Cra0003

One reckless night before escaping the MC life left me carrying the child of the one man I can never have. As the President's middle daughter, I'm off-limits by club law. Two pink lines shattered every plan I had. How can I tell my crush biker I used a wig, a mask, and a fake ID to trick him into spending one night with me? But this baby... He deserves to know. My baby deserves to know him. With my hands buried in my hoodie pockets, my fingers trace the plastic edges of the test. I've never been so terrified in my life. "I... I wanted to talk to you," I start, my voice trembling. He raises an eyebrow. "Right." "I have feelings for you, and I was wondering... if you'd like to go on a date with me? Sometime?" I blurt out, the words tripping over each other. For a long, agonizing moment, Bear just stares at me. His mouth is slightly agape, his hazel eyes wide with pure, unadulterated shock. "You're joking, right?" he asks, his voice breathless with amusement. "Ivy, honey... look at you. You're a kid. You're Stone's little girl." He laughs again, a dry, dismissive sound that echoes through the small room. "A date? With you? I don't know what kind of schoolgirl crush you've got going on, but you need to find some boy your own age to play with. I'm old enough to be your father, and I've got work to do." Hot, stinging tears well in my eyes, blurring the image of the man I thought I knew. I'm standing here, pregnant with his child, and he's laughing at me. —————— The smell of the clubhouse is a permanent resident in my lungs. It's a c0cktail of stale beer, expensive leather, motor oil, and the underlying metallic tang of gun solvent. To my sister Rae, it's the scent of freedom. To me, it's the scent of a room I'm trying to find the exit for. I sit at the heavy oak table in the "Big Kids" makeshift-classroom, the late morning sun slicing through the high windows. "And... sent," Caroline says, her voice bright with a triumph I don't quite feel yet. She clicks the mouse with a flourish. "The University of Seaview Finance Department won't know what hit them, Ivy." Caroline, Riot's Old Lady, has been our teacher in this windowless world of chrome and testosterone. She's homeschooled almost every club brat for over a decade. She's the one who looked at my spreadsheets and my obsession with market trends and guided me towards a degree in finance. "Thank you, Caroline. Really," I say, leaning back in the mismatched plastic chair. "You're going to be the only person in this zip code who understands a diversified portfolio, honey," she teases, patting my hand before gathering her lesson plans. "Your dad is going to be so proud. Even if he doesn't understand half the words you'll be using." I offer a tight smile. My dad, Stone, is the best man I know. He's the President of the Broken Halos MC, a man who commands silence just by breathing, but who used to tuck me in with Romanian lullabies he learned just to please my mother, Alexandra. My parents are the gold standard-a rare, shimmering example of MC royalty done right. But I don't want the crown. I don't even want the throne room. I look around the playroom. It's littered with remnants of a life I'm outgrowing. A stray math textbook, a discarded leather vest in a toddler size, and the faint sound of "Old MacDonald" drifting from the hallway. I love my family. I love the salt-sprayed air of Seaview and the way the fog rolls over the redwoods like a heavy blanket. But I want a life that doesn't require a property cut. I want a glass-walled office and a quiet apartment where the doorbell doesn't mean a federal agent is serving a warrant. I think of the summers I spent in Romania with my mother's family. The Carpathian Mountains, the ancient stone streets of Timisoara, the sense of history that had nothing to do with patches and rivalries. Sometimes, I wish we'd stayed there. In Romania, I was just Ivy. Here, I'm the President's daughter. A prize to be guarded or a target to be hit. The door creaks open, and the human equivalent of a biological miracle waddles in. "Hey, Ives," Angel calls out, her voice bubbly despite the fact that she's carrying what looks like a small planet under her shirt. Angel is radiant. Truly. She's been basically pregnant since the moment she became Ghost's Old Lady. This is number six. Six. The daycare, which had gone dormant once Cyber's kids, Ariana and Nicolas, moved up to the homeschool room, is now fully repopulated solely by the Ghost and Angel production line. "Hey, Angel," I say, watching her rub her bump with a look of