Chapter Thirteen
One week later
Iris was in her room, looking at herself in the mirror above the dresser. She’d already showered and pulled her hair into an elegant bun – and now she was embarking on her recent morning routine of standing naked and comparing herself to the other women she saw daily.
Ever since she’d been a child, she’d been complimented for being slim and petite, and she’d spent her life believing that these were desirable things, things that every man wanted in his bed and every woman strove to attain in herself. But this week at Satan’s Bar had opened her eyes to beauty in ways that she’d never contemplated.
Look at Zoe: so tall and imposing, almost regal. She was a real force of nature and of womanhood: she was the manager at the tattoo place, she was a mother to a beautiful little girl, she was Scars’ fiancée – and it was all wrapped up in a blonde, emerald-eyed, absolutely stunning package.
She made Iris feel small, and not just physically. Small in terms of her accomplishments, her abilities, her goals, her whole self . Iris had never considered what she could be, as a woman and a person, but Zoe made her start to wonder. Maybe Iris was more than someone who could bake bread and cook stir fries and scrub toilets… maybe she could do those things, and something more.
But if Zoe made Iris feel unaccomplished and immature in her life, it was nothing compared to what she felt when she stood next to Vixen.
Vixen was a waitress at the bar and she worked five nights a week, so she was always in Iris’ orbit. She was a dark-eyed, bottle-blonde who seemed positively allergic to the clothes that hugged her wickedly-curved body. Vixen’s breasts were always threatening to escape the thin material covering them, her generous ass was barely covered by the skin-tight skirts she somehow wiggled into, her firm thighs were always exposed and made your eyes travel higher to the sweet spot between her legs. It wasn’t actually visible, but it seemed like it could be, at any second.
Beside Vixen, Iris felt puny and ugly; next to her eye-popping curves, Iris was an adolescent, a woman-child who didn’t even need a bra for her teeny breasts. What made it worse was that every man who came into the bar only had eyes for Vixen: men flocked to her tables, they competed for her attention, they tipped her extravagantly.
The MC guys flirted with her outrageously, and a couple of them even took her into the crash rooms and soundly fucked her. She always emerged from the rooms disheveled, her hair wild and her eye-makeup smeared, a satisfied, sated look on her face. If the noises that Iris heard coming from the rooms were any indication, Vixen clearly enjoyed whatever had happened in there with the guys: she possessed genuine strength in her sexiness, her sexuality, and it was something that Iris didn’t understand.
She’d never found any power in sex; quite the opposite actually. Vixen’s brash, brazen revelling in being openly, confidently sexual confused Iris, even scared her a bit. The thought that she could actually enjoy a man being all around her, all over her, inside her, was alien. She didn’t think it could ever happen for her.
And just as she finished having that thought, Viking popped into her head. Again. As he did so often, especially when she was trying to imagine herself enjoying a man’s touch. A man’s kiss. The idea of a man stroking her breasts, stroking between her legs, made her sick with fear and anxiety, but when she imagined Viking doing it, she felt something else. She felt…
Turned on. Totally, helplessly, completely turned on .
He had been sleeping down the hallway from her for a week now, and Iris was finding it hard to stop thinking about that. Despite falling into bed exhausted every night, she’d toss and turn for two hours, her whole body straining to get out of her single bed and walk five doors down to him.
What would Viking do if Iris just teleported into his bedroom in the middle of the night? Would he kiss her, welcome her into his bed? Or would he tell her to go back to her own room, to not place all her worth in her body? He’d turned her down very firmly once before, so why would she expect anything different if she tried again?
She’d thought about going down to his room on some pretext, but what the hell reason could she possibly have for wandering down the hall at midnight, setting off every motion sensor as she did, except the obvious one: that she wanted him. Wanted him here, with her, holding her and kissing her until she was breathless. Wanted him to shed his clothing, rip off hers, and do things to her body and soul that she’d never experienced, things that Zoe and most definitely Vixen knew intimately.
But he’d never be interested in her, no way and no how. She was damaged goods, and she wasn’t curvaceous and womanly. Compared to Zoe and Vixen, she was no catch, and no way that a man like Viking didn’t have his choice of women. Real women, women with confidence and poise.
