurt me, I pretend like it's been forgotten, carefully stowed away in a place where no one can ever try to taint the memory with apologies they don't mean.
He looks so sad that I want to cut him, too, just to see something else fill his eyes.
"You can go. I'm fine."
"I'm not going anywhere." He shakes his head, stepping closer to me and eliminating the space between us.
“My parents…” I know they’re not going to randomly come check on me. But just having him in the same home as my father feels like inviting trouble, and not the kind that the Reapers bring me.
He's taller than I realized, lean but with muscle under his delicate skin, which is smooth and unmarred. His proximity makes my throat feel thick and dry, and the look in his eye shifts to something decidedly less sad as he tucks a strand of my red hair behind my ear.
I don’t know if he didn’t hear me or if he just chose to ignore me. "Does it hurt?"
I'm not really sure what he's referring to—the pain on my ass or the thinly clotted wound on my arm or the fact that he's so close and everything in me wants to tuck myself into his side, to feel him wrapped around me as I steal some of his strength.
"No." I whisper, feeling my own breath dance on my lips as his settle just over mine, not touching but close enough that I can feel his breath skate over them too. It smells like mint and beer, a combination that has no business being as intoxicating as it is. It's like he drank a lot and then tried to cover up the beer breath with copious mints. I wonder if he was with Killian and Theo, if he left them to come here to see me.
His fingertips land on my thigh, on the edge of my nightgown, but I don't dare look away from him to see what he's doing. I couldn't even if I tried.
It’s like we’re playing chicken again, only this time it’s just him and me, daring each other to be the one to tap out.
His touch ghosts over my skin at first, like he hasn't committed to the idea of touching me, and then a featherlight brush of his knuckle grazes the hem of my nightgown and slips around to my backside. I can't help my eyes fluttering closed as the tips of his fingers coast along the back of my thigh, so close to where my skin is still on fire with their assault.
"Turn around." He whispers.
I'm not sure if I hear the words or feel them, but I obey either way, tearing myself from him just enough to turn around so that my motion drags his touch across the back of my leg, his fingers following. I don't object when his other hand grabs the hem of my robe and nightgown, lifting them higher to see what they left me with. I hear the catch of his breath when he realizes I'm not wearing panties. I couldn't exactly slip them on over my bloody ass and let them dry against my skin.
"Ivy."
There are so many things in his voice, in the simple two syllables of my name, but I don't contemplate them as his touch grazes against the unmarred side of my ass first, and then his attention settles to the wound on the other side. I flinch when his finger lands on top of one of the letters, but it's the daintiest touch, gentle and free of malice.
As he traces Killian's name, I actually shiver—a shiver that deepens when his lips press against the base of my spine.
For a minute, I think he may trace the letters with his tongue, the way Killian did yesterday, but then he straightens up, drops the fabric back down to cover me and my tingling pussy, and guides me to the bed with his hand in mine.
I think he's going to undress me to make his move, but he never does. He guides me to lay on my side in the center of my bed and then cocoons his body beside mine, face to face, breath to breath. I think his lips will fall upon mine, but they never do.
I fall asleep with his heart beating against mine… and wake to my father pounding on my bedroom door.
Chapter seventeen
Ivy
Age Nineteen
I've dreamed all year of coming back here, and now that I'm here, I'm terrified and sick, my stomach twisting at the thought of seeing them again. The last time I saw Monty, he was slipping out my bedroom window without so much as a backward glance while my dad tried to beat the door down from the other side. I thought about writing to him this time. I know his address, obviously, but I threw away every letter I tried to pen, feeling dumber and dumber with every page I ripped from the notebook.
I won't go out of my way to find them, but as I step out onto the road, I know they'll find me. They always do.
It's the first time I've been out of the house all summer after spending the past week in the cellar, curled into a ball to try and fight off the chill trying to slip past my naked flesh and sink into my bones. I breathe in the fresh air, glad to be rid of the musty scent of whatever mold is growing on the damp walls of my family cabin, and set off down the hill to the creek. It's technically private property, an outlet from the lake down the road, but the owners have never particularly cared about peoplecooling off in it. I also happen to know they're spending the summer in the city, visiting their daughter, so I won't draw any unnecessary attention by going for a swim.
It's quiet on the mountain, a sleepy summer evening melting into a dusky night as I walk down the gravel, my sandals slipping against the rocks that have fallen loose from the hillsides. The stars look close tonight, like the world is closing in around me despite feeling freer than I have since last summer.
When I spot the little blue car hanging in the trees, I approach it, letting my toes creep over the edge of the road. The door fell off entirely at some point, carried away by rust and gravity, and it allows me to see the interior of the car, dark blood mixing with dirt on the passenger side window—the only one in the entire car that hasn't been shattered yet. It seems like some kind of bad joke that it's all that remains of the carnage, as if the absolutely brutal death of the woman in that car meant nothing. I know it didn't because that's just the way of the world.