pure, unadulterated bliss. "How are you feeling?" "Like a literal house," she laughs, leaning against the doorframe. "But he's kicking. I think he's going to be a kicker like his daddy." "Wonderful," I say, trying to keep the "gross" out of my voice. I like Angel. I really do. She's kind and fierce and loyal. But her life is my literal nightmare. To be a vessel for the club, to spend decades in a cycle of morning sickness and clubhouse dinners? To each their own, but I'd rather calculate compound interest for the rest of eternity. She thrives here. She loves the chaos. Me? I'm counting the days until I can walk through the front gates and not feel the heavy weight of the "Halos" legacy on my shoulders. "Ghost is looking for you, by the way," Angel adds. "He's in the garage with Bear. Something about your car's alternator?" My heart does a weird, traitorous little skip at the mention of the second name. "Thanks. I'll head down." I pack my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. I pass the common room, where my sister Ava is sitting on the lap of her husband, Blade. They look like a poster for the life-young, tatted, and completely entwined. Ava is twenty and already settled. Rae, at seventeen, is probably in the gym right now trying to out-lift a prospect to prove she deserves a patch. I'm the glitch in the DNA. I head down to the garage, the air turning colder and heavier with the scent of grease. The garage is the heart of the clubhouse-a cathedral of iron and rubber. I see Ghost first. He's leaned over a bike, his lean frame tensed as he wrenches something into place. And then, I see him. Bear. He's standing by the tool bench, wiping his hands on a dark rag. The name is apt. He's massive-at least 6'7''-with shoulders that seem to take up two zip codes. He's bulky in the way a mountain is bulky, all solid, terrifying power. His hair is dark, his beard neatly groomed into a sharp line that emphasizes a jawline that could cut glass. He's thirty-eight. I'm nineteen. He's a man who lives, breathes, and would likely die for the Broken Halos. He is everything I am trying to run away from. He's also, quite unfortunately, the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. He looks up as I approach, those hazel eyes-the color of moss and autumn-settling on me. He doesn't smile. Bear doesn't really do smiles for anyone who isn't wearing a patch. "Ivy," he grunts. His voice is a low rumble, a frequency I feel in the floorboards under my boots. "Bear. Ghost," I nod to them both. "Alternator's fine," Ghost says, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Just a loose belt. Bear tightened it up for you." "Thanks, Bear," I say, stepping closer. The height difference is comical. At five-foot-nothing, I have to tilt my head back just to meet his gaze. Up close, he smells like sandalwood and expensive tobacco-not the cheap stuff the prospects smoke. He looks like a model who walked off a runway and decided to join a biker gang. He looks down at me, his expression unreadable. To him, I'm probably still the little girl who used to color with crayons in the corner of the bar. I'm the President's middle daughter. I'm off-limits by every law of the club and every law of common sense. "Don't take the curves on the coast road so hard," Bear says, his voice like gravel. "Belts don't like the heat you're putting on 'em." "I like to go fast," I counter, my voice steadier than I feel. One corner of his mouth twitches-not a smile, but a ghost of one. "I know you do. Just make sure you can stop when you need to." He turns back to the workbench, his massive back a wall of denim and muscle. The muscles in his forearms flex as he moves a heavy wrench, the ink on his skin dancing with the movement. I should walk away. I should go home, finish my finance prep, and dream about spreadsheets and city lights. I should find a nice, safe guy at college who doesn't know what a hang-around is. But as I watch him, a hot, sharp spark of defiance flares up in my gut. I've spent my whole life being the good daughter, the one who doesn't cause trouble because she's too busy planning her escape. I'm leaving this life. But before I go? Before I turn into a suit-and-tie professional in a high-rise? I want that. I want the mountain. I know the rules. I know my father would probably skin him alive, and he'd likely lose his patch before he even touched me. He's nineteen years older. He's a zealot for the life I hate. We'd be a disaster waiting to happen. I adjust my bag strap, staring at the broad expanse of his shoulders. fk it. I'm leaving this world behind, but I'm not leaving without a souvenir. I don't want a relationship. I don't want a happy ever after in the clubhouse. But I want to know what it feels like to be crushed by all that power. Just once. I'm getting under him. