The Shape of Silence

Chapter Eleven: Ivy

A sharp buzz tore through the fog of sleep like a sudden scrape on a chalkboard. Ivy groaned, flailing her hand across the cluttered nightstand until her fingers closed around the vibrating phone. The screen flared to life—Rowan Cavell. Her heart clenched in a rapid thud, a surge of adrenaline snapping her fully awake.

“Oh s**t,” she whispered, jerking upright as the slow haze of sleep started to clear.

The time blinked back at her: 7:51 AM.

She’d meant to be up over an hour ago. She’d shut off the alarm in a haze of restless, half-remembered dreams, Jacob’s watchful eyes trailing her like smoke through the edges of her mind. Arden had been growling softly all night—tensed, alert, unsettled. Ivy hadn’t slept well. Not at all. And she sure as hell hadn’t planned on oversleeping on the morning she was supposed to be seeing Rowan.

Her thumb jabbed the green call button, and she pressed the phone tightly against her ear, wincing at the rough scrape of her dry throat.

“Hi, sorry! I—I’m awake, I swear. I’ll be down in a minute.”

A brief pause filled the line, then a low, amused chuckle.

“Ivy,” Rowan’s voice came warm and slow, like thick honey sliding down cold glass, “you sound like you just woke up.”

“I did not!” she shot back, tossing the blanket aside and scrambling out of bed, her bare feet cold against the wood floor. “Well, I did, but just barely.”

“I’m outside,” he said, laughter threading through his words.

She cursed under her breath and hung up, snatching the first half-clean clothes she could find—faded jeans softened by too many washes, a fitted black T-shirt with a tiny tear near the collar—and yanked them on. Her hair was a wild bird’s nest of knots and frizz. Without a second thought, she shoved it into a messy bun on top of her head and brushed her teeth, not even bothering to glance at the mirror. Mascara? Lip balm? What were those?

Arden mused sharply in the back of her mind. You look like you survived a tornado.

She shoved her phone in her pocket with her ID and debit card and grabbed her keys, stumbling out the door.

The old staircase groaned as she hurried down, her foot catching for half a second on a worn step. She grabbed the railing, steadying herself before she could trip, her heart skipping faster than her steps.

By the time she reached the bottom, her cheeks burned hot, though she forced herself to keep going, a blur of messy hair and rushed urgency.

The early morning light wrapped everything in a soft, golden haze. The sky was the pale promise of sunrise, stretching slowly from blue to gold. Parked at the curb was a sleek black car, its surface catching the light like liquid night.

Rowan stood outside the car, leaning casually against the driver’s side, arms crossed, a lazy grin spreading across his face the moment he spotted her clumsy approach.

“You okay there?” he asked, eyebrow arching with concern. “Looked like a near-death experience.”

She blew a stray lock of hair from her face and scowled. “I’m as graceful as a drunk giraffe. Don’t mock me.”

He grinned wider, eyes sparkling with warmth and mischief. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

With a little flourish and a smirk, Rowan opened the passenger door. “M’lady.”

She rolled her eyes but bit back a smile as she slid into the seat. “Charming.”

The door clicked softly shut behind her. Rowan circled the sleek hood with effortless grace before sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine purred to life—smooth, quiet, like a contented beast waking from slumber.

They eased onto the road. Early-morning traffic was light, the city waking lazily around them. Ivy sank back into the seat, eyes half-lidded, watching the world drift past in a soft blur. Sunlight dusted the tops of buildings, scattering gold flakes across glass and steel.

And then she noticed it.

Him.

Rowan smelled… good. Not in some sharp, synthetic way—no overpowering cologne or cheap aftershave. His scent was warm and real, earthy and grounded. Like rain-soaked earth basking in sunlight, a whisper of salt on a breeze, and a faint, mysterious trace of clove that curled around her senses before she could shut it out.

It was comforting and distracting. A slow, insistent tug in her chest.

Her stomach fluttered. A nervous, unpredictable dance of butterflies.

Oh no.

Mates smell good, Arden said smugly, her voice a teasing whisper inside Ivy’s mind. It’s chemical. Biological. Deep instinct. Doesn’t mean you have to act on it, but you’re not going to stop noticing. Especially not this close to him.

Great. Just what she needed.

