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“The result is pretty great.”
He stops suddenly, stands, and closes the keyboard’s top with a sharpthudbefore turning to me.
I’ve never seen this version of him. For a moment, he looks like his father, only colder. Crueler. Infinitely more severe.
“Iruinedit,” he says.
Only he isn’t talking about the infinitely beautiful song, so I tell him the truth. “Yes.”
Neither of us talks or moves, or even breathes for a heartbeat. At least, I know I don’t.
“And you know what, poison?” He tilts his head. “I don’t care. It’s still perfect. And it’smine.”
TWENTY-TWO
Ivy
He pounces.
I don’t move a single muscle. I don’t say a single thing, letting him devour me. One hand’s at the back of my head, firm, pulling me closer as his mouth claims mine,while the second grips my hips and drags me closer, closer, until I’m flush against his hardeverything.
Yes.
Yes.
Four years, and I’ve never felt this fire, this need, this explosion of senses and urges taking over all of me. I fold myself against him like I can’t physically get close enough to him, my trembling hands clasping his strong, muscular arms, holding on for dear life.
I used to know this body so well, but it’s changed. Taller, harder, stronger, infinitely hotter. I claw at it, trying to get under his skin like he’s effortlessly burying himself under mine.
It’s useless to remind myself that none of this matters to him, that I’m just an object he doesn’t like to share, no different from his favorite fluffy pair of slippers—not while his mouth is on mine, his tongue dancing, teasing, licking. Teeth scrape my lips, my neck, and my earlobe. After all this time, he still knows exactly how to make me completely lose it, erasing my identity, until all that is left is him.
Back in the day, he rarely ever kissed me, saving it for when I was particularly vocal about needing him to leave me alone. It was his weapon; he knew I’d shut up for a full month after he reminded me of what he could give me.
I’m older and wiser. I know exactly what this is: his way of manipulating me. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it, so long as I don’t lose sight of who I am in the process.
“Less—”
“Shut up. Please, just shut up for a minute.”
“Alessandro,” I insist, managing the word against his maddening mouth.
His hands tighten, but with a sigh, he leans back enough to look right at me, his blue eyes never brighter. “What, my poison?”
I make myself say it. “This means nothing.”
I need to say it, to make sure he understands I’m no longer the kid who would lie to herself, believe his touch, his kisses.
His jaw twitches, his eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t it?”
“We’re physically compatible,” I continue. “But you proved you’re just as compatible with half of the academy back then.”
I don’t tell him that my own experience has shown that no one else fits me the way he does. He can never know that. He’d use it to his advantage.
We’re two players across a chessboard, and he’s always held the white side: he got the first moves, and knew how to use them. I can’t lose sight of the fact that he's my opponent. While his body tries to make me believe he’s in this with me, I know he’s actively workingagainstme. If my goal is my independence, my happiness, my sanity, his is caging me in and locking me in his golden tower like he promised so long ago.
We are enemies.
“No one else has ever mattered,” he replies.
