Page 58 of Gravehouse

I don’t answer. I said what I said and they can take it for what it is, or not.

Leon leans in again, slower this time. “Are you saying you’re choosing Asher? Over L’Abattoir?”

My fingers flex in my palm. “I’m saying I’m finishing something I started. Emeric would?—”

Jord leans back, dragging a hand down his face, cutting me off. “Nonna’s dead and you’re still thinking about him.”

My stomach flips. “Shewantsthis. She would always want this.”

Luce shifts, her hand brushing Jord’s knee once, a grounding touch. She looks at me again. “So what do you propose we do.”

I press my tongue to the top of my mouth.Psychological warfare. Corps de violence. Advanced manipulation. Emergency Protocols for Emotional Contamination.

Emeric’s voice slithers through the wires of my brain.Control, Ivanya. Control the narrative, control the room, control yourself.

I breathe in through my nose. “We secure the safehouse and make sure it’s clean. No tails. No cameras. No trackers. We set up Punk, and then I go back.”

“No.” Leon’s hand cuts flat through the air between us.

For years, Leon has been the one person whose opinion can move me. One sentence from him and I bend, adjust, obey, because he earned it.

Tonight, he’s just a person.

“Anyone who wants to come can.” I hold my spine straight against the seat, hands open on my knees. “And those who don’t—” I pause, letting him have the whole weight of my words. “—don’t.”

Hurt flashes over his face, but he’s too fast, forcing himself to hide it. He fails. I see it anyway, because he trained on me the same way I did on him.

Punk whistles low. “And what if Emeric says he doesn’t want you to continue this mission?”

I pause.

She pushes on. “Would you go against the very man you swear by?”

“I would tell him there’s too much left to uncover.” My lips curl beneath my teeth. “I would.”

I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince more. Them or me.

CHAPTER

TWELVE

IVY

I stare downat my phone, rereading my last five texts, all left on read. Emeric hasn’t returned a single one.

Not even when I signaled that Nonna was gone.

Pick up the fucking phone.

I type it out. Delete it. Type it again.

My thumb hovers over send when the car door flies open.

Atlas stands to the side, sweat damp on his skin. No doubt shirtless and post work-out.

I don’t look away from my phone. “Do you ever wear clothes?”

Closing out the text box, I finally turn to him. There it is. Gray sweats that hang off a six pack I’d seen far too often.