She folded her hands tightly in her lap, willing the sudden heat that crept up her neck to vanish, though the warmth burned like fire beneath her skin. She could see his knuckles flex against the steering wheel and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Perhaps she was affecting him as much as he was affecting her.

“So…” she said, a little too casually, “how’s your week been?”

Rowan glanced at her, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Busy. Work stuff. Meetings. Family things.”

“Is Callum still… grumpy?”

The words slipped out before she could catch them. She winced, regretting the way it slipped out. She didn’t want to dredge up trouble.

Rowan snorted. “You mean is Callum still Callum? Yeah. Perpetually.”

Ivy let out a small, shaky laugh and sank lower in her seat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Rowan interrupted gently. “You’re allowed to ask about us. Either of us.”

Arden grumbled. I’m surprised you brought him up.

I was making conversation, she shot back silently.

Sure you were.

Rowan, to his credit, kept his voice easy, patient. “He’s… protective. Sometimes too much. He doesn’t always know how to dial it down.”

Ivy didn’t answer. She just stared out the window, watching the morning spill across storefronts, lampposts, and empty bus stops. Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It felt… safe. Quiet in a way that didn’t require her to fill it.

And still, beneath it all, Rowan’s scent tugged at her like a thread, steady and grounding.

“Were you both raised in a pack?” Ivy asked, eyes following the blur of brick storefronts and glass towers outside the window. The word still felt strange on her tongue—pack—foreign and heavy with implications she didn’t fully understand

Rowan didn’t respond right away. She turned just in time to see the flicker of happiness in his features—subtle, but unmistakable. His scent warmed.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “We were. We still have the family house, actually. It’s not as chaotic now as it used to be—our parents retired to the islands in the south a few years ago, and our siblings are scattered everywhere.”

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “I don’t think there’s a country that isn’t cursed with at least one of them. Well… okay that’s an exaggeration, maybe not all of them. There’s only nine of us.”

“Nine?” Ivy’s head whipped toward him. “That must’ve been a full house.”

“Oh, it was.” Rowan laughed, glancing at her as the car rolled to a stop at a red light. “You’ve never heard noise until you’ve tried to eat breakfast with six brothers, including me, three sisters, and two parents trying to keep it all from collapsing. Absolute chaos. Every. Single. Morning.”

A grin tugged at Ivy’s mouth before she could stop it. “Sounds… crowded.”

“It wasn’t too bad,” he smiled, then added with a sly gleam in his eye. “It’s the house where the party was held. The one you, uh… stumbled into.”

Heat rushed to Ivy’s cheeks. “I was- I mean- I just—” She flailed for words. “How do you know someone didn’t invite me?”

Rowan laughed, full and genuine, the sound warm and easy. “Hey, no judgment. You were brave. We usually have pretty tight security for those events. But I guess James could smell you were a werewolf too, so he let you pass.” He gave her a teasing smile, eyes flickering with amusement. “Humans aren’t allowed at mating-searching parties.”

Ivy smirked despite herself. “I guess it worked in my favor.”

Rowan’s smile didn’t falter. “Yeah, for all of us. But next time you can just come in and help yourself to the fridge, instead of grazing the buffet bar.”

“So… that house,” Ivy said after a beat, voice softer now, cautious. “That’s your family home?”

“Yep. All stone and glass and way too many staircases. We renovated it about fifteen years ago, but the bones are original. Generations have lived there.”

The idea settled heavy in Ivy’s chest, a strange mix of fascination and something unnamed.

Generations.

A pack. A family. A home that spanned time.

Her parents had talked once about owning a cabin in the mountains. About acres and acres to run on, where Ivy and her siblings could just have fun. They’d even started making plans, but never made it as far as the realtor.

Now, Ivy barely had a home. No family. No stable future. Just memories stained with blood and stretched thin by silence.

Don’t spiral, Arden whispered gently in her mind. Distract yourself. Find something grounding. Something to smell, to hear… whatever that doctor told you to do.

I’m not, Ivy lied.

Rowan glanced over, his expression softer, more serious. “Sorry. That probably sounds like a lot.”

“No, it’s okay,” she said quickly, forcing a small smile. “It’s… nice, actually. Just different. I want to hear about you.” She was mildly surprised to hear truth in her tone, but it was true, she found herself leaning against the door to smell Rowan’s scent stronger without having to lean into him. She did want to learn about him. About them.

The light turned green, and the car rolled forward, the city easing into a quieter stretch of morning.

