Rough Waters: 2. Friction and Fire

The storm hadn’t eased by morning. Rain pounded against the mansion windows like a relentless drum, and wind tore through the trees outside, bending their trunks and shaking loose leaves that skittered across the marble floor. Ivy sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, hair damp from a rushed shower, and stared out at the gray, roiling sea.

She hated the storm. She hated this house. And she absolutely hated Jace.

But God, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The memory of last night—the way he had cornered her in the hallway, the heat of his proximity, the rough brush of his thumb over her wrist—haunted her. It had left her skin tingling in ways she refused to admit aloud. She shifted uncomfortably, tugging at her sweater, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in her belly.

And then she heard it.

The click of the front door. His voice, deep, deliberate, slicing through the storm’s chaos.

“Breakfast’s in the kitchen,” Jace called. “If you’re not too bu