CHAPTER 18
IRIS
By the time morning bleeds into the sky, I have already washed, dressed, and armored myself for the day.
I am halfway through raising my fist to knock on his door when it swings open, revealing Ilay.
He is fully dressed, brooding as always, and looking as if he hasn’t slept a single second.
We descend the stairs together, finding Tessa already at the breakfast table.
She is practically inhaling scrambled eggs while doom-scrolling on her phone.
"Morning, sunshine," she drawls without looking up, a smirk playing on her lips. "Sleep well knowing your guard dog was stationed outside your door all night?"
I shoot her a warning glare. "Can you not?"
"I’m just saying," she continues, finally looking up with a grin.
"If I had a man that obsessed with me, I’d at least give him a proper blanket.
That thin thing you tossed him looked less like bedding and more like a dishrag.
" Ilay slides into the seat across from her, looking completely unbothered by the jab. "Single people shouldn’t meddle in couple’s affairs. "
"meddle," Tessa repeats, rolling the word around her tongue mockingly. "oh don’t worry, ill keep my mouth shut”
I grab a slice of toast to silence my own thoughts.
Breakfast passes in a heavy silence. Ilay barely touches his food, his dark eyes scanning the room, while I try not to check my phone for the hundredth time.
Tessa makes a few pointed looks between us but wisely chooses to preserve her own life by staying quiet.
Once we finish, Tessa stands abruptly. "Alright, I’m coming with you guys."
Ilay’s frown is instant. "No."
"Yes," she counters flatly. "You think I’m staying here alone with that creepy ginger guy who won’t stop staring at me? Hard pass." I sigh, rubbing my temples. "Fine. Just… stay in the car when we get there."
"Deal." We get into the car and head straight to the address listed in Professor Lev’s notes. When we arrive, the stench hits us before the view does.
Cows. Hundreds of them. The property stretches out endlessly, a patchwork of fences, barns, and pastureland in every direction.
"Wow," I murmur, blinking against the sun. "Did he spend all his money on this place? It’s massive."
The animals look healthy, well-fed, and content. But beside me, Ilay is full-body recoiling, looking as though someone has just shoved a pile of manure directly under his nose.
"This place smells like shit," he mutters, his lip curling in disgust. "Literal shit."
Tessa snorts from behind us. "That’s because cows shit, genius. What did you expect? Lavender fields?" I shoot him a look. "Animals defecate, Ilay. You think their crap is supposed to smell like roses just for you?"
"I fucking hate this place," he snaps, adjusting his pristine cuffs. "Let’s get this over with so my lungs can breathe real air again. Even that filthy inn air is preferable to this."
Tessa cackles. "Oh my God, you’re such a princess. Do you need a fainting couch? Maybe some smelling salts?" Ilay turns a lethal glare on her. "Do you need to be left in the car with the windows rolled up?"
"Try it," she shoots back. "I’ll hotwire the car and leave your bougie ass stranded in cow country."
"And I’m the dramatic one," I say, walking ahead to cut the tension. "You’re about to pass out over a little manure."
We move deeper into the property, our boots crunching against the dry earth.
Eventually, we spot a man near one of the sheds.
He’s somewhere in his mid-thirties, lean to the point of looking stretched thin, with a kind of nervous energy that clings to him.
His eyes dart, his fingers twitch, and it takes only one look for us to put the name to the man. Spencer.
We start walking toward him, and I raise my hand to wave, but the moment he sees us, he freezes.
His eyes lock on Ilay, and pure terror washes over his face. He turns first doing a power walk, then a full-on sprint.
"Wait—sir! Wait!" I call out. "Sir!" Ilay barks, his voice booming. We break into a run, but he has a head start. He disappears inside his farmhouse and slams the door shut. We catch up seconds later, banging on the wood.
"Sir, can we please speak to you?" I plead, breathless. "Aren’t you Spencer?"
From behind the door, a muffled, panicked voice replies, "There are a lot of Spencers! I’m not the only one! Please, just leave me alone!"
"Sir," I say again, trying to keep my voice even. "I’m a lawyer. I need to speak with you on behalf of my client regarding the documents entrusted to you. Keeping them is illegal."
Silence.
I lean closer to the wood. "Professor Lev is dead, Spencer. He’s dead. Whatever you think you’re protecting by holding out, it won’t save you when the people who killed him decide to come for you."
The door creaks open, just a sliver. Through the crack, I see a pale, sweaty face.
"Please," he whispers. "I want nothing to do with this. Just… go."
I try to peer through the crack. "Can we just come inside to talk? Just for a few—"
"No, no, no—"
Before he can finish his rejection, Ilay rounds the corner.
In one swift, horrifying movement, his hand shoots out, gripping Spencer by the throat and lifting him off his feet.
The door flies open under his strength, and Spencer dangles from his grasp, his legs kicking uselessly as he gasps for air.
My lips part in silent shock. The sheer power Ilay possesses to hoist a full-grown man like a ragdoll while looking bored is terrifyingly unreal.
Ilay looks around the interior, unimpressed. "Hmm. This place looks even more terrible than the inn."
"Please drop him," I say, stepping forward and placing a hand on Ilay’s arm. "Please."
Ilay lets go. Spencer collapses to the floor with a loud, pained grunt.