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but I'm going to make the big bear growl. ... The plan is: get in, get under him, get out. It's a simple strategy. I've known for a while that Bear spends his Saturday nights at Onyx. In the clubhouse, secrets have a way of leaking through the floorboards like old oil. I know he likes the dark side of things. I also know he's a man-wh0re. He doesn't do "Old Ladies" and he doesn't do "forever." He does Saturday nights and intense, nameless encounters. Normally, the age limit for Onyx is twenty-one. But we all have fake IDs that could fool a federal agent; it's practically a rite of passage. My ID says I'm twenty-three and from San Diego. Tonight, that's all I need to be. I'm standing in front of my full-length mirror, adjusting the hem of a black dress that is barely legal and definitely not Stone-approved. It's tight, silk-thin, and ends at mid-thigh. It hugs every curve I've spent years trying to hide under baggy hoodies. "h0ly sh1t. You look like a high-end hooker." I jump, spinning around to see Rae sprawled across my bed. She's wearing grease-stained jeans and a faded Halo tank top, her feet dangling off the edge. She looks like a tomboy ready for a brawl; I look like a woman ready for a scandal. "fk off, Rae," I say, though there's no heat in it. I turn back to the mirror, checking my eyeliner. "Where are you going looking like that?" she asks, propping her chin on her hand. "That's not going to the library gear. That's I'm trying to get arrested gear." "I'm going out," I say vaguely. "Celebrating. I got into the finance program." "By wearing three inches of fabric?" Rae snorts, her eyes narrowing. "Mom and Dad would lose their minds if they saw you. Dad would probably put the clubhouse on lockdown." "Which is why they aren't going to see me. You going to cover for me?" Rae reaches out and grabs a loose thread on my duvet. She's the baby of the three of us, the one most desperate to prove she's as tough as any prospect. But beneath the bravado, she's my sister. "Always," she says, her voice softening for a second. "But be careful, Ives. Seriously." "I will be." Once she leaves, I pull the secret weapon out of my drawer: a deep, blood-red wig. I've always wondered what I'd look like with red hair-bold, fiery, someone who doesn't blend into the background. I tuck my dark hair under the cap and settle the wig in place. It changes my entire face. I look older. Dangerous. I grab the final piece-an elegant black Venetian ball mask-and put it in my purse. It's lace and silk, and it will cover the upper half of my face and obscuring the shape of my eyes. The drive to the outskirts of Seaview feels like a countdown. Onyx is tucked into a converted warehouse, discreet and intimidating. The bass from inside thumps against the pavement, a rhythmic heartbeat that matches my own. I show my ID, the bouncer barely glancing at it before waving me through. Once inside, the atmosphere shifts. It's dim, lit by deep purple and red neon. The air is heavy with expensive perfume and the faint, sharp scent of leather. Masks are everywhere-feathers, leather, lace. At the entrance station, I pick up a small tag. Submissive - open to chat. It's a lie. I'm not submissive. I'm a control freak who wants to manage a hedge fund. But tonight, I want to see what happens when I let a man like Bear take the lead. I spot him almost immediately. He's at the far end of the bar, and even in a room full of masked strangers, he's a god among men. He's wearing a dark mask that only makes his hazel eyes pop, but I'd know that silhouette in a blackout. Those shoulders, that height-he's a mountain. He's wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the ink on his forearms. My stomach flips. I'm terrified. I'm ecstatic. I make a beeline for him, my heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete floor. I have to be careful. If I speak, he'll recognize me. He'll recognize the girl who's lived in his peripheral vision for a decade. And he will sooner call my dad than fk me. So silence is my only shield. I reach him just as he's taking a sip of something amber. I don't hesitate. I reach out and place my hand on his bicep. The muscle is rock hard beneath my palm, and the heat of him radiates through the fabric. He freezes for a split second, then turns his head. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face-the visible part of it, anyway. "Well, he1lo there," he rumbles. The sound of his voice this close makes my toes curl. He looks down at my tag, his eyes lingering on the word Submissive. "So you're open to talk," he says, his gaze returning to my masked face. I nod enthusiastically, keeping my lips sealed. "But you're a quiet one?" He chuckles, and there they are-the dimples. He has no right to have dimples when he looks like he could snap a man's neck with his bare hands. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue, or are you just playing hard to get?" I shake my head, my eyes locked on his. I hope the mask hides the sheer panic and lust warring in my expression. "Have you been here before?" I shake my head again. He leans back against the bar, his eyes raking over my red hair and the curve of my neck. "A first-timer. You picked a he1l of a night to start." He gestures to his glass. "Want a drink?" I look at his glass, then tap it with one finger. I'll have what you're having. "Confident," he muses, signaling the bartender for another neat bourbon. "You're very bold with your hands, little one. Why so shy with the voice?" I don't answer. Instead, I decide to stop the interrogation. I reach up, curl my hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down. I k1ss him. It's not a soft k1ss. It's a collision. He groans into my mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in my chest. Before I can even register the shock of it, he's taking control. He plunges his tongue into my mouth, tasting of expensive bourbon and heat. He tastes like a man who knows exactly what he wants and has never been told no. He pulls back just an inch, his breathing heavy. "Well, fk," he rasps, his eyes burning. "I do like a challenge." I smile broadly, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "What am I supposed to call you?" he asks, his hand sliding down to grip my waist, his thumb tracing the bone. "I need something to call out now... and something to scream later when I've got you where I want you." I tap my chin, pretending to think. Then I tap the strands of my red wig. "Red?" he guesses, a dark glint in his eye. I nod. "Alright, Red." He leans in close, his lips brushing against the she1l of my ear. "Do you want to find a private room with me? Somewhere I can find out if you're still quiet once I'm inside you." My knees nearly give out. I nod, my head bobbing with an enthusiasm that borders on desperate. He doesn't say another word. He just grabs my hand, his massive palm swallowing mine, and begins to lead me through the crowd. Every step toward the private hallway feels like a step closer to the life I'm running from. I'm nervous-my hands are shaking-but the adrenaline is a flood. I might be leaving the MC life soon, but tonight, I'm going to let it devour me. ... Ivy The world is a blur of red velvet and the ringing in my ears. Every nerve ending in my body is firing at once, a chaotic symphony of pleasure that has me feeling untethered from the earth. Bear is a force of nature. He didn't just fk me; he dismantled me. I barely register the sound of the metal buckles clinking as he unfastens my wrists and ankles. My limbs feel like lead, heavy and buzzing. Before I can even attempt to find my footing, his massive hands are under my arms. He hoists me up like I weigh nothing, carrying me the three steps to the low, wide bed in the corner of the room. "I'm not done with you yet, Red," he rumbles. The sound of his voice against the she1l of my ear sends a fresh wave of heat straight to my core. I sink into the mattress, my head lolling back. I've never felt like this-utterly spent but desperate for more. Bear was everything I expected and a thousand things I wasn't prepared for. He's an animal, but an observant one. Every touch is deliberate. I want him again. I want to feel the scrape of his beard against my skin and the taste of him on my tongue. I reach up, my fingers curling toward his neck to pull him back down to me, but he clicks his tongue. "Ah-ah," he murmurs, catching my wrists and pinning them lightly above my head. "You won the game, didn't you? Ten spanks and not a peep. You were a very good girl, taking me like that." I look up at him, my chest heaving. His eyes are dark, predatory, and satisfied. "I think you deserve a reward," he says, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "What's it going to be? What does my good girl want from me?" I can't speak-partially because