She met her own purple eyes in the mirror, and as she did every morning now, she told herself to admit the whole truth.
You don’t just feel unworthy and ugly as a woman because of Zoe and Vixen. You know why you really feel that way. Come on, now – just look at it.
Slowly, she turned her back to the mirror, paused. She took a deep breath and then looked over her shoulder at the huge black tattoo on her back, the one that marked her forever as Gideon’s property. The one that – in some ways – she hated even more than she hated the man who had actually inked it into her flesh. It reminded her that even though she’d escaped the Garden, she’d brought it with her. She’d never be free.
Without any warning, there was a knock and then right away her bedroom door opened. Viking was standing there, as he had done every morning for the past week, cheerily saying, “Good morning, honey!”
She spun to face him, one arm crossing over her breasts, the other stretched the length of her body so she could cover her pussy with her hand. It was useless, though: his eyes had widened with shock, and not at her nakedness. They’d been fixed on her back, and all the color had drained from his face.
“Hey,” he said, whirling around and closing the door. He leaned against it on one large forearm, keeping his back to her. “I’m sorry, Iris. You’re always dressed by now when I come get you to start baking. It’s past six.”
“I – I know,” she managed, scrambling to her bed where her clothes were laid out. “I’m running a bit late.”
“I’m sorry,” Viking repeated. “I shouldn’t have –”
“Forget it.” She got dressed at lightning speed, one eye on his broad back. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine . Not by a goddamn long shot.”
“What – what are you talking about?”
He turned around to face her now, his expression angry. “I mean, I don’t need to ask who the hell did that to you – it’s obvious that it was that sick fuck Gideon. Did he do that to all the women? To mark you as his sex slaves?”
Iris was silent. Viking took a calming breath.
“Iris, baby.” Viking’s voice was the gentlest that she’d ever heard it, and despite herself, she looked at him. “You know that you can tell me anything, right? I know you don’t feel ready to talk about what happened at that place, and I get that. I do. But the more time I spend with you, the more I really, really want to be here for you. To listen and help you unload some of this horrible burden that I see you carrying around.”
“You do?” she squeaked. “You want to –”
“Help,” he finished. “I want to help you . Just tell me how. I’ll do anything that you need, anything you ask.”
She stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. In the whole of her life, no man had ever offered to help her, not once. More than that, Viking – big, huge, tall, strong Viking – was telling her that he’d do what she told him. Almost like…
Like I have some power after all .
“How about this,” he said. “Tell me one true thing.”
“About – about the Garden?”
“About the cult, or about you. Trust me with one thing only, baby.”
Iris bit her lip, then realized that actually, she wanted to tell this man something. It felt like a gift, but an odd one… like even as she gave it to him, she received something back ten-fold. Like maybe this was the way to start feeling strong, and open, and free. Maybe she could be understood, maybe she didn’t have to feel so alone or ashamed. Maybe she could even like herself.
Just one true thing .
“OK,” she said, calling on all the courage that she had in her body, reaching all the way down to her toes. “The truth is that I like it when you call me ‘baby’.”
Surprised at that, he grinned, his brown eyes flickering with warmth. “You do, huh?”
“Yes. Very much. And…” She hesitated.
“And what, baby?”
“Could you please – could you not – I don’t want Wolf or the guys –”
“I won’t tell anyone about what I saw,” he said quietly. “That’s something that people should only know if you decide to tell them, and I’m so sorry that I violated your right to choose. That was wrong of me.”
“You think that I get to choose?”
“Yes, Iris. You always have that right, in everything to do with you. At least, you should. It seems that you’ve had your choice taken away for a good long while, but I hope that can start to take it back now.”
“I hope so too. I’d like that, I think.”
“OK, then.” He cocked his head at her. “So, let’s get to work before Wolf starts howling for his goddamn coffee and chocolate chip muffin, huh? He’s in early today to do the books, and he’ll need the caffeine and sugar like you won’t believe.”
Despite herself, Iris felt her face split into a massive smile. “OK.”
“OK.” Viking swung open the door, gave her a small bow as he ushered her through it. “After you.”
