Chapter 9 Iris
IRIS
Iwake up warm.
Too warm, really—but not in a bad way. It’s the kind of warmth that sinks deep into your muscles and makes you never want to move again. The kind of warmth that smells like honey and firewood and sex.
And him.
Garrik’s arm is slung heavy across my waist, his hand splayed low over my belly like he’s holding me in place even in his sleep. His whole body is pressed to my back, skin to skin, and I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against me—slow, grounded, calm.
I blink blearily at the unfamiliar ceiling, dazed and floaty and deliciously sore in a way I’ve never felt before.
Oh…oh fuck.
Last night wasn’t a dream.
I press my hand over Garrik’s, marveling at the size of it—how it swallows mine, how it fits like it’s meant to be there. My thighs ache, my lips are swollen, and I’m absolutely covered in tiny sticky spots where the honey never got cleaned off properly. It should be uncomfortable. It’s not.
If anything…it’s perfect.
His breath ghosts against my neck, slow and even, and I realize I don’t want to move. Not yet. Not if it risks waking him. Not if it risks breaking this little pocket of perfect, suspended time.
So I stay still.
And I remember.
The way he kissed me like it was the first and last time he ever would. The way he touched me like he’d been memorizing how for years. The way he refused to fuck me last night, no matter how much I begged—just kept coaxing me higher, softer, deeper, until I couldn’t even remember my own name.
And the way he looked at me afterward.
Like I was something sacred.
Like I was his.
A small, stunned sound escapes my throat before I can stop it, and behind me, Garrik stirs. His arm tightens slightly around my waist, and I feel the shift in his breathing—slower, then deeper, then still.
“I know you’re awake,” I whisper, smiling.
“Only barely,” he murmurs, voice low and rumbling against my skin. “Could stay like this forever.”
Same.
I don’t say it. But maybe he hears it anyway, because a moment later he presses a kiss to the nape of my neck—slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Morning,” I breathe, not quite ready to shift yet. “You sleep okay?”
He hums in response. “Best sleep I’ve had in years.”
I smile. Close my eyes. Let myself melt a little deeper into the warmth of him, the way our bodies fit, the steady pulse of yes that’s still humming between us.
“Are you sore?” he asks after a pause, voice a little rough with concern.
I laugh softly. “A little.”
His hand strokes lightly over my stomach, then down to my hip, fingertips tracing the curve of it with gentle reverence. “Good kind of sore?”
I nod. “Very good.”
Garrik doesn’t answer—just nuzzles into my hair and breathes me in, like he’s trying to memorize this too.
And then, softly:
“Think you’re ready to try again, honeybee?”
Garrik’s hand slips a little lower.
Just a little. Barely more than a shift of fingertips across my hip. But it sends a slow, lazy shiver rolling through me anyway.
I stretch against him like a cat, sighing when his palm slides over the front of my thigh. His touch is warm, reverent—possessive in a way that makes my breath hitch.
“You’re dangerous in the morning,” I murmur, voice rough from sleep. “You know that?”
His chuckle is pure sin, low and quiet against the curve of my neck. “You’re the one who met me in the garden last night in nothing but a sweater.”
“And whose fault is it that I’m still wearing said sweater and nothing else?”
He hums again, nosing at the back of my shoulder. “Might have something to do with the way you taste. I got a little distracted.”
I laugh, but it breaks on a breath when he trails kisses down my spine. His hand coasts further, fingers brushing between my legs. I’m already warm there. Already aching. I shift, giving him better access, and he groans against my skin.
“I want to be inside you this time,” he says, voice low and reverent. “I want you to feel everything.”
“Please,” I whisper. “I’m ready now. I swear, Garrik—”
“Breakfast’s ready!”
Flora’s voice slices through the still morning like a warhorn. It’s distant but clear—coming from the porch outside, projection unmistakably cheery.
I freeze.
Garrik goes still behind me, his entire body tense in the stunned silence that follows.
“Was that…” I begin.
“Flora,” he says, grim. “That was Flora.”
We’re both quiet for a long, horrible second.
Then I bury my face in the pillow and let out the loudest, most defeated groan in the galaxy.
Garrik laughs—helpless and strangled and full of that mix of exasperation and affection that only comes from living with loud, nosy women who absolutely know what you’re doing in the cottage you swore wasn’t being used for anything scandalous.
“She definitely knows,” I mutter, rolling onto my back and covering my face with both hands. “She absolutely did that on purpose.”
“She always does,” Garrik says dryly.
I peek at him between my fingers. He’s grinning. Sleep-tousled and bare-chested, one antenna curled around the edge of his forehead like it’s trying to hide.