“I’ve only ever had me,” Ivy offered.

And me, Arden said firmly.

"And then eventually Arden.”

Rowan didn’t push. He just nodded and gave her a gentle smile, his hand drumming softly on the wheel. The silence stretched between them again, lasting a couple more stop lights before it was broken again.

“How often do you get weekends off working in the customer service world?” Rowan asked, voice casual but threaded with genuine curiosity. “From what I remember of those jobs when we were younger, it takes hell and high water to get that kind of break.”

Ivy snorted, a real smile tugging at her lips. “I request yesterday and today off every year. This year it just happened that both days were on a weekend. And if Chuck schedules me anyway, I just call out.”

She felt his gaze flick toward her, curiosity simmering behind his silence—Why these dates? She didn’t want to give him the chance to ask. She didn’t want to give him the chance to ask. If he did, it might shatter something she’d spent years carefully burying beneath layers of stoicism and controlled detachment. Her chest tightened preemptively, the familiar warning of her defenses rising—the walls she’d built brick by brick to keep the world from seeing her break.

Her mind scrambled to steady itself, the surge of memories threatening to flood in like a dam under pressure. But she learned long ago to bury those feelings deep—fold them away in the quiet corners of her mind, hidden beneath routines and distractions. Not today, she told herself.

“This is the day my parents died,” she said abruptly, her voice steady, almost clinical. “I usually take the day before and day of to reflect. Or do something fun. Try not to dwell on what happened.”

The air in the car shifted, heavy and palpable, as if gravity itself had doubled its pull. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward—it was charged, thick with unspoken grief and respect. The weight settled like a stone pressing against her ribs, making each breath feel measured and deliberate.

Rowan’s voice came soft and sincere after a pause. “I know ‘sorry’ doesn’t begin to scratch the surface, but I am very sorry for your loss.”

Ivy didn’t respond right away. She watched the city blur past her window, colors too bright, shapes too ordinary. Inside, the memories sat like a cold, immovable stone lodged at the base of her throat, constricting her voice and shaking her resolve. She swallowed hard, willing herself to stay composed, to not let the fragile wall crumble. Not here. Not now.

You don’t have to say anything, Arden murmured. Not to him. Not to anyone.

I know, Ivy answered silently, her fingers tightening in her lap. But I don’t want him to think I’m broken. Or weak.

He doesn’t. And if he does—he’s a fool.

“I don’t talk about it much,” Ivy said finally, her voice steady but distant. “I was at a friend’s house my mom dropped me off so she and the rest of my family could set up the house for my birthday, it was supposed to be a surprise but my sister had let it slip to me that morning.” She stopped herself, taking a steady breath.

Rowan didn’t say anything, just waited for her to continue.

“They never picked me up, and when it got dark my friends mom drove me home.” She shook her head.

She could see the police lights, red and blue lighting up the street, the firetrucks, and ambulances. The lights in the bedrooms were still on. She’d waited in the car for one of her siblings or parents to come out, but they never did. She could smell the blood from the car, feel the burn from gunpowder making her head ache. She didn't give him the full picture. She couldn’t without breaking.

Rowan’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t interrupt, didn’t press.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, quieter this time. “You didn’t deserve that. No one does.”

Ivy nodded slowly, staring straight ahead. The ache in her chest hadn’t disappeared—it still lingered—but somehow it felt less sharp, softened by his presence beside her. Easier to carry.

“You know,” Rowan said after a few heartbeats, his tone light but respectful, “if you ever need to talk—or don’t want to talk but want distraction—I’m pretty damn good at both.”

She turned to look at him and found his eyes already on her—warm, open, patient.

A small breath of something like gratitude—something like warmth—stirred inside her chest.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said quietly.

He means it, Arden noted, almost surprised.

Yeah, Ivy murmured back. I think he does.

“That means this weekend is your birthday?” he asked gently, glancing over.

“Yeah.” Ivy hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. Part of her didn’t want to say it—didn’t want to make this breakfast into something it wasn’t, didn’t want pity or fanfare. But Rowan didn’t seem like the type to make things uncomfortable. And besides… what was the harm?

She sighed, her voice soft but steady. “Today, actually.”

Rowan blinked, clearly taken aback. His grip on the steering wheel loosened as his brows lifted and a slow, dawning realization crossed his face.