of the mask, partially because my throat feels tight with need. I look at his lips, then back to his eyes. I lift my head slightly, reaching for him again. "A k1ss?" he asks, a dark smirk playing on his mouth. I nod frantically. "Alright then." He drops his weight onto me, his chest a solid wall against my breasts, and captures my mouth. This isn't like the first k1ss at the bar. His tongue explores my mouth like he's trying to map out every inch of me, trying to memorize the flavor of my surrender. He's devouring me, and I'm letting him. How am I ever supposed to let him go? How am I supposed to see him in the clubhouse next week and act like he hasn't seen the most vulnerable parts of me? The thought is fleeting, drowned out by the sensation of his fingers sliding back between my thighs. I'm so sensitive that the mere touch makes my back arch off the bed. I push myself up to my knees, refusing to break the k1ss even as I shift my weight. I find his hand and guide him, sinking myself onto his fingers. I begin to ride them, bumping my hips up and down in a frantic, needy rhythm. "Look at you," he rasps against my lips, his voice thick with gravel. "So greedy for it. You like being filled, don't you? You like knowing you're mine for the night." I whimper into his mouth, my movements becoming more erratic. "That's it, Red. Take it. Take every bit of it. You're dripping for me. You're so godd@mn wet." The friction is too much. The pressure builds behind my eyes, and suddenly, my body gives way. I squirt again, the fluid soaking into the sheets and my own thighs. A flash of embarrassment hits me-the sheer lack of control-but it's immediately scorched away by the look in his eyes. He looks proud. "Do you want to ride my c0ck like that too?" he whispers, his breath hot against my neck. I nod, my hair-or rather, the red wig-tangling around my face. He moves back, laying flat on the bed with his hands tucked behind his neck. He looks like a king waiting for his tribute. I reach for the small bedside table, my fingers trembling as I find a foil packet. I tear it open and slide the cond0m onto him. I didn't even notice if he used one the first time-I was too far gone, too caught up in the storm. But a man like Bear wouldn't be that reckless. He definitely had one on. I straddle him, sinking down slowly until he's buried deep inside me. I gasp, the fullness of him stretching me in the best possible way. I start to move, rolling my hips in slow, agonizingly deliberate figure-eights. Bear lets out a long, low groan, his abdominal muscles rippling beneath my hands. "fk, Red... you're trying to kill me." I lean forward, my hair brushing his chest, watching the way his hazel eyes track my every movement. I feel powerful. I feel dangerous. After a few minutes of the slow torture, Bear's patience snaps. He grabs my waist, his fingers digging into my skin, and flips us in one fluid motion. Now I'm beneath him, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Are you going to be a good girl for me, Red?" he asks, his voice dropping to a command. "A really good girl?" I nod eagerly-embarrassingly eagerly. I'd do anything he asked right now. I'm a slave to the chemistry between us. He moves up my body, his knees sliding on either side of my shoulders until he's straddling my chest, his shadow looming over my face. He reaches down and peels the cond0m off, tossing it aside. "Open," he orders. I obey instantly. I part my lips, looking up at him. He reaches down, his large fingers sinking into the soft flesh of my cheeks, pulling my mouth wide, his grip firm enough that it's impossible for me to close it. He's framing my face, holding me in place like a prize. He begins to stroke himself, his eyes locked on mine. I can see the tension in his jaw, the way the veins in his neck stand out. He's close. "Don't fking move," he growls. A moment later, he groans, his body tensing as he comes. I feel the warmth of him hitting the back of my throat, pouring into my mouth. It's intense, primal, and completely overwhelming. Before I can even think to pull away, he uses his hand to force my mouth shut. "Swallow it," he commands. I do. The taste of him is salty and hot, a final mark of his dominance. He lets out a long, ragged breath, his grip on my face softening. He pulls back slightly and, with a casual, devastating flick, slaps his c0ck against my cheek. "Good girl," he murmurs. I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. I am mortified by how much I loved that. The embarrassment starts to catch up with the adrenaline. I've