Gods, he’s too cute when he’s embarrassed.
I can’t believe I never noticed until now. Ten years thinking we were just friends…and he’s the prettiest, sexiest, hottest guy I’ve ever known.
“You’re not off the hook,” I warn him, voice still husky. “Soon as we get back—”
“Oh, I know,” he promises, leaning over to kiss the corner of my mouth. “Trust me, Iris. I’m counting the minutes.”
By the time we make it to the orchard path, I’m clutching Garrik’s arm to keep from wobbling.
Every step is a slow, sweet reminder of what he did to me last night—and how many times I came for him.
My thighs ache in the best possible way.
My inner muscles feel overstretched, humming with every movement.
I’m not even really sore…just satisfied.
Gloriously, devastatingly, ruinously satisfied.
And still.
Still I want more.
The sweater hangs off one shoulder, and my legs are bare to the morning air. We tried to be quiet when we left the cottage, but I’m fairly certain we failed. I’m not even sure we closed the door.
Flora definitely knows.
“So,” I say. “What’s your plan for sneaking me in?”
Garrik casts a wry glance at the back of the house. “The porch creaks. So does the door. And the hallway. But the guest room window faces the orchard.”
I raise a brow. “You’ve done this before?”
He blushes. “Of course not—”
“I’m teasing, Garrik,” I laugh, biting my lip. “Don’t worry…I’m not jealous. You made it very clear I’m it.”
I can see the question in his eyes as we get closer to the house, and I reach out to grasp his hand.
“And you…you know you’re it for me too, right?”
His cheeks flush the color of roses, and I’m totally gone.
He stops under the window, crouching so I can climb onto his back. I loop my arms around his shoulders as he rises—so effortlessly I gasp, thighs clamping reflexively against his sides.
“Careful,” he warns, voice low and teasing. “You do that again and we’re not making it through the window.”
I laugh and bite back a moan as he hikes me higher, lifting me to the sill. My thighs protest the stretch, sweetly sore, and when I brace one knee to climb through, the ache between my legs flares again—sharp, fluttering heat.
God, I feel him. Still. Even now.
Garrik steadies me and I turn to sit in the windowsill, on eye level with him. He touches my face with one big hand, thumb grazing over my cheekbone.
“I had a really good night,” I whisper.
His eyes soften. “I know. So did I.”
I lean forward, brushing a kiss to the tip of one twitching antenna, then slip inside the room before I lose all sense of propriety again.
The guest room looks exactly like I left it—quilted, soft, and oversized.
But it feels different now. I feel different.
My thighs are still sticky with the faint scent of honey, my lips kiss-swollen, my core aching in this sweet, molten way that makes my toes curl in the rug.
I pull on my pants—underwear lost somewhere in Garrik’s kitchen—and then my sweater.
I consider my bra, but my nipples are hyper-sensitive from the honey and Garrik’s kisses, and I don’t think I can handle it the pressure.
When I glance in the mirror, my face is flushed, eyes bright. There’s a love bite blooming low on my throat.
I should be embarrassed. I should cover it up.
But instead…I smile.
Because the truth is, I’ve never felt more claimed. More adored. More wanted.
And when I finally open the door and head toward the kitchen, I can already hear Flora’s voice floating down the hall, sing-song and far too smug.
“Morning, sunshine!”
I freeze halfway down the hall.
The cheerful clatter of dishes. The warm scent of honeycakes and spiced tea. And that tone in Flora’s voice—like she already knows everything and is just waiting for me to admit it.
I square my shoulders. I am a professional. A scholar. A woman of intellect and dignity.
…Who absolutely got railed on a table by a green alien beekeeper less than eight hours ago.
“Morning,” I say as breezily as I can manage, stepping into the kitchen.
Flora’s at the stove, her blonde braid looped over one shoulder, humming to herself as she flips something golden and fragrant in a wide cast iron pan.
Davrin’s leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, his eyebrows shooting up the moment he sees me.
Pan is already seated, buttering a tower of toast like he’s preparing to scale it, while his dad Ivarr tries to monitor the situation.
No sign of Garrik yet. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or if he’s thrown me to the wolves.
“You sleep alright?” Flora asks without turning around.
I open my mouth.
Davrin cuts in. “You look very well-rested.”
Pan squints up at me. “You look like you have a sunburn on your neck.”
I clap a hand over the love bite as his dad snorts.
Flora turns then, eyes sparkling. “You must’ve had a very comfortable pillow.”
“Flora,” I say, scandalized.
