Page 36 of Gravehouse

Dragging my tongue up her throat, I regret it the instant her taste hits me, and I ain’t talking about just her skin.

“And your body’s begging for me anyway.”

She writhes beneath me, though I can’t tell if she’s fighting my hold or grinding into it, so I shift an inch anyway, forcing her to chase it.

“It’s fucking foreplay to you,” I murmur against her jaw.

She starts to sit up, drawing two deep breaths as though weighing her next move. Before she can do some crazy shit likekiss me, I press my thumb into the hollow of her throat, holding her there.

“Say it.” I keep my gaze fixed on hers. “Tell me you want me.”

Her eyelids droop, her mouth twisting. “Fuck you.”

I laugh, releasing her throat and pushing off the bed, leaving her flushed and panting.

Backing up, I tilt my head. “Camille screamed my name when she came.”

My lip twitches. “Three times.”

I don’t look back. If I do, I’ll fucking drown in her.

“Sweet dreams, Venom.”

I make my way down the hall, ignoring every fucking idiot that’s doing a mad dash for the front door. She wanted my attention? She fucking got it. Now I want nothing more than to rip hers from her too.

As soon as I’m locked in my office, I let out a deep breath. Fuck. I probably deserved it. No, I definitely deserved it. The Camille show was uncalled for and not exactly my style, but I know it’s what she expects of me. It’s what she’d expect someone my age to do after being hurt by the one person he never expected to hurt him. So I gave it to her on a silver platter. But her retaliation wasn’t expected. Ivy’s always been too unbothered to be messy.

I drag my hand over my cheek. I’m gonna kill Atlas. Bury his ass right beside dad just to piss him off.

Tapping the monitor, I watch her storm down the hall and disappear through her bedroom.

I snicker, grabbing the discarded hoodie at my side and forcing it over my head. Instagram notifications flood my phone, all variations of the same question.

When are you hitting the slopes, Asher?

When’s the next run?

When when when.

Fucking never.

I thumb through them anyway, letting the mindless scroll flatten the jagged edges still rattling around my skull. Some fourteen-year-old from Germany tagged me in a video of a backside double cork, captioned “thoughts?” My thoughts are that I want to put my fist through something until I feel bones crack and the rage stops fucking vibrating.

Movement flashes on the monitor.

Ivy’s bathroom. The mirror above the sink is a spiderweb of fractured glass, despite her efforts to clean up the mess.

My phone slips and hits the desk with a thud.

I lean forward and tap the screen twice to zoom, then hit rewind. The footage stutters backward, light reversing through the window of today. Then I find it. Her fist connecting with the mirror.

The angle’s shit but I can see enough. Her shoulders shaking, one hand braced on the counter while the other swings, glass exploding outward, her reflection splintering into a hundred broken versions of herself.

How fucking accurate that image is…

I check the time stamp. Right after she walked in on me and Camille.

I sit back, my hand finding the drawer without looking and pulling out the pre-rolled joint and lighter. Flame catches the tip. I drag in deep and hold it until my lungs burn, then slowly release, watching the smoke curl in lazy rings.