done it. I got under him. I got exactly what I came for, and it was better than anything I'd ever imagined. Bear stands up, his undressed body a masterpiece of ink and muscle in the dim light. "I'm going to clean up," he says, nodding toward the small bathroom attached to the room. "Don't go anywhere." He disappears behind the door, the sound of the shower starting a second later. As soon as the door clicks shut, the spell breaks. Panic, sharp and cold, replaces the heat. What am I doing? If he stays, he'll start asking questions. He'll want the mask off. He'll hear my voice eventually. He'll see through the red hair. And if Bear figures out who I am... I can't let that happen. I scramble off the bed, my legs shaking so hard I nearly trip. I grab my black dress from the floor, shrugging it on with frantic, clumsy movements. I don't look for my heels-I find them by the door on my way out, clutching them in one hand. I check my mask; it's still secure. My wig is a mess, but it's still on. I don't look back. I slip out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind me, and practically run down the hallway. I weave through the crowd of masked strangers, my heart in my throat, until I burst through the front doors of Onyx. The cool Seaview air hits me like a slap to the face. I don't stop until I'm inside my car, the doors locked, the engine roaring to life. I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white, and catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. My makeup is smeared, the red hair is wild, and I have a look in my eyes I don't recognize. I got under Bear. But as I pull away from the curb and head toward the clubhouse, I realize I might have made a catastrophic mistake. Because I didn't just get under him. I think I let him into my head. And I have no idea how I'm going to look him in the eye tomorrow morning without screaming. ... Ivy Two pink lines. Two tiny, horizontal slashes that have just decimated every plan I've ever made for my life. I'm sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in the clubhouse bathroom, the plastic stick trembling in my hand. I stare at it until my vision blurs, praying for the lines to fade, to rearrange themselves, to tell me I'm just stressed out. But they stay. Bold. Defiant. Fuuuuuuuuck. It's been three weeks since Onyx. Three weeks of me replaying every second of that night in high-definition loops while I lay in bed at night. I thought the late period was just my body reacting to the adrenaline crash, or maybe the shame of running out of that room like a thief. But the math doesn't lie. How is this even possible? I rack my brain, trying to find another candidate, but there isn't one. I haven't been with anyone else in months. I was so focused on the transition to college that my social life was a desert-until I decided to scale Mount Bear. I think back to the room. I remember putting the cond0m on him for the second round. I remember him taking it off for... the finish. But the first round. My mind flashes to him behind me on that bench, the primal growl in his chest, and the sheer heat of him. I was too far gone, too intoxicated by him and the sting of his palm to call him on it. I just assumed a man like him wouldn't be so fking reckless. I was wrong. We both were. What the he1l am I going to do? If I tell him, I have to admit it was me. I have to admit I wore a wig and a mask and used a fake ID to trick him into fking me. The fallout wouldn't just be a scandal; it would be a nuclear winter. My dad is a fair man, but he is a father first. He would kill Bear. Not beat him up, not kick him out of the club. He would put a bullet in his head for touching his daughter, mask or no mask. And Bear? He's almost forty years old and lives for the Broken Halos. If I tell him I'm carrying his child, he won't see a miracle. He'll see a trap. He'll look at me and see the girl who ruined his life, who cost him his patch and his brothers. He'd probably offer to marry me out of some sick sense of obligation to my father, but he'd hate me every single day we spent together. He'd be with me by force, a prisoner to a mistake. But the alternative... I look down at the stick again. I can't keep him from his kid. I grew up with the best parents in the world; I know what it means to have a father who would move mountains for you. Bear is a good man, in his own dark way. He deserves to know. My baby deserves to know him. But this baby... this baby keeps me here. It anchors me to the grease and the leather and the sound of Harleys at three