IVAN'S POV
I hadn't been able to get a useful response out of Serena last night. After I asked about the source of the picture from five years ago, she flat-out refused to give me an answer of any value.
"You do not have the right to make demands from me, Ivan Cross," she'd said coldly. "Why should I hand you one more weapon for Maeve's arsenal of lies? It doesn't matter what I say—you'd eat out of her palms either way."
She'd spat those words before storming out of the room.
I hadn't seen her since.
Frankly, I didn't think I wanted to.
Why would I bother looking her in the eye when all I wanted was another? She might have been my intended, my chosen mate on paper—but that title meant less to me with every passing day.
Somewhere along the way, Maeve had clawed her way back into my head, and now she was all I could think about.
I wanted to kiss her again.
Last night, I'd gone to bed with the memory of her wetness still etched in my mind.