She just grins, unrepentant. “What? You’re glowing.”
Davrin raises his mug. “To be fair, so is Garrik. And his hair’s wet, which means he panicked and showered, which means he was the one doing the sneaking.”
I drop into the nearest chair, face blazing. “I hate all of you.”
Pan beams. “I made jam.”
“You’re the only one I like right now,” I tell him, and Flora actually cackles.
I’m pouring myself a cup of tea when Garrik finally appears—fresh shirt, damp curls, face carefully neutral. He doesn’t look at me at first, just walks around the table like a man preparing for execution.
“Morning,” he rumbles.
He goes to the counter to pour himself some tea, Pan looking between the two of us like he’s well aware we’re keeping a secret. The kid grumbles, frowning at Garrik, then he looks at me.
“Why’d Uncle Garrik give you a piggyback ride this morning? I saw out the window.”
Garrik freezes mid-sip of his tea.
So do I.
Flora stifles a laugh at the counter, while Ivarr arches one eyebrow over his cup. Davrin makes a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh, quickly covered with a bite of toast.
“I—uh—” I begin, brain sprinting through possible explanations and finding none.
“She twisted her ankle,” Garrik says, a little too fast.
My eyes narrow. “I did?”
Flora chokes delicately into her napkin. Davrin turns to the window and pretends to be fascinated by the orchard view.
Pan frowns, entirely sincere. “You didn’t limp.”
“It was just a little twist,” Garrik says stiffly. “Barefoot walk. In the orchard. Thistles.”
Pan nods, taking this in with all the seriousness of an eight-year-old interpreting the world. “You should wear shoes,” he says wisely. “There’s a spiky one by the fence that stabbed me yesterday.”
“Good to know,” I say, trying not to snort. “I’ll be more careful next time.”
Flora pours another mug of tea and slides it down the counter toward me with the casual ease of someone who’s been waiting all morning to meddle. “You want fresh clothes, sweetheart? I know you’re much smaller than me, but we can make something work.”
Garrik doesn’t look at me…like he’s worried I’ll say no, or maybe yes? I’m not usre.
“I, uh…” I glance down at my wrinkled pants and honey-stained sweater. My thighs are still a little sticky and my neck’s doing a bad job of hiding the very obvious love bite; I definitely need new clothes and probably a hot shower. “That might be nice.”
“No pressure, of course,” Flora adds, flipping another honeycake with exaggerated cheer. “Just figured if you’re staying another day, you’d want something clean.”
My heart skips.
She says it so casually—if you’re staying another day—like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I already belong here. Like no one would question it.
I glance at Garrik. He’s pretending to be extremely focused on his toast, but his antennae have turned that same bright pink from the garden.
Flora leans her hip against the counter, smiling sweetly. “Actually, Garrik, since you’re already up—why don’t you take your girlfriend down to Fablegrove today? Show her the botanic garden and the bookshops?”
Garrik stiffens when Pan’s eyes go wide at the term ‘girlfriend.’
“Flora,” he warns.
“What?” she shrugs. “It’s a nice day. Romantic. And educational.”
“I’d love to see it,” I cut in quickly, shooting him a grin. “If you’re offering.”
Pan’s whole face lights up. “Are you staying again?!”
“I…” I hesitate, watching Garrik carefully. He was so eager in bed last night…but he’s shy. I don’t want to pressure him—
“Because if you are, I can show you the root fort I built! And the tree swing! And the moth hatchery! And Mom said I’m allowed to sleep in the big bed now so you can take my room if you want, or we can just share—I don’t kick, promise!”
“Pan,” Ivarr says gently, “slow down.”
“But she’s moving in, right?” Pan asks, blinking innocently between us. “Like, if she’s the girlfriend? That’s like—human for wife, right?”
Garrik is now the color of a ripe plum. His antennae twitch like, if he could, he’d use them to fly right through the ceiling.
Flora hums. “Well, technically—”
“We’re not labeling anything yet,” I interrupt quickly, trying to fight a grin. “We’re just…spending time together.”
“Very quiet time,” Davrin says, under his breath.
Garrik shoots him a look.
Pan beams. “You can still come to Fablegrove, though, right? I’ll show you the toy store, it’s so cool!”
“I’d love that,” I say, shooting Garrik a meaningful look. “Assuming your uncle doesn’t mind giving me the tour.”
His gaze softens as it meets mine.
“I’d be honored,” he says quietly.
And just like that, the warmth is back. The fluttering ache in my chest, the tug in my belly, the thrill that this—this whole messy, noisy, ridiculous family—might actually be something I get to keep.