Chapter Eight
Ivy
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DAYS PASSED, AND Imanaged to stay away from Jayden Wynter.
Only physically, though.
In my head, I was living on his sofa, with him between my thighs and his mouth on mine, or his lips trailing down my neck, or covering my nipple. Every time I remembered how he’d called me a good girl and how I’d made him repeat it, a tingling rush of heat flared to life inside me. I’d got a taste and now I wanted more, however much I knew it was a bad idea.
I went to my lectures and tried to focus on what the tutors said. I had my finals this year, and while I was confident I’d pass, I still wanted to do the best I could. My education would be my ticket to a different kind of life. I didn’t want to spend my life worrying about who might have killed whom, and what parts of the city I was allowed in, or worry about who I might be seen with.
I wanted to be free from it all.
The secret I carried with me was a weight on my shoulders. I wanted to unburden myself from it, but I still hadn’t figured out how to do that without creating another war. But those affected had the right to know, and I’d been testing the waters on that front. I felt sure there was a way for it to happen without any more lives being lost, but that could be a big ask.
As I left my final lecture for the day, I was conscious of someone catching up to me from behind. I glanced over my shoulder to find Kyle almost at my side.
“Hey, Ivy,” he said, “are you coming to the pub later?”
I kept walking. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Why not? The whole gang’s going to be there. It’ll be fun.”
The whole gang? I wasn’t sure I was even part of a gang.
But I’d been telling myself for the past couple of days that if I wanted a normal life, I needed to start acting like a normal person. I needed to have regular friends—not people who imported weapons and counterfeit money for a living, or who carried guns, or who lived in the penthouses of multi-million-pound hotels. I didn’t want to have to think about who was warring with who, or who might have been responsible for murdering someone else’s father.
And I especially didn’t want to think about a dark-haired, tattooed man who looked as comfortable in torn jeans and a t-shirt as he did in a suit worth a regular person’s mortgage payment.
“What time are you meeting?” I asked.
His eyes brightened. “Eight.”
I nodded. “Okay. I might see you later then.”
He was like a puppy who’d just been given a treat. “Yeah, great. See you later.”
I had absolutely no interest in Kyle, and I hoped I hadn’t given him the wrong idea. But it wasn’t as though it would just be the two of us—everyone would be there. I hadn’t needed to ask which pub to meet at because everyone always met at the Green Lion over the road. It was a typical hangout for students—you could taste the savings in what they served.
He bounded off, and I sighed.
***
IPUSHED INTO THE BUSYpub, anxiously glancing around for familiar faces. The odour of stale beer hit me, together with the wall of noise of people talking and laughing. Somewhere in the background music played, but the sound of people was too loud for me to recognise the song. This was a typical student pub—cheap alcohol and zero pretences. The padded, fabric bench seating still had holes from cigarette burns—remnants of the days when people were allowed to smoke inside. I was grateful such a thing was frowned upon now. I didn’t want my eyes stinging and my clothes stinking of smoke.
I recognised a couple of faces, but no one I considered myself friends with—or even acquaintances. I managed to make my cheeks tweak in a polite smile, while I fought the urge to run away. Why had I come here again? Oh, yes, to feel normal. Was such a thing even possible?
I was going to need a drink if I was ever going to relax, so I headed straight for the bar. It gave me something to do, too, so I didn’t feel so awkward just standing there. I squeezed in between some other people, who were only propping the bar up rather than waiting to be served.
The barman jerked his chin at me, silently asking me what I wanted. I raised my voice to be heard above the din.
“Vodka tonic, please.”
“Single? Double?”