Page 148 of Gravehouse

IVY

Veilarath stretches on forever,and I spend every minute of the drive with my forehead pressed to freezing glass.

Nobody talks as Khloe drives. Everyone breaths carefully, like I'm a fragile ticking time bomb.

Asher’s thigh brushes mine.

I refuse to look at him.

Every lesson Emeric drilled into me is connecting more and more, and I grip my knees as his design becomes clear.

I fucking hate that some part of me always knew. The maps never matched, and Désamour smelled of pine and cold stone instead of the French countryside.

“Ivy.” Asher hasn’t let anyone stitch him up yet. Whatever’s lodged in his side is still in there, keeping his blood where it belongs. “Baby, say something.”

My jaw locks.

“Anything. Scream at me. Call me a piece of shit. Put another bullet in me—I don’t give a fuck. Just?—“

“You’re le parrain of the French Mob.” I blink. “You’re Le Boucher Sans Loi, a ruthless killer who chops people into pieces.”

Silence fills the car.

“Not people. Fucking enemies, Ivy. And Le Boucher was a means to an end so that we can regain control of an organization that completely lost its way.”

My eyes snap to him. “And who created him? Le Boucher?”

Asher stares right through me. “You did. You started it, my grandfather trained it, and I fuckingfinishedit.”

I’ve got nothing else to give him but silence.

“I created a monster.” My throat swells.

“Thatmonsteris your fucking pet, Ivy, and you fucking know it.” He leans forward, wincing when the movement pulls at his wound. “I knew what would happen if I told you.”

“I don’t care what you knew.” I turn back to the window. “I care that you didn’t tell me.”

I wish he’d fight me. Push me further. Atleast then, I’d have something to sharpen my rage on. Instead he takes every word I throw at him.

Khloe guides the car up a long private road, and I freeze.

Désamour.

Stone walls rise around the courtyard, their cracks threaded with wilted ivy. The fountain sits at the center, sealed beneath a thick skin of ice, every carved figure caught mid-pour.

No warmth resides inside. Because Nonna is dead and never coming back, and without her this home is just a house.

The engine cuts.

Khloe shoves her door open first, and winter pours in, stinging my eyes. The others spill out after her, Punk, Atlas, Luce, and Leon, their boots crunching toward the house while I stare through the windshield.

Asher doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

“You coming in?” He asks, fully prepared and not caring about whatever I throw at him.

“No.”