Chapter 66: Don’t Flinch

Chapter 66: Don't Flinch

Leo

I noticed the fear in her eyes.

I noticed the way she hung up the phone immediately, eyes wide with fear. As if I was a monster.

Was that what she saw me as? Did she fear me?

She stood there in the hallway wearing nothing but my shirt, bare legs, messy hair, still carrying the faint marks of what we had done only hours ago—and she looked at me like I might shatter her if I moved too fast.

“Poppy.” She said, “She was worried about me.”

The name came out too quickly. Like she had practiced it on the way from the bedroom door to wherever she had been standing when I found her.

“And you had to take the call out here?” I asked, knowing fully well that she was lying. “You could have done that in the bedroom.”

She glanced at the door briefly. Her fingers tightened around the phone until the skin over her knuckles went pale. “I… was going downstairs for water anyways, so… she happened to call when I was already out here.”

“There’s water on the nightstand, Ivy.” I said, pointing my thumb into the room backwards.

She followed the direction of my thumb.

I could see the panic flashing across her face. And for a second, it looked like she was going to cry. The shine in her eyes was clear as day.

She blinked hard, as if she could force the tears back by sheer will.

What is going on? Why is she this scared of me? What have I done to constantly receive this reaction from her?

Most especially, how do I control my temper and stop bursting into flames every time I fear that she’s bringing up Anderson?

The name alone was enough to make something ugly twist under my ribs. Anderson. The golden boy. The one she had loved before me.

I hated how easily my mind went there. I hated that the second she looked afraid, my first thought was that she was comparing me to him again—finding me lacking, finding me dangerous, finding me unworthy.

I took a step forward and she took a step backwards.

I paused. The space between us felt suddenly vast.

“Ivy?”

“I didn’t see the water on the table.” She said, Her voice was thin. “I just wanted—”

“You’re scared of me.” I said. It wasn’t a question. “If not, why are you stepping back? You’re about to cry, Ivy.”

“No. I’m not.” She swiped the back of her palm over her eyes to prove her point. The motion was quick, almost defensive. “You just caught me off guard.”

Her excuse was flimsy and we both knew it.

“You’re trembling.” I noticed.

She chuckled shakily. The sound cracked in the middle. “No, I’m not.” Then she glanced down at the shirt she was wearing—my shirt, hanging loosely on her smaller frame, the sleeves swallowing her hands. “Oh. I’m in a t-shirt. Of course, I’m a little cold from standing here.”

She was smart. I’ll give her that. Quick on her feet even when she was clearly unraveling.

I walked towards her. And I could almost swear that it took her a lot to stand on the same spot, phone clutched tightly in her hand.

I watched her carefully, searching for any sign that she was about to bolt down the hallway or lock herself in a bathroom.

She didn’t move.

But the effort it cost her was written in the tight line of her shoulders and the way her breathing had gone shallow.

I stopped in front of her. Close enough that I could smell the lingering scent of sex from earlier. Close enough that the heat of her body reached me through the thin cotton.

“I’m going to reach out and I’m going to touch you, Ivy.”

She frowned. A small crease formed between her brows. “Why? Why are you telling me this?”

“Don’t shrink away. Don’t flinch. Don’t step back. Please. That will hurt me.”

Her eyes widened. “Leo...” She breathed. My name sounded different when she said it like that—soft, uncertain, almost pleading. Fuck, it was a turn-on.

“Deal?”

She nodded quickly. “Yes.”

I reached forward and pulled her into me, wrapping my arms around her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head gently.

She was stiff at first. Rigid. Like her body hadn’t received the message that her mouth had agreed to.

I didn’t force the contact. I just held her, waiting, breathing her in.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, some of the tension left her shoulders. Her forehead rested against my chest. I could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat through the fabric of the shirt.

“You’re scared of me—”

“I’m not—”

“I would never hit you, Ivy. Ever.” I finally decided to hit the nail on the head.

I was sick of running around in circles and acting like I didn't know why she acted that way around me.

She froze momentarily before looking up at me. “No, that’s not what—”

“You don’t have to lie to me. You don’t have to pretend. That makes it worse. I know what everyone thinks of me. Including you.” I buried my fingers in her hair, enjoying just how soft and silky it was.