Her chin up high, as regal as a queen, Iris sashayed through it, then she laughed from deep inside, a real belly-laugh.
It was the first time that she’d done that in a long time, so long she couldn’t remember…and she suddenly knew that she was happy.
**
Viking swore when he dropped the box of gloves, swore again when he bashed his elbow on the table on his way down to pick it up.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“What’s happening over there, big guy?” Saint asked him from a safe distance across the room as Arrow looked on with a puzzled expression. “You suddenly forget every word in the dictionary except ‘fuck’?”
“Fuck off,” Viking growled.
“Good to see that you remember two words,” Saint said brightly. “I’ll stop worrying about you then.”
“Well, I won’t,” Zoe said tartly. “You’ve been in a foul mood all morning, Viking. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, you and your ‘fuck’ and ‘nothing’ can get yourselves to the storage room and do the inventory,” Zoe told him. “Come back out when you can have a civil tongue in your head, and not one second before.”
Viking stomped off to the backroom, not even all that concerned that he’d pissed off Zee. She was tough but forgiving, so he’d just hide out for a couple of hours and then go back out and apologize. Meanwhile, he’d have time to come up with a good reason for his shitty mood, since telling anyone the truth was a non-starter. He’d promised Iris he wouldn’t tell.
Unbidden, the tattoo on Iris’ back flashed up in front of his eyes again, and his hands tightened into fists. In his life, he’d seen a lot of ugly things that people could inflict on each other, and in some ways, he’d thought that he’d seen it all. But that tattoo, that word in jet-black ink, stretching from shoulder to shoulder across Iris’ delicate back…
CUNT
God, he hated that word, hated it worse than any other he could think of. It was demeaning and degrading, it was a verbal kicking of a woman when she was already down. It was cowardly and vile, and it told him everything he needed to know about Gideon.
Like I needed another reason to beat the living shit out of him, if our paths ever cross .
Suddenly exhausted, Viking sat down, staring blankly at the wall. And just as clearly as that horrible tattoo had appeared in front of him, something else showed itself in his mind’s eye:
Iris’ small, perfect, naked body.
Kneeling in front of him, her black hair flowing over her shoulders and down her back, covering that fucking tattoo, those amazing purple eyes clear, still pools. Those tiny russet-apple breasts teasing him, her hips sweetly curved. He’d been legitimately horrified that day when she’d offered herself to him in exchange for the room and food and clothes, but he’d still seen her beauty. It was as breathtaking and mysterious as a winter sunset over the Rockies. It had been undeniable.
He’d been utterly blown away by just that little peek of her, and he’d never imagined that he’d see anything more, not ever, not even if he really wanted to. But now, after blundering into her room that morning, Viking was in the position of being simultaneously horrified at what he’d seen on her back and captivated by the rest of her. That taut ass that would almost fit in his hands, those slim thighs as white as the snow outside, that dark triangle nestled between her legs. And those eyes , blazing up at him with strength and vulnerability when she’d told him that she liked when he called her ‘baby’.
He now fully understood how hard it must have been for her to tell him that… and that made him feel both angry and protective. Iris was astonishing, so much so that even when Viking was shaken at seeing her steeped in the ugliness forced upon her, he still saw her . Somehow, she rose above it all; somehow, she shone bright. She was a little miracle, and he was starting to feel like if given half a chance, he’d fall to his knees in front of her .
All his life, Viking had heard that true beauty chased away the ugliest parts of humanity, that light made the darkness flee in terror. He’d always thought that was ridiculous, poetic idiocy; nothing that he’d seen in war had ever convinced him that violence and pain and damage were weakened by anything, let alone banished by the good.
But that was before he’d witnessed Iris somehow burn away the darkness that had literally attached itself to her body, and lift her chin and laugh. She’d just sailed right on by him that morning, just gone to the kitchen and put on her apron and made muffins and bread from scratch. She’d demonstrated what Viking thought of as perfect grace, so maybe he’d been wrong when he hadn’t considered strength a type of beauty – one that could kick a shadow right in the ass, one that could transcend filth and sin.
Maybe it was time that he become a believer in that kind of grace. That kind of beauty.
Maybe he could start with Iris’.