Damon follows Ivy’s glare and my eyes cut from hers to his. His expression goes dark, as he seems to recognize me. Does he know me? Or does he sense what Ivy and I have—had? He sneers at her, and I swear if I could bury him with just a look I would. He sits down on her chaise longue and pulls her to him, kissing her. Tension flows through my veins until she pulls away. He moves closer, speaking with animated gestures. Her facial expression signals that she’s not happy. My body goes rigid as I’m forced to watch this arrogant son of a bitch’s attempt to tame a girl who should never be tamed.
He practically fucks her with his eyes, and I squeeze my fists at my sides, resisting the urge to smash his face in. Ivy pulls her robe out of her bag and wraps it around herself. For some reason this helps ease my rage. Then suddenly he stands up and snatches hold of her elbow, pulling her out of the chair. I stand up as well. She snaps at him and steps back, but he grasps her shoulders. A smirk spreads across his face as he presses himself against her. The vulgarity of his actions hits me like a punch. She whispers something in his ear, and he drops his hold but doesn’t surrender. He touches his fingers to her cheek and tilts her head toward him. As if to make a point, he slides his hands down and unties her robe, his gaze lazily scanning her body before shifting over to me. I know what the asshole is doing—he’s demonstrating to me that she’s his. He obviously feels the need to antagonize me further by running his hands down her hips and slipping his fingers inside her bathing suit bottom. My stomach twists. She flinches, then gathers her things and walks away. But he quickly catches up to her.
At the sight of his seemingly aggressive behavior, I have to fight the urge to go over there and sock him, but my chance is lost when they both exit the pool area. My frustration and aggravation are surpassed only by my concern. I try to hold back my rage—how dare he touch her like that, look at her like that? With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I slip on my T-shirt.
Amy glances at me. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be back. I’m going to run up and see why my brother isn’t down here yet.”
She giggles. “Have fun with that.” I just shake my head. I know why he’s not down here, and I’m not really going to his room. I promised myself that if he did this for me—made the decision to help us out—I’d cut him some slack.
I don’t know where I’m going, but my anger toward that arrogant asshole has already taken hold. She might not be mine, but that doesn’t mean anything right now. I follow their path through the grotto and try to talk myself down, because I know where this is leading. With my fists balling at my sides, I can hardly control myself. When I turn the corner at a rapid pace, her stormy blue eyes slam into mine. For the briefest of moments, I stop in my tracks. My stomach lurches at the sight of what he did. There she is—my angel—with blood dripping from her lip and tears streaming down her face.
I rush over to her. “Ivy—” I whisper, my voice catching on her name. I take her face in my hands. Pulling my T-shirt up, I wipe the blood from her lip and blot the tears from her cheeks. “Are you all right?” I ask finally, filling the silence of the last twelve years between us.
For a few moments she lets me take care of her—like she used to. Then she blinks as if remembering that this is not then. She presses her lips together, but her scrutiny doesn’t waver from me as she pushes me back. I reach to help her, but she shrugs my hand away. “I don’t need your help,” she says forcefully. Her voice getting higher with every word, she unleashes what I can only assume to be years of pent-up anger at me. “I can take care of myself.”
I don’t blink. “Did he hit you? Does he hit you?”
She shakes her head, sadness mingling with determination on her face. “That’s none of your business. Leave it alone, Xander. I mean it.”
I reach for her face, my fingers brushing her cheek. “Tell me the truth. Does he hit you?”
“No, he doesn’t. Do you think I’d be with someone who does? Men with loose fists and men who cheat—they’re grown from the same mold and they can both go fuck themselves.”
She stares at me for the longest time and without another word she storms away—cold, guarded, and angry. The girl I knew with the hard exterior, but so fragile and sensitive, appears to be gone. Now she’s all hard edges, and she’s pissed as hell—at that asshole, and at me.
CHAPTER 3
Under the Water