The strands slid through my fingers like water. I focused on that small sensory detail so I wouldn’t focus on the way my chest felt like it was caving in.

“You think I’m a monster, don't you?”

“No. That’s not true—”

“Ever since that day at the lake, you freeze whenever I’m close to you.” I said. The memory of it still sat under my ribs like a bruise that never fully healed.

The way she had looked at me that day. The way her body had gone still. The fear that had flooded her eyes when my temper had gotten the better of me.

“Like you’re scared I’ll lose my mind and hit you too. Tell me the truth, Ivy.”

Silence stretched between us. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest.

“I’m scared that one day, you’ll hurt me in a fit of rage.” Finally she decided to stop lying. The words came out quiet, almost ashamed. “You always lose your temper when I ask a question. Or… or when I say something and you misunderstand. You always bring up Andy—”

“Because you love him.” I said. “I know you still do. Don't deny it.”

The accusation left my mouth before I could stop it. I hated how easily it came. How automatically my mind went there the second she showed any fear of me.

“I don't—”

“Don't lie to me.”

Jealousy was a living thing inside me, restless and sharp-toothed. My jealousy was a vicious beast.

She raised her face from my chest. “Leo… You see? You’re still doing this thing where you—”

“Tell me you love me.” I said, cutting her off.

Her mouth opened and closed. No words escaped. Then she looked away.

I held her chin, forcing her eyes back to me again. The contact was gentle, but firm enough that she couldn’t escape. I needed to see her face when she answered. I needed to know if there was anything left for me in those eyes besides caution.

“Tell me you love me, Ivy. Because I am madly in love with you.” I said. The confession scraped its way out of me, shameless. “Please.”

Her eyes turned glassy. Then she removed her chin from my hand, looking away once again. “I like you, Leo. A lot. I enjoy spending time with you when you’re not… angry. You're a very good man.”

Like. She liked me. Not love. Like. A fickle emotion. That was all she had for me? After everything?

After the way she had looked at me this morning while I was inside her?

After the way she had whispered my name like it meant something?

After she had given me her virginity and still woken up next to me instead of him?

She still loved Anderson? What did she actually see in him? What did he have that I didn’t?

The question burned. It always burned.

“You like me.” I repeated, the sound of it even worse in my own ears.

The word felt small. Insufficient. Like a consolation prize handed to someone who had shown up expecting everything.

“I can’t love you if I’m scared of you.” She turned to look at me. There was no cruelty in her face. Only honesty, and that somehow hurt worse than any lie would have. “I can’t love you if I know nothing about you, Leo.”

“Would you love me if you knew more about me?”

“Doesn’t work that way, Leo. I have to feel it. I don’t want to teach myself to love you and tolerate your mood swings.” She said. Her voice was steadier now, clearer. “I want to suddenly wake up one morning and realize that I cannot live without you.”

I held onto her arms. Not tightly. Just enough to keep her there, to feel the reality of her under my palms.

“That’s what I want. I want your love, Ivy. I want you to feel the same way I do.”

She glanced at the place where I held her, wary. The old bruise on her arm—a bit faint now, but still visible if you knew where to look—seemed to haunt me.

Evidence of a different version of myself.

A version I was trying, and apparently failing, to leave behind. I let go immediately. Only then did she relax.

“Then let me in, Leo.” She said, “Let me know the real you.”

I frowned. The real me? Wasn’t that what she’d been getting? The temper. The jealousy. The way I couldn’t stand the thought of her still carrying pieces of another man inside her heart. What more was there?

Almost like she could somehow hear my thoughts, she spoke again.

She placed a hand flat on my chest. Over my heart. “I don’t want to know the boxer. I don’t care about Tiger Teague or whatever this person standing in front of me is.”

I glanced down at her hand. The contrast of her pale skin against mine held my attention longer than it should have.

“I want to know Leopold Teague. Not just Leo.”

I caught her hand as realization slammed into me like a train on high speed. I knew what she was asking. I knew what she wanted to know. I knew the parts of me she wanted to gain access into.

The parts I had spent years burying under training and fights and rage.

The parts that still woke up some nights with the sound of a door closing and the knowledge that someone who was supposed to stay had chosen to leave instead.

“You want to know the boy his mother left behind.”