"I should go," Ivy said. She hugged her arms around herself.

"It’s late," Winn said.

"I still should go. I can’t stay here. You’re confusing me, distracting me," Ivy said. She turned toward the door.

"From what? What is it that’s holding you back, Ivy?" Winn asked, throwing his hands into the air, pacing just a fraction of the space between them. "Come on, sugar, tell me what it is."

"Nothing,"

"You know what..." Winn said, stepping closer. "In a few months, I won’t be married anymore. The divorce will be done. I do not plan on giving Mr. Young and Handsome the time to keep you for long." He smirked.

"You can sleep in any of the bedrooms. I’ll call your uncle to send your driver with a change of clothes in the morning."

Winn walked up the stairs after that, heading to his bedroom. She listened to his footsteps fade and felt an ache settle in her chest, a longing she couldn’t articulate.

*****

It was 3 a.m., and Winn still couldn’t sleep. Knowing she was in one of the bedrooms, away from him, away from his arms, made everything feel wrong. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined her there.

But he didn’t want a bit of her. He wanted all of her. It wasn’t about sex, though sex with her was a storm that left him breathless and aching. Still, it wasn’t enough. He wanted more—more than he had ever allowed himself to want.

He swung his legs over the bed. He got up in just his shorts. The hallway felt impossibly long. He walked toward the dispenser at the end of the corridor, thirst gripping him.

With every sip, his mind churned.

And then he wondered which one of the rooms she was in. The Orchard estate was huge—absurdly huge. Old-money architects had built it. Long corridors, endless adjoining suites, too many guest rooms for a man who rarely hosted anyone.

Winn stood at the top of the staircase, rubbing the back of his neck, squinting into the dim hallway light.

It was ridiculous. He owned the whole damn house and yet had no idea which room she’d chosen. He pressed his palm to the first door near the stairs, thinking to check inside... when a sound drifted faintly from below.

A small sigh. A broken, shaky one.

His entire body went still.

Did she sleep on the sofa? What the hell?

A jolt of concern shot through him, and he hurried down the stairs.

Ivy lay on the long sofa, the couch blanket twisted around her legs. Her face—God, her face—was tight, pained. Her head kept snapping from side to side, sweat beading along her hairline, breaths shallow and ragged.

It gutted him.

He rushed to her side immediately, heart hammering.

"Ivy?" he whispered first. No response.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into the fabric.

"Ivy!"

He sat beside her and gently wrapped his arms around her, pulling her upright against his chest. She fought him, struggling, her body rigid with whatever terror she was trapped in.

But he didn’t let go.

"I got you," he murmured. "I got you, sugar. You’re safe."

Her whimpers pierced him. Her whole frame trembled against his. He held her tighter, cupping the back of her head, thumb brushing her temple as if soothing a frightened child.

"Winn?"

Relief washed through him so hard his eyes stung. "I’m here, love. I’m here. You’re good. You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Her muscles slowly loosened. Her hands, which had been pushing at him blindly, now clutched his shoulders, clinging to him. Her breathing stuttered, then steadied gradually.

When her head dropped onto his shoulder, he exhaled. He pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her hair.

"Come on," he whispered against her temple.

He slipped an arm beneath her knees and another under her back, lifting her with ease. She was warm, pliant now, still half-caught in the fog of her nightmare. She curled naturally toward him, one hand fisting weakly in his shirtless chest.

The house was quiet as he carried her up the staircase.

He pushed open the door to his bedroom with his hip, he laid her gently on his bed. She sighed softly, turning instinctively toward his warmth.

He pulled the duvet over her carefully, smoothing it over her legs.

"I’ll be in the next room."

Ivy reached for his arm before he could turn away, her fingers trembling as they wrapped around his wrist. She tugged him gently toward her.

Winn allowed himself to be drawn closer, his breath catching when she sat up just enough to run her palms across his bare chest.

Her hands moved slowly... yet her eyes...

Her eyes weren’t looking at him.

They were looking through him.

Hollow. Haunted.

"Ivy?" Winn whispered, lowering himself beside her, concern slicing through every protective instinct he had. "What happened to you?"

There was a beat where he thought she might speak. Her mouth parted slightly.

But instead of responding, she lifted her face and kissed him.

Of course he wanted her.

Wanted her badly.

Desperately.

Ached for her with a level of hunger he couldn’t hide if he tried.

But the woman kissing him right now wasn’t his Ivy.

He knew her too well. Her tells. Her moods. Every shade of her desire.

He could always read need in her eyes—need for him, need for closeness, need for reassurance.

This wasn’t need.

This was suffering.

"Ivy..." he murmured against her lips, even as she tried to deepen the kiss. He cupped her face gently, forcing her to slow. "What do you want, Ivy? Tell me what you want."

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and stinging with unshed tears. Her lips trembled as she forced the words out:

"I want you to hurt me."

Winn froze.

His eyes narrowed in shock.

He pulled back, hands leaving her skin.

"Ivy..."

She wouldn’t explain. He knew that.

But something happened to his woman.

Something she was carrying alone.