Chapter 10 Iris
iris
I probably should have taken a longer shower but I didn’t want to wash Milo’s scent off completely.
Not yet anyway. My body is still humming with pleasure every time I replay the way Milo looked beneath me.
The desperation in his grip. The sounds he made when my lock caught on his cock, like he was rediscovering pleasure all over again.
I step out and quickly dry off, searching for my lotion and realize it’s in my bathroom and that I stupidly didn’t supply anything in this one.
It’s fine. I’ll just grab whatever I have in the living room.
I pull my braids from the ponytail I had them in, a whiff of Milo’s scent hitting my nose.
The fantasy of both of them at the same time hits me, my cheeks warming at the image.
The thought has been circling since the first night, gaining detail with every pass, and standing here with the ghost of Milo still pressed against my skin, I have to bite back a moan.
God, it would be perfect, Quentin behind me, his hand in my hair, his voice in my ear.
Milo beneath me, his body giving me everything without reservation.
The two of them filling me until there's no room left for the noise.
There’s some grumbling in the hallway when I grab some of the extra clothes in the cabinet, a smile spreading across my lips as I hear ‘stupid, so stupid’ over and over again. No doubt Milo is beating himself up for what just happened so I’ll give him a little space before I embarrass him about it.
My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter.
I pick it up expecting Quentin's name and another round of the bagel interrogation he started thirty minutes ago.
The man sent me four texts about cream cheese preferences, like it was a hostage negotiation.
I told him it didn't matter, and he responded with a bulleted list of reasons why it absolutely did.
Kevin Holloway.
I frown. Kevin doesn't have a reason to call me this early. Actually, Kevin doesn't have a reason to call me ever. I decline and set the phone on the counter, turning back to the mirror to twist my braids into a loose knot.
The phone buzzes again. Something tightens in my stomach as I pick it up and swipe to answer. "What do you want, Kevin?"
"Hey, Iris." The voice isn't Kevin's. It's lower, rougher, and carrying that specific blend of confidence and entitlement that makes my shoulders go rigid before my brain even processes who's speaking. "Figured you wouldn't pick up if you saw my name."
Chad.
My jaw locks. "Why are you using Kevin's phone to call me?"
"Had to get creative. You blocked my number after the last time, remember?" He says it casually, like circumventing someone's boundaries is a minor logistical challenge rather than a violation. "But I gotta be honest with you. I need to know what's going on."
"What's going on with what?"
"With the Vark twins." The playfulness drops from his voice. "Are you dating Milo? Or is it Quentin? Because I've been watching, and something's different. You're different around them."
My fingers tighten around the phone. The bathroom feels smaller than it did thirty seconds ago, the steam pressing in on my nerves. "What is wrong with you? Why are you calling me about my private life?"
"Because it affects the team, Iris. It affects all of us." His voice hardens, the entitled charm giving way to something uglier underneath. "You're the coach's daughter. You work with the athletic department. If you're hooking up with players, that's a conflict of interest, and your father—"
Fucking asshole thinks the rules apply to only him and no one else. "Don't."
"I'll take this to your father right now." The words land like he's been rehearsing them. "They'll get kicked off the team and everyone will know it's your fault. Coach won't have a choice."
The air leaves my lungs in a controlled exhale. "Are you threatening me right now?"
"I'm being honest with you. Someone has to be."
"This goes both ways, Chad." I keep my voice flat, stripped of everything except a bit of my Alpha bark. "I just have to tell my father that one of his players is harassing and attempting to blackmail his daughter. Without any actual proof, I might add."
There’s a pause, the briefest crack in his confidence. Then he fills it. "You're not all that careful, Iris. And Milo is so fucking obvious. His scent turns into a candy store every time you walk within ten feet of him. The whole team's noticed."
"That he likes me?" My lip curls in frustration. "So? Half the team has a crush on someone. You're obvious as fuck too, Chad. Forty-seven rejections and counting. You want to talk about obvious?"
"This is different—"
"This is entirely inappropriate. Don't call me from Kevin's phone again. Don't call me from anyone's phone. We're done."
