Chapter 7

Iris's POV

Victor's house loomed at the end of the driveway, all warm light and dark windows. I parked behind his car and walked to the door with my pulse hammering in my throat.

He opened it before I could knock.

"Iris." His voice wrapped around my name like a hand closing around something precious. "Come in."

His eyes traveled down, then up. Lingering, approving and Taking in the high neckline, the covered arms, the armor I'd so carefully constructed.

A small smile played at the corner of his mouth, like he found my efforts adorable and completely futile.

"Marcus called," he said, stepping aside to let me enter. "He'll be late. An hour, maybe two."

I should have left. Should have made an excuse, fled to my car, driven everywhere, but here.

Instead, I stepped inside. The door closed behind me with a soft, final click.

He led me through the house to a sitting room I hadn't seen before, cozier than the formal spaces, with a deep leather couch and a fireplace that crackled softly despite the mild evening. A bottle of wine waited on the low table, already breathing, two glasses catching the firelight.

"Sit." He gestured to the couch. "Please."

I sat on the couch, and he sat beside me. Close. Too close for comfort that I could smell him. He must have used pheromones because something made me want to lean closer to him and breathe deeper.

He poured wine, handed me a glass, and settled back on his own. His knee was inches from mine. If I shifted, we'd touch.

"You look lovely tonight," he said. "Though I suspect you dressed for battle."

My fingers tightened on the glass. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?" His eyes found mine. "High neck, long sleeves and everything covered. Like you're afraid of what might happen if I saw too much."

"I'm not afraid of anything."

"Liar."

The word was soft, almost affectionate. It landed in my chest and stayed there.

He took a slow sip of wine, watching me over the rim. "Tell me about your writing. Marcus said, You've been working on something new."

I seized the topic like a lifeline, although I should have known better. "Yes. My editor wants me to go darker and write about more dangerous heroes."

"Dangerous, how?"

"Possessive and obsessive. The kind of man who doesn't take no for an answer." I really don't know why I'm telling him this, but my brain ceased to function around him.

Victor's lips curved. "And you're struggling with that?"

"I'm struggling to make him believable." I set my wine down, needing my hands to do something other than shake. "Men like that don't exist in real life. It's fantasy."

"Is it?"

The question hung between us.

"I think," he said slowly, "that you've been writing about the wrong men. Men who ask permission." He leaned closer. "What would happen if you wrote a man who simply... took what he wanted?"

My throat closed.

"Sometimes," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "you have to live the scene to write it."

The double meaning settled on my skin like heat. I felt it everywhere: my cheeks, my chest, the space between my thighs where a pulse had started beating that had nothing to do with fear.

I should have stood. Should have walked out. Should have done literally anything except sit there, frozen, while he looked at me like I was already his.

"Iris." His hand moved, not touching me but close. So close I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "Look at me."

I did.

Mistake.

His eyes were dark, knowing and hungry. The kind of hunger that didn't get satisfied, only fed. He looked at me like I was the meal and the feast and the last bite he'd save for the end.

"You feel this too." This was not a question but a statement. "I see it every time you look at me. The way your pulse jumps when I'm near. The way you press your thighs together when you think I'm not watching."

"I'm engaged to your son."

"I know."

No apology.

"This is wrong." My voice came out thin. Pleading like I was begging him to agree, to push me away, to save me from myself.

He leaned closer. Close enough that I could feel his breath on my lips. "Is it? Or is it the most honest thing you've felt in years?"

I had no answer.

Because he was right.

The most honest thing I'd felt in years was this moment. This fire, this terrifying, electric pull toward a man who should have been off limits in every possible way.

His hand lifted. I watched it move toward me in slow motion, knowing I should stop it, knowing I wouldn't.

His fingers brushed my cheek.

I shivered.

"You're freezing," he murmured. "Or burning. I can't tell which."

"Both."

The word slipped out before I could catch it.

Something shifted in his eyes. It became darker and hungrier.

"Iris..."

The front door slammed.

We broke apart like teenagers caught under the bleachers. I grabbed my wine, pressed it to my lips, tried to look casual. Victor rose smoothly, composed, no trace of the heat that had been in his eyes seconds ago.

"Marcus!" His voice carried, warm and welcoming. "We were just talking about you."

Marcus appeared in the doorway, slightly flushed, still in his work clothes. "Sorry, sorry, the deal was a nightmare. Dad, you're a saint for keeping her company." He crossed me, kissed my forehead, dropped onto the couch beside me. "Are you okay, babe?"

"Fine." I smiled. The performance came easily now. "Victor and I were just discussing my book."

Marcus grinned at his father. "She's being modest. Her books are incredible. You should read one."

"Perhaps I will," Victor's eyes found mine over Marcus's head. "I have a feeling I'd recognize more than I expected."

Dinner was torture.

We moved to the dining room: Victor at the head, Marcus and me across from each other. Marcus dominated the conversation, as he always did when nervous or excited, filling the silence with stories about the deal, the office, his plans for the company.

I nodded, smiled and made all the appropriate noises.

And every time I looked up, Victor was watching.

His eyes would find mine and hold for a beat too long, then slide away. Each glance a secret and a promise.

Under the table, I pressed my thighs together and hated myself for it.

By the time dessert came, I'd stopped pretending I was in control. I was surviving. Minute by minute. Breath by breath.

Marcus scraped the last of his tiramisu and leaned back with a satisfied groan. "Best dinner in weeks. Dad, you have to give me your chef's number."

Victor's smile was warm, paternal and completely convincing. "I'll text it to you." His eyes flickered to me. "Iris, did you enjoy the meal?"

"It was lovely." I responded politely.

"I'm glad." He rose, and we followed. "Let me walk you out."

At the door, Marcus hugged him quickly. "Thanks for keeping her company. Sorry I was late."

"Not at all." Victor clasped his shoulder. "Drive safe, son."

Then I stepped past him, and his hand found my lower back. Briefly, with just enough pressure to remind me he was there.

"Goodnight, Iris." His voice dropped, meant only for me. "Sweet dreams."

I didn't look back. I couldn't.

In the car, Marcus reached for my hand. "Are you okay? You were quiet tonight."

"Just tired. Long week."

He squeezed my fingers. "I know, babe. Get some rest tomorrow."

I smiled. Nodded. Played the part.

That night, I lay beside him in the dark, listening to his breathing even out into sleep. My body hummed with a tension that wouldn't fade. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Victor's hungry eyes and wondered what would have happened if Marcus's arrival hadn't interrupted us.

I pressed my thighs together, hard, and felt the ache bloom.

He was right. He was in my head, in my blood, in the spaces between breaths. And the worst part was that some part of me didn't want to fight it anymore.

I turned onto my side, away from Marcus, and stared at the wall.

You're already lost, a voice whispered. The only question is how much more you'll lose before it's over.

I closed my eyes.

And dreamed of him.

I always dreamed of him now.