"I’m so sorry, sir," I say quickly, kneeling beside him. "We didn’t mean to do that. My friend here just… has a short fuse."
But Ilay isn’t done. "With this shabby apartment," he sneers, glancing around in disgust, "where the hell do you expect us to sit? How do you invite guests in and not even have furniture?"
I shoot him a glare. Guests? You forced yourself in, you mad man.
Spencer scrambles up and darts off, returning moments later with two dusty wooden chairs. Ilay drops into it spreading out his legs, from his posture you would think its his house, and I take the other.
"Sir," I start, keeping my voice steady. "You have documents that belong to my client. Sensitive papers regarding financial transactions with Professor Lev. If those documents fall into the wrong hands, people get hurt. We just want to finalize the inheritance."
Still, he says nothing.
Ilay tilts his head, his voice dropping to a cold, predatory pitch. "Why is he quiet? Is he thinking about the dead professor?" His gaze sharpens. "Do you want to join him?"
I turn, but Ilay isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed on Spencer, the predator surfacing clear as day.
"I can arrange that," he adds softly, almost kindly. "Then maybe you two can sit in hell’s waiting room and gossip about your little farm life."
The room goes dead still. Spencer looks like he is about to pass out, shrinking into his chair as if trying to disappear.
I force a laugh trying to ease the tension. "Haha, oh, he’s so funny," I say, nudging Ilay with my elbow and shooting Spencer a look that screams play along or die. Spencer lets out a shaky, haunted laugh that sounds like a dying vacuum cleaner.
"Haha… yeah, big guy… big sense of humor," I continue, my voice sugary sweet. "Sure, he’s big and scary looking, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly! Right?" Ilay raises an eyebrow but remains silent.
I smile at Spencer. "Sorry for the rough greeting, but please, just tell us where the documents are.
" Spencer licks his lips, darting his eyes to the door, then leans in, whispering, "If I tell you…
can you guarantee my safety?" Ilay rolls his eyes so hard I practically hear them click. "I could not care less."
I click my tongue then turn to face spencer with my calm and reassuring lawyer smile. "I can. I’ll handle it personally. Bring them to the inn tomorrow morning. We’ll keep you safe, I promise."
He gives a small nod, trembling as he begins to stand.
A loud BANG shatters the room. One second, Spencer has a face. The next—he doesn’t.
Blood, bone, and gray matter splatter across the wall behind him in a gruesome artistic display.
I scream, the sound tearing from my throat as my knees give out.
I hit the floor, and I vomit. Outside, Tessa screams. "What the fuck?
! What the—" Ilay is beside me in a heartbeat, catching my hair with one hand while his other reaches behind his back.
A weak, garbled "…thank you…" slips from my mouth, directed at no one. "Face down. Now," he orders.
Still shaking, I obey, pressing myself flat against the grimy wooden floor. Ilay pulls the gun from his waistband in one clean motion—Bang! He fires a single, sharp shot in the direction the bullet came from, his body doing the math before his brain even needs to.
Then he hauls me up with one arm under my knees, while the other around my back and storms toward the exit. Outside, Tessa is sprinting in zigzags across the field like she is being chased by a ghost.
"GET DOWN!" Ilay roars. "I’M TRYING!" she screams back, diving behind a hay bale.
We are barely out the door when Ilay’s head turns slightly, catching a flicker of movement I can’t even see. His pupils contract. The moment he feels the shift in the air, Ilay twists his body, turning his back to shield me as another bullet tears through the air.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
He drops low into a split-second crouch, dragging me behind a rusted tractor for cover. It is the movement of a man who has danced with death too many times to be surprised by its rhythm.
His grip on me never falters. His breathing remains calm, not even labored. Ilay isn’t just dodging bullets; he is reading them, feeling them before they even kiss the breeze.
When we finally slide into cover, he pulls me tightly into his chest, making himself a shield of flesh and bone. Wrapped in his arms, trembling and breathless, I feel strangely safe.
Then I smell it. That harsh, metallic scent of Blood.
Panic flares within me was I shot? But I feel no pain.
I blink hard, trying to breathe, and then I see it.
His shoulder. I pull back, ignoring the way his arms tense around me, and tug his jacket open, blood oozes out, soaking the lining.
A clean shot, straight through the shoulder.
It probably happened when he yanked me aside. If he had moved on his own, he would have been fine. But he didn't. He chose to take the hit so I wouldn't. The lump in my throat burns. My fingers tremble as I touch his face. "You’re hurt," I whisper.
His eyes meet mine, his expression softening. He scoffs. "this is nothing baby girl, don’t worry, I’m okey I promise." I blink, remembering who this is. The man who shot himself twice just to prove a point. "No, for real this time. You can’t keep doing this. Getting hurt like this…"
His gaze locks with mine, intense and unyielding. "I’d rather get shot a thousand more times," he says, hoarsely, "than watch you take a single hit."
The way he says it tells me everything. He means every word. This man would take a bullet for me and die if it meant seeing me safe. From behind the hay bale, Tessa yells, "Are we good?! Can I come out now?!"
"Stay down!" Ilay barks. "I’M NOT EVEN THE TARGET!" she screams back. "WHY AM I RUNNING?!"