Chapter 12 Iris
IRIS
The wine smooths the sharp edges between us.
By the second glass, I’m laughing at his story about hacking MIT’s grading system at seventeen. By the third, I’ve stopped caring that I’m laughing at all.
“You gave yourself a B-minus?” I lean forward, forgetting to maintain distance. “Why not straight A’s?”
“Too obvious.” His eyes glitter in the candlelight. “Perfect grades attract attention. Perfect except for one strategic flaw? That’s just human nature.”
“Devious.”
“Says the woman who tried to frame a Russian collective last week.” He refills my glass without asking. “How’d you fabricate their signature?”
I shouldn’t tell him.
“Analyzed their syntax patterns across three years of dark web activity. Built a linguistic model that mimicked their grammatical quirks.”
“Brilliant.” He says it like he means it, like I’ve done something worthy of admiration. “Did it work?”
“For about six hours.” I swirl the wine. “Then you saw through it.”
“You wanted me to see through it.”
“Maybe.”
His leg shifts under the table, knee brushing mine. I don’t move away.
The waiter brings our entrees—duck for him, sea bass for me. I barely taste it. Too focused on the way Alexi’s hands move when he talks, long fingers gesturing to illustrate his point about encryption protocols.
Too focused on how badly I want those hands on me.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“You stare at me constantly.”
“Fair point.” He cuts into his duck. “What are you thinking?”
I want to leave with you. That this terrifies me. That I haven’t felt this alive since before my parents died.
“That this was supposed to be one dinner and then you’d leave me alone.”
“And?”
“And I’m considering whether that’s actually what I want.”
The confession hangs between us, dangerous and raw.
Alexi sets down his fork slowly. “What do you want, Iris?”
You. I want you in ways that make no logical sense.
“I don’t know.”
“Liar.” His voice drops lower. “You always know what you want. You just don’t want to admit it.”
My pulse hammers. “Maybe I like keeping you guessing.”
“Maybe you’re scared of what happens if you stop running.”
Heat floods through me—wine and want and something darker I won’t name.
“Should I be scared?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Because I think you actually like the fear.” His gaze locks onto mine, predatory and knowing. “It turns you on.”
My breath catches. I should deny it, should laugh it off as typical male arrogance.
But he’s right.
“That’s quite an assumption.”
“It’s an observation.” He leans back, supremely confident. “Every time I corner you, your pupils dilate. Your breathing quickens. And it’s not just fear, Iris.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“So are you.” He signals the waiter, never breaking eye contact. “I’d like to test that theory tonight when we leave here.”
Heat pools low in my belly. “Test it how?”
“There’s a place I know. Old industrial building in South Boston. Multiple floors, mostly empty.”
I shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t engage.
“And?”
“Hide and seek.” His smile turns wicked. “You get a ten-minute head start. I hunt.”
My pulse spikes.
“That’s insane.”
“Scared?”
“Of course I’m scared. You’re—” I lower my voice. “This is fucked up.”
“Is it?” He pays the check without looking at it. “Or is it just honest? No pretending we’re normal people on a normal date. No games about who we really are.”
“We’re already playing games.”
“No.” He stands, offering his hand. “We’re about to stop playing.”
I stare at his outstretched palm. This is my exit. I can walk away, go home, rebuild my walls.
Or I can take his hand and follow this dangerous pull into something that might destroy me.
“What happens when you catch me?”
“When, not if?” His smile sharpens.
“Realistic.”
“Then I guess you’ll find out.” He waits, patient as a spider. “Ten minutes, Iris. That’s generous, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Considering I already know exactly how you move.”
My hand slides into his before I can stop myself.
“One condition,” I say.
“Name it.”
“If I make it the full hour without getting caught, you leave me alone for a week.”
“Deal.” His fingers tighten around mine. “And when I catch you in five minutes?”
“Then I’m yours for the night.”
His smirk cuts across his face—vicious, victorious.
“You’re going to regret making it so easy.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. My heart’s already racing.
The drive to South Boston takes fifteen minutes. He parks in front of a massive brick structure, all broken windows and rusted fire escapes. Looks condemned. Probably is.
“Perfect spot for murder,” I say.
“Or other activities.” He kills the engine. “Ten minutes start when you go through that door.”
I study the building. Five stories, maybe six. Multiple entry points, countless hiding spots.
“How do I know you won’t cheat?”