in the morning. The finance degree, the glass office-it's all slipping away. I have to know if there's even a spark of me in his head. Not Red. Ivy. If he's at least a little bit interested in me as a person, maybe-just maybe-there's a path through this that doesn't end in a funeral or a forced marriage. I'll go to him. I'll confess I have a crush, see if he looks at me like a woman instead of a kid. If he does, I'll tell him the truth. I'll tell him I was the girl in the red wig. I stand up and walk to the mirror, splashing cold water on my face. Gone is the black dress and the Venetian mask. Today, I'm back in my armor: a charcoal gray hoodie two sizes too big, skinny black jeans, and my round Harry Potter-like glasses. I only really need them when I'm in front of my computer, but between the applications and the spreadsheets, I've been wearing them constantly. They make me feel small. Safe. Invisible. I leave the bathroom, my hands shoved deep into the front pocket of my hoodie, clutching the pregnancy test like a live grenade. I head toward the residential wing, toward his room, but it's silent. I check the common areas, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I find him in the game room. Bear is leaning over the pool table, his massive frame casting a shadow over the green felt. Ghost and Cross are with him, leaning against the bar with beers in hand. I stop in the doorway, my breath catching. He looks so much like he did that night-the same broad shoulders, the same focused intensity. But here, in the daylight, he's just Bear. I walk forward, my boots feeling like they're made of lead. All three men look up as I approach. Ghost offers a lopsided grin, and Cross nods, but Bear's gaze is level. Unreadable. "Bear?" my voice is smaller than I want it to be. "Do you have a minute?" He stands up straight, resting his cue against his hip. He wipes his hands on a rag, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. "Sure, Ivy. What's up? Your car acting up again?" I keep my eyes on the floor, staring at the scuff marks on the hardwood. I can't look at him. If I look at him, I'll see the man who had me on that bench, and I'll lose my mind. "It'll only take a minute," I mutter. "Can we... somewhere private?" I can feel Ghost and Cross's eyebrows shooting up. The silence in the room stretches, heavy and awkward. Bear sighs, a low rumble of irritation. "O-kay." I turn and lead the way toward the residential hall, headed straight for his room. I can hear his heavy footsteps behind me, a steady, rhythmic thud that feels like a countdown. "Why the he1l are we going into my room, Ivy?" he asks, his voice sharpening as I reach for his door handle. I ignore him and push the door open, stepping into the space that smells exactly like him-sandalwood and tobacco. He follows me in, looking thoroughly annoyed. He doesn't sit. He stands by the door, arms crossed over that massive chest, waiting. I turn to face him, my hands still buried in my hoodie pocket, my fingers tracing the plastic edges of the test. I've never been so terrified in my life. "I... I wanted to talk to you," I start, my voice trembling. "About something personal." He raises an eyebrow. "Right." "I have feelings for you," I blurt out, the words tripping over each other. I finally force myself to look up, though I keep my chin tucked. "And I was wondering... if you'd like to go on a date with me? Sometime?" I hold my breath. I wait for the shift in his eyes, for the realization that I'm a woman, for the spark of interest that would give me the courage to tell him about Onyx. I wait for him to see me. For a long, agonizing moment, Bear just stares at me. His mouth is slightly agape, his hazel eyes wide with pure, unadulterated shock. Then, his chest begins to heave. A low sound rumbles in his throat, growing louder until it breaks into a full-blown bark of a laugh. He leans back against the doorframe, shaking his head, his face splitting into a grin that feels like a slap. "You're joking, right?" he asks, his voice breathless with amusement. "Ivy, honey... look at you. You're a kid. You're Stone's little girl." He laughs again, a dry, dismissive sound that echoes in the small room. "A date? With you? I don't know what kind of schoolgirl crush you've got going on, but you need to go find some boy your own age to play with. I'm old enough to be your father, and I've got work to do." Hot, stinging tears well in my eyes, blurring the image of the man I thought I knew. I'm standing there, pregnant with his child, and he's laughing at me.