Chapter 11 Iris
iris
It’s been two days since I let the Vark twins see a little more of myself and it’s been for the better.
I feel lighter, even more so than usual.
Keeping the smile on my face contained is more difficult, though, and every time my father jokingly asks who the new guy is, I feel just a little more guilty.
My portfolio bag bounces against my hip as I cut across the frozen grass, taking the shortcut I've used since freshman year, the one that shaves three minutes off the walk and keeps me away from the main paths where people linger.
A hand catches my arm from behind. "Iris. We need to talk."
Chad’s grip isn't hard enough to hurt, but it's firm enough to stop me mid-stride.
His fingers wrap around my bicep, the contact sending a jolt of irritation down my spine that I have to physically clamp down on.
My Alpha instincts flare up, the primal part of my brain reading the uninvited touch as a challenge, and it takes more effort than it should to keep my expression neutral as I turn to face him.
He's alone. No Kevin trailing behind him, no audience to perform for.
That shifts the calculation immediately because Chad without Kevin is a different animal.
The smug showmanship is gone, the bicep flexing and the loud declarations stripped away, and what's left underneath is someone who looks like he hasn't slept since our phone call.
His sandy hair is less meticulously gelled than usual, his eyes carrying something that's moved past the entitlement I'm used to.
Resentment. The kind that curdles when someone who's never been told no runs out of ways to reframe rejection as a challenge.
"Let go of my arm, Chad."
He drops it, but he doesn't step back. He stays in my space, close enough that his scent hits me, the Alpha equivalent of a dog raising its hackles. "You hung up on me." His voice lower than usual, stripped of the bravado he'd used on the phone. "You threatened me and you hung up on me."
"I told you the truth. You didn't like it. There's a difference."
"You think you're so fucking smart." He takes half a step closer, closing the gap between us until I can see the vein pulsing at his temple. "Little miss bookkeeper with her spreadsheets and her records. You think that scares me?"
"I think you haven't slept in two days, so yes. I think it does."
His nostrils flare. The muscle in his jaw twitches. Fuck, this is personal to him, isn’t it? I challenged him on the phone and his pride hasn't recovered, and he's standing on this frozen walkway trying to get back the upper hand through sheer proximity.
"I've been patient," he says, his voice dropping even lower. "For over a year, I've been patient. I put in the time, I showed up, I made it clear. And you chose them." The word comes out forced. "A Beta and an Omega. Over me."
"I didn't choose them over you. I said no to you long before they were in the picture."
"Bullshit." His chin dips, his eyes locked on mine. "I've been watching, Iris. Not just Milo's scent giving him away. I've seen Quentin leaving your apartment building at six in the morning. I saw the three of you at The Crimson Vine leaving together after the auction. I know what this is."
I should have known that he had been watching and waiting for a moment to strike. Fear spreads through my chest as I desperately try to find a way out of this conversation.
"You told me this goes both ways," he continues.
"Fine. Let's see how far both ways goes.
Because I'm not the one sneaking around with my coach's players.
I'm not the one hiding a relationship that violates every conflict-of-interest policy in the athletic department handbook.
" He pauses, letting it sit. "So maybe your records scare me a little.
But what I know about you should scare you a lot more. "
My pulse hammers in my throat. My scent is right on the edge of spiking, and I have about thirty seconds before it becomes obvious to both of us that I'm not as calm as I look.
So I do what I do best. I do the math.
"You paid Marcus Webb three hundred dollars to write your ethics paper last semester." The shift in Chad's expression is immediate. The smugness drains, replaced by something whiter and colder. That was a cheap shot but I’m paid to make sure Dad’s players make it to the field and play well. That means knowing their grades, ensuring they’re passing, and that they don’t end up on any kind of probation.
"I found it in the printer queue. Same paper, his name on the file metadata, your name on the submission. The timestamps are four minutes apart."
He takes a step back, forced to realize I have more aces up my sleeve than he has up his. "That's — you can't —"
"I'm the team bookkeeper, Chad. I see the printer logs, the equipment records, the locker inventories." My voice stays level, delivered the way I'd present a line item at a budget meeting. Regaining my composure, I straighten up and run my hands down my shirt. I will not lose to Chad. He still doesn’t have any proof other than what he’s seen. He’s not smart enough to have taken a picture.
