Page 127 of Burning Ivy (The KORT)

At the time, only Ty recognized my infatuation with Ivy. That was why I took him with me for our first run-in, although her suggesting marriage so flippantly was a shock to us both. Tom knew his daughter brilliantly, and Natasha never wavered in her trust of his plan, although she was pissy with me. All things considered, I didn’t take offense. She did her part to send Ivy my way, and I put the decoy in place at the hospital, giving us a fixed point to monitor for her hunters.

We had armed guards on the room at all times, doctors from The Order who accepted there was a hit on Tom’s daughter and helped, and the decoy was a trained marksman herself. It was never supposed to be used for the trial, but when KORT laid out the plan, I breathed a sigh of relief because Ivy would be in our sights. Safe. And Natasha, happy to have her daughter back, willingly played her part even though it meant deceiving Ivy.

We both prioritized her safety.

I expected Ivy to rage, wanted her to so KORT could witness her brilliance. There was no doubt she’d work tirelessly to uncover the truth—exactly what they were looking for—but even I’m astonished by the prowess she used to send us on a wild goose chase.

They linked our trials together, essentially pitting us againsteach other as punishment for our marriage—me erasing us and her uncovering us. I’m not aggrieved in the slightest that my wife came out on top. I’m enraged that my grief over her anguish allowed me to miss her schemes.

We’ve always kept emotions out of our jobs, certain it could alter focus and compromise safety. Wisdom. Loving Ivy is the very reason she slipped out of our clutches.

Seconds after I end the call with Natasha, Suzanna’s text pings with Ivy’s painting. My heart stills as I study her depiction of the four of us, capturing unique characteristics of each. So talented. Our smiles are more imperious than necessary, but that’s my perceptive girl.

Glancing at her clue again, I catch the vital words.

Look to the one who’s missing to clear the path.

Liam. She thinks Liam died. As my eyes scan over him, his belt floats out of the picture—or rather, what’s on it.

A goddamn ruby.

How the fuck did she get that?

I weave my fingers through my hair, a tremble rumbling in my chest as I whip my glass, the shards shattering, scotch spraying. “Jesus! Fuck!”

Three sets of alarmed eyes search mine.

“She’s got the ruby necklace,” I explain. “And I’d say she knows it’s registered.”

What she might not know is that she won’t only be leading us to her. That necklace is like a bat signal for her hunters.

IVY

There isn’t much to fear at this point. Being stripped of everything you deem important will do that. But this city with its weed smoking, scantily clad street hustlers, and blitzed groupies is frightening to navigate.

The scents of piss and pot. Sausage and yeast.

Of covert outings and funnel cakes.

My destination smells of a different sort of allure—sex and thrill. Top-shelf whiskey and dessert champagne. Roaring Twenties transgressions rather than titty-flashing bead begging.

A different threat too.

Glitter and lace debauchery.

Risks threaded with tangled temptations of privilege and liberation. When, in actuality, the sin is simply beaded on a strand of pearls.

Pretty enough for pomp.

Strong enough to strangle.

But the men who pull those strings are dark and cold. Wicked depravity personified.

I know what I’m walking into. I also know I hold the trump card, and they’re betting men.

Because I remember all the passwords—like my brain filed them, instinctually sensing I’d be in possession of something valuable while also a fugitive—I enter the elite guest entrance with ease. With a concealed gun. And two knives. The members who enter here have a specialclearance, so no pat-downs. I’m stuck in a holding lobby nonetheless, awaiting approval.

Bernard—the butler who attended to the guys and me in September—greets me, his eyes narrowing in an attempt to place who I am. His face scrunches when the recognition dawns on him. My hair is a chestnut brown now—a temporary means to my escape since my ginger locks are a dead giveaway. Bernard doesn’t appear altogether pleased to see me.

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