Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(83)

“He doesn’t do things half-assed.” I think it’s all-or-nothing with a guy like him. Just like it’s all-or-nothing with me.

“Yeah . . .” Bobby doesn’t sound convinced. “Something about him doesn’t sit right with me. You’ve always been a smart girl. Use your gut and get some answers about him. I don’t trust him.”

“Funny. He doesn’t trust you either.” Though Sebastian hasn’t come out and said it, I see it in his eyes every time he looks at Bobby.

“Yeah . . . I figured as much. I’m takin’ off now.” He slings his jacket over his shoulder. “Same time tomorrow?”

I sigh, offering a grudging, “Thanks for the help.”

“Thank my dad. He tore a strip off my hide yesterday for gettin’ mad at ya.”

I listen to Bobby’s heavy footsteps pound down the steps, considering his words.

Sebastian is still a mystery, I’m aware of that. But is there something that I definitely need to know, and now?

Something he’s not telling me?

The last thing I want to do is pry. He’ll tell me more about himself when he’s ready, just like Dakota said. As weird as she is, she has the uncanny ability of being right about these things.

“Hey, Ivy!” Sebastian’s deep voice calls out and my entire being automatically responds, my heart skipping a beat, energy spiking, a thrill coursing through my limbs. All at the sound of his voice calling my name.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s head out. I need to eat.”

“Coming.”



“Ned used to eat subs at least three times a week,” I murmur through a mouthful. Not graceful, I know, but I’m starving.

“Hey, listen, would Dakota mind if I stay at your place for a few nights?” he asks, his eyes are on his rearview mirror more than the road ahead, as they have been since we left Ned’s house.

“Not at all.” I frown. “What’s wrong with your place?”

“Plumbing issues.”

I pick away quietly at the sandwich, not believing his answer but having no good reason to question it openly. Plus, that means Sebastian’s guaranteed to be in my bed for the next few nights. Win-win.

The light ahead turns yellow. I’m expecting Sebastian to stop, because there’s plenty of time. Instead he slams his foot on the gas and the engine roars as it kicks into high gear. I nearly choke on my mouthful of Dr Pepper as we sail through the intersection on a red light, earning blasts of angry horns as Sebastian swerves around a turning car.

Not until we’ve slowed down does he ask, “Are you okay?”

I turn to glare at him. “I’m fantastic.”

His steely look breaks for just a second with a tiny smirk, but he doesn’t say anything else.



I’m a deep sleeper. Once I’m out, I’m out for the night. But I’m not used to sharing a bed with anyone, or having anyone in my room while I sleep, period. I guess that’s why I keep waking up through the night. I’m usually draped across Sebastian’s body—an arm here, a leg there. This bed is only a double, and while I’m small, Sebastian takes up well over half, lying on his back.

But tonight, when my eyes crack open at three a.m., Sebastian isn’t even lying beside me. He’s settled in front of the window on the wooden chair that normally sits in the corner—a creaky, narrow antique that groans under the slightest weight—with one foot resting on the windowsill, an arm draped over his knee. His hard gaze is locked on the street beyond the billowy white eyelet lace curtain where he has pushed it aside.

I remain still and study him—his long muscular body, the faint streetlight streaming in highlighting the curves and hard edges. He’s pulled on his briefs, much to my dismay, as I would have had a great view of all of him from this angle. As it is, I can still see my detailed work on his torso, which I find myself loving more and more each time he lets me tend to it.

“I know you’re awake.”

My heart jumps at the sound of his deep voice cutting into the silence, but then I smile. “How do you know?”

“Your breathing changed.”

“You’ve been listening to me breathe? Why?”

“Because I like the sound of it. It’s peaceful.”

He hasn’t turned from the window yet, so I continue my unabashed study of him. “How do you stay in such great shape?”

“I work out almost every day.”

“You haven’t the last couple of days.”

“No.” The corners of his mouth twitch. “I’ve been too busy.”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to the mess at the house, or the nights in this bed. I’ll assume both.

My gaze wanders down. He has a runner’s legs and I’m guessing he’s fast. “What’s that scar on your thigh?” I’ve noticed he protects his left leg whenever we’re together, putting more weight on his right side. It looks like it might have been painful.

His hand slides over it, his jaw tensing a touch. He doesn’t answer right away, and I don’t push, simply watching him.

“Bullet wound.”

Sebastian’s been shot? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised given his history and his career—and all the scars on him—but . . . I know skin and scarring, and that one is fresh.