“Hey, Freckles.” Ty’s voice is a bruise and a balm, rolled into one, but the bruising is more identifiable now. “Ty, I should have known they’d appoint you—the placater. Good to hear you’re alive and well, but don’t fucking call me Freckles.” He clears his throat, my demand sobering his voice to a tentative huskiness. “Okay, Ivy. I know you’re in pain—” “In pain?” My tone remains placid, detached, and resolute, but I won’t skirt the issues. “You think I’m in pain? I’m not in pain, Ty. I’m numb. Pain is stubbing your toe, breaking an arm, not being able to walk after twenty-four hours of
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