Chapter 5
IRIS
Amoment ago, my body hummed in that loose, boneless way that comes after being thoroughly undone in a place you absolutely should not be undone.
Julian stood behind me, one hand braced on the mirrored wall, the other resting far too casually at my hip, like we hadn’t just turned a glass-and-steel elevator into something obscene.
The elevator slowed, and I smoothed my dress, attempting to look like a woman who had simply ridden an elevator and not like someone who had just been pressed against mirrored walls by a man with dangerous hands and a mouth that should come with a warning label. And
The doors slid open, and I tried to keep it cool and casual, like not seeing him again wasn’t breaking something inside me. Like that something hadn’t already fractured when I snuck out of his bed that morning. And then…
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Three sharp sounds tear through the air.
It takes half a second for my brain to register what my body already knows. The world snaps into fragments. Screams and the metallic echo of the shots ricocheting through the hotel atrium.
Julian moves instantly.
One moment he’s behind me, relaxed, teasing. The next, he’s all motion.
One arm wraps around my shoulders, the other shoves the elevator’s emergency stop with brutal force.
The doors freeze halfway open.
“Behind me,” he orders, unnecessarily because that’s where he’s already shoved me. There’s no softness or flirtation in his voice now. His body is tense, and the arm that keeps me behind him is rock hard.
He bends down, and suddenly there’s a gun in his hand. With one hand braced against the elevator door, he darts in and out of the door super quick.
My heart slams against my ribs. “What the hell was that?” I whisper.
“Gunfire,” he says flatly.
“No kidding.” My fear makes me sound irritated. “But why?”
“We’ll find out,” he says without looking at me.
“And why do you have a gun? I thought the UK was a friendly country who didn’t even give guns to their police patrols. Why would they give them to their diplomats?” I realize I’m blabbering. That’s what happens when I’m nervous. Or afraid. Or both.
He looks at me for a moment, as if he’s going to answer my question, but then his jaw tightens. “Stay close. Do exactly what I say.”
Another shout echoes through the hotel. Someone screams again. The sound of running feet pounds from somewhere above us.
My phone buzzes violently in my hand. When I glance down, the screen is lighting up with alerts, emergency warnings, messages from editors all screaming variations of WHAT IS HAPPENING?!
Julian’s phone buzzes too. He doesn’t look at it, though. Doesn’t even acknowledge its existence. Instead, he focuses solely on me. “We’re getting out of the elevator,” he says. “Not into the hallway.”
“Then where…”
He presses a finger to my lips. “Iris. Trust me.” His blue eyes are scary, intense, and hard. Gone is the flirtatious diplomat. This is a completely different man than the one I spent the night with. Than the one who just fucked me up against the mirror wall of the elevator. Who is this?
I want to ask him just that, but his finger is still on my lips and he presses harder when he sees me about to open my mouth. “Iris,” he says again. “Trust. Me.”
His low tone and confident words cut through my panic. Somehow I do trust him. Both versions of him. At least for now.
I nod.
He pries the elevator doors apart a little more and slips through, scanning the corridor with sharp, precise movements that do not belong to a man who files reports and attends embassy dinners.
The hallway is complete chaos.
Guests are spilling out of the rooms. A woman in a silk robe sobs into her phone. A man shouts in French, demanding to know what’s happening. Somewhere below, another gunshot rings out, closer this time.
Julian grabs my wrist and pulls me in the opposite direction of the crowd.
“Emergency exit,” he says.
“Julian…”
“Move.”
We bolt to the end of the corridor and the door that has a picture of a person fleeing from fire. Regular fire. Not gun fire.
A hysterical giggle rise in my throat and I swallow it down, emitting a burp.
Julian shoots me a curious look but doesn’t comment. Instead, he opens the door, checks the other side really quickly, and then pulls me in after him.
The stairwell is dim and echoing, concrete steps ringing under our feet as we take them two at a time. My lungs burn. My heart is pounding so hard I’m half-convinced it’s audible.
“What is this?” I gasp. “A robbery? A terror attack?”
“Coup,” he says.
The word lands like a physical blow. “What?”
“Military-backed,” he continues, voice steady despite the speed we’re moving at. “Timing aligns with intelligence chatter.”
I stumble slightly, and his grip tightens, hauling me upright without breaking stride. “How do you know this?” I shout.
He glances back at me. Just once. “Iris,” he says, “you really don’t want me answering that right now.”
We burst out into a service corridor near the hotel’s back entrance. Staff are scattering. Someone is shouting into a radio. The air smells like sweat and panic.
Julian veers left, yanking open a nondescript door. Inside is a narrow storage room.
He locks the door behind us and crosses the small space to an electric panel, which he pulls straight out of the wall.
My mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He reaches inside the hole he just made and extracts a compact black backpack.
A go bag.
My stomach drops.
“You have a go bag,” I say faintly. The guy has prepared a freaking bug-out bag. I don’t even have underwear right now. Because he ripped them. Again.
“Yes.”
“In my hotel.”
“Yes.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Well, technically, it’s my hotel too. I’m also staying here.”
“Julian,” I whisper, “who the hell are you?”
He doesn’t answer. He pulls out some spare ammunition, which he stuffs into a back pocket, and then shrugs into the bag with practiced ease.
I stare.
“That is not diplomatic equipment.”
His mouth curves grimly. “You’d be surprised.”
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a breaking news alert.
SAN ISIDRO MILITARY MOVES ON PALACE. AIRPORT SHUT DOWN.
My hands shake. “This is real,” I say. “This is actually happening.”
Julian cups my face, forcing me to look at him. His touch is steady, grounding. “I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “But we have to move. Now.”
We slip out through the service exit into a narrow alley behind the hotel. The city sounds different already. Gone is the quiet calm I’m used to. Instead, there are sirens, helicopters, and distant shouting.
Julian leads me through the back streets like he’s walked them a hundred times. He keeps me close, always holding my hand while steering and shielding.
“Why do you know where you’re going?” I demand between breaths.
“Because I plan,” he says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting right now.
” We pass a closed bakery with broken windows.
It must have happened recently because shards of glass cover the sidewalk.
Julian takes a sharp turn, tugging me behind him down a narrow alley.
Behind the bakery, there’s a white sedan parked at an angle.
Well, not exactly parked because both the driver and passenger side doors are wide open.
Julian pushes me into the passenger side and closes the door behind on my questions and protests.
He jogs around to the other side, head constantly swiveling, watching our surroundings, including rooftops.
Within moments of slipping into the driver’s seat, he hot-wires the car and we’re on our way.
He’s driving the shift-stick car like he’s a professional racecar driver.
“What the fuck?” I say. “Do they teach you this in diplomat school?”
He smirks. “They do in the UK.”
As we pull into traffic, my phone explodes with messages. Editors. My best friend, April. “What do I tell them?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Julian says. “Phones go dark.” He reaches across the center console, plucks the phone out of my hands, and chucks it out the window.
“What? No…”
“Iris.” He glances at me sharply. “If they’re tracking targets, your phone is a beacon.”
His phone rings and answers without hesitation. “Cross.”
“Why do you get to keep your phone?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes at me, but then turns serious as he listens to whoever is on the other side of the line. “Yes.”
There’s a long pause, and his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Understood.” He hangs up.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“We’re heading to a safe house.” It’s becoming very clear that this man is no regular diplomat.
“Please tell me what’s going on. Tell me who you are.”
He shoots me a quick look, and there’s some of the old warmth in his eyes. “I’ll give you the answers I can, as soon as we are safe.”
I nod and sit back, letting him focus on driving.
He drives the compact car hard, weaving through streets clogged with panicked traffic. Military vehicles roar past us, flags snapping from their hoods and roofs.
The safe house is a small cottage on the outskirts of town. It’s hidden behind what looks to be abandoned sheds and commercial buildings.
Julian makes me stand outside while he does a safety check. When he finally allows me inside, I sag against the wall, adrenaline crashing. “So,” I say weakly, “this is where you tell me you’re actually a spy.” He closes the door, locks it, then turns to face me. “Iris…”
Before he can finish, his phone buzzes again.
He answers. Listens. Then swears and hangs up.
“What?” I ask.
“We got to go. This place is compromised.”
“But we just got here.” My protest sounds childish, even in my ears, but I’m so tired and feel so confused. About this coup. About Julian. About not wearing any underwear.
He looks at me, and for a moment, sympathy flashes in his eyes. But then they turn cold again. “Don’t fall apart on me now, Iris. I need you to do as I tell you.” He grips my shoulders. “Understand?”
I nod. “Yes.” I don’t really have any other choice, do I?
He holds my gaze. “Good girl.” Then he lets go of me and I miss the warmth of his grip, of his body close to mine. “We can’t stay in the city.” He’s already steering me out of the house. “They’re rounding up foreigners to use as hostages for ransom.”
Outside, helicopters thunder overhead.
I swallow hard. “Where do we go?”
Julian's step falters for just a moment, but then he keeps going. I hear him muttering something under his breath that sounds like a curse word, but I can’t be sure. “To someone I hoped never to meet again.”
That does not sound good, but nothing about this situation is good. So I swallow down my panic and stumble after the guy who gave me the best sex of my life, twice.
The guy whose identity I do not know, and probably not his name either.
The guy who still has my torn panties in his pocket.