At first it looks like leather, but it’s not. I know what it is. A piece of skin. Inked. I recognize the tattoo immediately—a particular design I'd spent years trying to forget, pressed flat and preserved like something from a museum. Something someone decided was worth keeping.
My stomach turns. And then, beneath that, something else. Something quieter and uglier that I don't immediately have a name for.
"Jake found him," Soren says, still not looking at me. "And then I did. It's handled. He won't be sending anything to anyone ever again." A pause. "Neither will she."
I stare at the thing in my hands. "You…took this from his body,” I say. “And then you… kept it? Prepared it for me like some death art?”
"I thought you might want it,” his mouth twists in some combination of a smirk and a scowl. “And it’s notdeathart—torture art, perhaps. He’s still alive—for now.”
I should put it down. I should say something about what this means, what he did. What kind of person does this and then hands it to someone right after their morning coffee?
Instead, I roll it back up carefully. Tie the twine. Set it down. "I don't want to put it on the wall," I say finally.
"I know,” he nods. “I don’t want to see a reminder of him every day. I’m glad you don’t, either.”
"But I don't mind having it locked away somewhere,” I add.
Because I don’t. There’s something unique about this gift. It sends a message—I don’t know exactly what. But there’s something protective about it. Comforting. And I can take it out and look at it whenever I need a reminder of how far Soren would go to make me feel safe.
He glances at me then. Just for a second. Something shifts in his expression, as if he’s seeing a new aspect of me for the first time. "I know that, too," he says.
And we stop talking about it.
Later, we’re sitting together, and I’m mulling over the day’s earlier events in my mind. What initially filled me with shock, and then a little excitement, is now tapping against my sternum in a quiet warning.
It doesn’t sit right that Soren went behind my back and took care of the anonymous messages.
I’m getting sick of him organizing my life without me being fully aware, as well-placed as it may be.
“I feel trapped,” I say, my voice low. I don’t know how to describe it.
His laugh is low and harsh. “Oh Ivy, this isn’t trapped. You’d know if I trapped you.”
The words slide cold down my spine, the curve of his mouth almost chilling in the circumstances.
And still, I don’t move. I don’t step away. I don’t leave.
Because his hand is still there.
Because my body is still responding.
Because the part of me that should be louder isn’t.
I think back to the screens for another second. Then my gaze drops. Not to the data.
To his hand. Resting at my waist like it belongs there.
LikeIdo.
And that might be the most dangerous part.
CHAPTER 56
SOREN
There are many things I love about my little poison.
Her stubbornness is one of them.