I hang up before he can respond. The phone hits the counter harder than I intended, the sound cracking through the quiet bathroom, and I stand there with my hands braced on the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection in the fogged mirror.
From the outside, I look exactly the same as I did five minutes ago, before Chad Mercer reached through the phone and pressed his thumb against every crack I've been trying to hold closed.
That's the part that scares me. Not the threat itself, but how practiced I am at absorbing it.
How quickly my body locks everything down, routing the panic into some deep internal compartment where it can't reach my face or my voice or my scent.
I've been doing this my entire life. Tucking the messy parts away, presenting the composed surface, and being the Alpha everyone expects me to be.
And right now, the composed surface is the only thing keeping me upright.
I leave the bathroom and head straight for the kitchen table, opening my laptop again from this morning, and refocus on the budget documents spread across the surface.
My hands need something to do. My brain needs numbers, structure, and the skeleton of something that makes sense.
I pull up the equipment spreadsheet I've been putting off, the one due to the athletic department on Tuesday, and start entering figures.
The numbers don't register. I type them anyway.
Milo comes out of the bedroom wearing my shirt.
It hangs past his thighs, the collar slipping off one shoulder, his hair still damp from the shower and curling at the ends.
Under any other circumstances, the sight of him in my clothes would make my stomach flip.
I'd pull him close and breathe him in and tell him he looks good in my things.
Instead, I keep my eyes on the screen.
"Hey." He leans against the kitchen doorframe. "You okay? You were fine when I went to clean up and now you're..."
"I'm good." I pull up another spreadsheet. "Just getting a head start on the equipment report."
He doesn't move from the doorway. His head tilts, his eyes tracking the way my jaw is set and the way my fingers are hitting the keys harder than they need to. He knew my body thirty minutes ago. He can read the difference. "Did something happen while I was in the shower?"
"Nothing happened. I just need to get this done."
The front door opens ten minutes later as Quentin comes in carrying two bags from the bagel place on Elm, a drink carrier balanced in his other hand. He sets everything on the counter, pulls three bagels from the bag, and starts arranging them on plates.
"They were out of everything," he says, already cutting mine in half. "So I got sesame."
"Sesame is fine."
"You said that about poppy seed last time and then picked every seed off."
"That was different."
He sets the plate beside my laptop, close enough to reach, not close enough to crowd the workspace. The coffee he brought is exactly how I take it. I wrap my hands around the cup and hold it against my sternum, the heat seeping through the ceramic.
His head turns toward Milo, his nostrils flaring once, and his brow creases. "Why do you smell like that?"
Milo's ears go pink. "Like what?"
"Like a heat spike." Quentin moves toward the counter to grab the other bagels. "What happened while I was gone?"
"It's handled. I missed a suppressant yesterday and my body overreacted this morning. I took two, I'm fine." Milo's hand waves the topic away, his attention still fixed on me. "Can we focus on Iris? Something's wrong."
Quentin's gaze moves from Milo to me. "Iris, did something happen?"
"Nothing. I'm working."
Milo pushes off the doorframe and crosses to the table, his hand reaching for my shoulder. "You don't have to—"
"Milo, please." The words come out sharper than I mean them to, edged with something that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the phone call I can't tell them about yet without falling apart.
His hand freezes an inch from my skin. His shoulders pull inward, his scent souring, and I hate myself for putting that look on his face. "I just need to focus right now. Okay?"
He nods, pulling his hand back, but his eyes stay on me as he retreats toward the couch. Quentin watches the exchange from the counter, his arms crossed. Their voices carry from the living room a minute later, low but not low enough.
"Ease up," Quentin says.
"She won't look at me, Q. We were fine an hour ago. Better than fine. And now she's hiding behind her laptop like I'm not even here."
"And hovering over her is going to fix that?"
"I'm not hovering. I'm concerned. There's a difference."
"You followed her to the table, tried to touch her after she pulled away, and you're about to go back in there and offer her whatever you can find to offer her. I can see it on your face."
Milo grunts. “I’m trying to help.”
"Give her room. She'll talk when she's ready."