IVY’S POV
I find him again. Of course, I do.
He’s on the terrace, gripping the stone railing like he’s afraid he’ll leap off it if he lets go. The sky behind him is bruised with sunset—burnt orange and deep plum—but all I see is him.
Tall. Broad. Tense. Like he’s waiting for me and hating himself for it.
His back is to me, but I notice the glass in his hand. Scotch, always. Neat. His knuckles are white, jaw tight, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s trying to suffocate the tension under all that alpha control.
It’s so… him.
God, he doesn’t even have to look at me, and I’m already wet.
I pad out barefoot, letting the sound of my steps be soft. Deliberate. I don’t want to startle him—I want to unsettle him.
“Don’t you ever get tired of pretending, Alexander?” I ask, voice light