He pulls out his phone, sets a timer. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Boy Scout.”
“No.” His smile turns predatory. “I wasn’t.”
I climb out of his car, smoothing my dress. The silk suddenly feels impractical for running.
“Should’ve warned me to wear different clothes,” I say.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
I flip him off and walk toward the entrance. Don’t rush. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
The door hangs crooked on broken hinges. I slip through, careful of the sharp edges.
Inside, moonlight streams through shattered windows. Dust particles dance in the silver beams. The space opens into what used to be a warehouse floor—concrete pillars, exposed ductwork, scattered debris.
I move deeper, heels clicking on concrete.
And suddenly, I’m grinning.
Adrenaline floods my system, sharp and electric. This is wild. Reckless. Completely fucking stupid.
I love it.
My fingers trail along a rusted metal beam as I survey my options. Stairs to the right lead up. A corridor to the left disappears into shadow. Straight ahead, what might be an old loading dock.
The thrill builds with each heartbeat. No screens between us now. No firewalls or encryption. Just raw, physical space and the promise of being caught.
I kick off my heels, grab them by the straps.
Ten minutes to disappear.
My body hums with anticipation as I choose the stairs, climbing two at a time. The second floor opens into smaller rooms—offices, maybe. More places to hide.
More corners for him to search.
I bite my lip, pulse pounding in my throat.
Find me, Alexi.
I find my spot on the third floor—a maintenance closet tucked behind what used to be a break room. Metal shelving units create a narrow gap against the back wall, just wide enough for me to wedge myself into.
Perfect.
I press my back against cold concrete. My breathing sounds too loud in the enclosed space, heart hammering against my ribs.
Somewhere below, a door slams.
“Ready or not.” Alexi’s voice echoes through the empty building, carrying up through broken floors and shattered walls. “I’m coming for you, Iris.”
Heat floods through me at his words. My thighs clench involuntarily.
This is ridiculous. Waiting in the dark while he hunts me like prey. Every logical part of my brain screams that I should’ve gone home, should’ve blocked his number, should’ve disappeared like I’m good at doing.
But my body doesn’t care about logic.
My pulse throbs between my legs, each beat a reminder of how badly I want to be caught. How badly I want his hands on me when he finds me.
When. Not if.
Footsteps on the stairs—steady, unhurried. He’s taking his time, enjoying this as much as I am.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper. My dress rides up my thighs as I shift position, silk whispering against skin. The darkness feels thick, oppressive. Anticipation coils tighter with each passing second.
Another door opens somewhere close. Hinges screech.
“You’re good at hiding,” he calls out. “But I’m better at finding.”
My breath catches. He sounds closer now. Same floor, maybe.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to control my ragged breathing. Trying to ignore the slick heat gathering between my thighs, the way my nipples harden against the thin fabric of my dress.
This is just adrenaline. Just fear response.
Liar.
More footsteps. Closer. The methodical sound of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, who’s done this before in different contexts—hunting through systems, tracking digital footprints.
Now he’s tracking me.
The arousal builds with each approaching step until I’m trembling in the darkness, desperate and terrified and more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life.
The break room door groans open.
My entire body locks up, every muscle rigid. Through the crack in the shelving, I watch his silhouette move across the doorway. Tall, lean, methodical in the way he scans the space.
“You breathe too loud,” he says. “I can hear you from here.”
Panic spikes through me. I try to hold my breath, but my lungs burn, demanding air. The inhale comes sharp and ragged, impossibly loud in the silence.
Fuck.
His head turns toward the closet. Toward me.
“There you are.”
I press harder against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. The shelving unit scrapes across concrete as he shoves it aside, and then his hand wraps around my wrist, yanking me forward.
I stumble out of the darkness and straight into his chest.
“Caught you.” His arms lock around me, trapping me against him.
“Let me go.” I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.
He spins me around, back pressed to his front, one arm banded across my waist. His breath is hot against my ear.
“No.” His voice drops lower, darker. “A deal is a deal.”
His free hand lifts, phone screen illuminating both our faces. The timer reads 10:47.
“Ten minutes,” he says, lips brushing my temple. “Nowhere near the hour you needed.”
My pulse hammers against his forearm. I can feel every inch of him pressed against me—solid muscle, controlled strength, the hard evidence of his arousal against my lower back.
“That’s not fair,” I breathe. “You said you’d give me ten minutes before you started—”