Page 11 of Gravehouse

The door closes as I wait.

Moments later, there’s a soft knock before Sinead slips inside, the space suddenly too small for two people. They’re taller than me. Most people are. But they move carefully, aware of tight spaces and tighter situations.

“Turn around.”

My hands grip the corner of the counter as I turn my back to them.

Their fingers find the first clip. “I wish I could tell you that this is going to get better, but from what I hear, you can usually sniff out a lie better than most.”

The second clip releases. Air hits my spine.

“I guess."

“Ivy?” They tilt their head slightly.

I pivot into them. Tattoos decorate their skin, peeking up beneath their collar. Sharp features, soft lips. They’re attractive, and I wonder how they found the job they’re doing.

“Yeah?” I ask, sounding more confident than I feel.

They smile, but it doesn’t reach their eyes. “Hang in there.”

Sinead slips out, and I’m alone in the cubicle, my dress pooled at my feet.

I never wanted marriage. I never wanted love. Love was disposable and fragile, something that bent until it broke. But I always imagined my real wedding would be different, even if I couldn’t see myself marrying. I knew deep down that if that day came, where Ivanya Dubois was scribbled across a marriage certificate, the man would have to be an unstoppable force. Someone vicious enough to rip through every wall I spent years building, but gentle enough to touch the rawest parts of my fucked-up soul.

I guess in one way, that’s Asher. But in so many ways… it’s not.

I slip out of the door and find my seat, a row behind Asher and Sinead. I wish Atlas was here to break the ice.

Flipping open my phone, I swipe through the notifications and land on Instagram. I hesitate, my thumb hovering over his face. I never unfollowed him. I could never bring myself to.

Did he unfollow me?

The pettiness of even thinking that makes me want to check myself into emotional contamination rehab. I swipe back out of the app and reach into my bag to find my earpods.

Putting one in each ear, I tap on Spotify and shuffle on a playlist, resting my head against the window.

Asher is alive.

Any chance of me being remotely happy about this is squashed by the obvious. I fucking shot him.

My eyes land on him and my stomach drops, because he’s already looking. Seconds stretch and my chest pulls tighter with each one, a slow building pressure, but neither of us looks away.

Finally, I rip my eyes away from him and skip the song.

What the fuck have I gotten myself into.

CHAPTER

THREE

ASHER

I hadtwo options when I got out of Dovecrest, but only one ever stuck. Ivanya Dubois would fucking pay. All I had to do was not feel her.

We landed an hour ago, and I made it my mission to put as much distance between us as humanly possible.

Snow crunches under my board. I shift my weight, scrolling through photos I should have deleted months ago.