"I also see the supplements in your locker that aren't on any approved list. I haven't identified what they are yet, but I'm sure the athletic department would be interested in finding out. "
His face goes pale. His mouth opens and closes twice, the bluster collapsing in on itself.
"I told you on the phone that I keep records. You should have believed me." My chin lifts. "Dates, times, documentation. That's what I do. So if you want to have a conversation with my father about my personal life, go ahead. And I'll have a conversation with the athletic director about yours."
The silence between us stretches. A group of students passes on the nearby sidewalk, laughing about something, completely unaware of what's happening ten feet away.
Chad's hands fist at his sides, his nostrils flaring, his scent souring with a cocktail of anger and something that smells a lot like fear.
"Don't speak to me about this again." I hold his gaze until he's the one who looks away. "Not at practice, not on campus, not through Kevin's phone. My personal life is not one for you to dissect regardless of what you think is right or wrong."
I turn and walk away but the moment I round the corner of the arts building, my hands start shaking.
The tremor starts in my fingers and works its way up through my wrists, my forearms, until my whole body is vibrating with the adrenaline crash.
I press my back against the brick wall and close my eyes, my breath coming in short, shallow pulls that I have to consciously slow down.
I handled it. But handling it and being okay are two different things, and right now my hands won't stop shaking. My phone is out before I've consciously caught up with what I’m doing. Quentin picks up on the second ring.
"Iris?"
"I'm fine." My voice comes out steady, and I'm mildly impressed with myself. "Chad confronted me between classes. In person this time. He's been watching us, Q. Tracking when you leave my apartment, when Milo's there. It's more than the phone call."
"Where are you?"
"Walking home."
"We'll be there."
He hangs up. There’s no follow-up questions, instructions, or reassurances. Just the promise of their presence, delivered in three words and a dial tone.
They're both at my apartment when I get there. Milo is sitting on the kitchen counter with his legs swinging, his scent already filling the room with a surge of protectiveness he probably isn’t aware of.
Quentin is standing by the window with his arms crossed, his gaze tracking me from the moment I come through the door.
He doesn't move toward me, waiting to see what I need first.
When I don’t say anything, just sitting my bag by the door, Quentin breaks the silence. "So, he's been watching your apartment," Quentin says, the words coming out flat in a way that makes them more dangerous than if he'd shouted. "That's not a threat anymore. That's harassment."
"I know."
"We should go to Coach now. Tonight."
That’s the best and worst idea. "The rivalry game is in two days." I settle onto the arm of the couch. "Scouts are coming. If I go to my father now and he pulls Chad from the roster, or benches him, or does anything that disrupts the lineup two days before the biggest game of the season—"
"So Chad gets to keep playing because the timing is inconvenient?" Milo's voice is harder than I expect, his usual warmth compressed into something darker. "He cornered you, Iris! He's following you!"
"I'm not protecting Chad. I'm protecting the team.
And my father." My fingers twist the edge of my sleeve.
"If he's emotionally compromised during this game, if he's dealing with the fact that his daughter has been hiding a relationship with two of his players while also processing that another player has been.
.. following her — that's a lot to put on someone right before the most important night of the season. "
I hate the logic of my argument but I also know that doing anything now won’t just ruin my father. It might very well ruin what I have with Milo and Quentin and I want to be selfish a little bit longer. Chad won’t get physical, I know that much. He’s stupid but not that stupid.
"Fine, we’ll wait," Milo says after a long beat. "We wait until after the game. You go to your dad that night, before Chad has a chance to get to him first. Me and Q will face Coach the next morning. Together."
The plan is imperfect and risky but better than any alternative that I can think of. "Two days," I say.
They both nod.
"And then it's done. One way or another." Milo slides off the counter and crosses to me, his hand finding mine. "No more hiding."
We end up in my nest, the way we always do when the apartment gets too heavy.
The blankets Milo stripped yesterday are back from the wash, still warm from the dryer, and he tucks them into the gaps without being asked.
His hands smooth the fabric with care, his fingers adjusting the folds until they sit the way I like them.
The moment we’re tucked in, with the Vark brothers on either side of me, I realize what was always missing. It was this. Being held by people who don't need me to hold myself together. Being the one in the middle instead of the one holding the edges.
It was never about the blankets.