Chapter 15 Iris
IRIS
I’m halfway out the door. The weight of my life as an artist pulls me sideways.
Canvas panels under one arm, a fresh roll of linen nearly sliding free, two tubes of titanium white clinking against glass jars of medium in my tote, and tucked carefully, three new pigments I’ve been rationing for weeks.
The alizarin crimson alone makes the trip worth it. My barn studio is going to feast.
The intercom buzzes.
“Really? Now?”
I dump everything onto the bench with a quick clatter and lean toward the screen. A UPS courier fills the frame.
“Delivery for Iris Vaughn?”
“That’s me.”
I buzz him in. By the time he reaches my floor, I’ve already forgotten what I was thinking about before he arrived.
My signature scrawls across his handheld before I even glance at the package. He passes over a large parcel. It’s neutral brown, unbranded.
“Enjoy,” he says, already turning away.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stare at the box, then turn it. No labels. No return address. And now that I think about it, I’m not even sure there was a UPS logo on the screen when I signed.
I open the box.
The first thing I see stops me cold.
My missing Rossi stiletto. Well, not mine technically. Reggie’s. The pair I borrowed the night I infiltrated the mansion and lost in that fire.
Someone found it.
Someone returned it.
Beneath the shoe sits another box wrapped in plain black paper.
I tear it open.
It’s mahogany, worked until the surface gleams like glass.
When I lift the lid, the scent follows. Rich, layered, and intimate.
Something in me goes inside with it, my spirit answering an invitation meant for arrangements and unspoken rules.
Nestled in velvet rests a tablet, already on. It has no passcode or lock screen.
“Real secure,” I mutter.
The display responds, and a single line renders in ornate script against a deep blue background: An invitation to the extraordinary.
It isn’t just text. It is composition, spacing, contrast, and seduction. Whoever made this understands control and how easily attention follows it.
More appears.
Iris Vaughn,
This was designed for you.
Awareness settles between my shoulders. I set the tablet down, and the screen goes black instantly.
“Huh.”
I lift it again.
The screen wakes the moment it faces me. Facial recognition, or just presence detection?
I grab Reggie’s photo from the shelf and hold it up.
Black.
Astrid’s mannequin head gets the same result.
“See?” I tell the mannequin. “You don’t look like me.”
I turn the screen back to myself. It lights up immediately, and the page changes. And beneath the confusion, the curiosity, and the warning bells, one sensation eclipses everything else.
I feel…chosen.
More text follows with the same immaculate presentation. I pad into my room, as if it is the only place a message like this can be read.
A night unlike any other awaits you.
Should you accept, you will step into a game of mystery and desire.
You may be hurt. And you may hurt someone.
A pause, as if it’s waiting for me to finish reading. Then another sentence appears.
The game remains active unless it is declared over or you utter the safe word, which will be provided on the day.
At the bottom of the screen:
You have one hour to decide.
Dare to play?
Below it is a single button.
YES.
I step back, leaving the tablet on my bed.
My head fills with shapes, lines, overlapping planes, colors, and movements…
everything I’ve seen and felt collapsing into a restless composition.
Then, Reggie’s name intrudes, my built-in reality check.
If I asked him to weigh in, he’d want to know if I was still blocked, still circling the same ideas, or still starving for something new.
But truthfully, I’m not.
Whatever is crowding my head now has nothing to do with inspiration.
This is about Wolf.
“Stay on the canvas, Iris,” I murmur to myself. I’m exactly where I need to be. To work, to create. I won’t let anything pull me off that line.
I leave the tablet where it is and scoop up the supplies I dropped earlier. There’s no time to rethink this. If I don’t get to my studio now, I’ll waste everything I’ve done to infiltrate that manor club.
Getting out of Brooklyn takes longer than it should. Red lights stack up, and when they don’t, taxis start nosing into my lane. I keep checking the clock, waiting for the moment the road finally opens north.
Thirty minutes.
Twenty-five.
“Dammit!”
I take the first opening and turn hard, merging into the oncoming flow the moment it clears. From there, I keep moving, seizing gaps and checking the clock every time I’m forced to stop.
Ten minutes.
Five.
I screech into my building’s garage, abandon the car, and take the stairs two at a time. My lungs burn by the time I reach my door.
Thirty seconds.
The tablet glows on the bed, untouched.
I press YES.
My hands hesitate. Right, Iris. It’s a little late for nerves now. The invitation dissolves into something more opulent as words appear.
Wise choice.
Now choose three to be your main players.
A slideshow of masked men flashes before me.
These aren’t models or fantasy cutouts. Bodies built for different purposes—some broad and heavy through the shoulders, others lean and coiled, all muscle and economy of movement.
But they share one thing in common. Each wears an intricate mask that hides just enough to make them feel unreachable, and that distance lends a sense of danger.
I scroll.
“There you are.”
Wolf.
Even frozen in a picture, he hits like a physical thing.
His bare torso shows strength that isn’t just chiseled, but earned, as if punishment shaped it.
I felt it firsthand beneath fabric on that burning roof, where he ran hotter than the fire itself.
Now seeing it exposed gives my imagination far too much to work with.
Annoyingly, the shot cuts just below his hips.
But that doesn’t stop the heat pooling between my thighs, embarrassing in its enthusiasm. Fighting or getting hurt to claim a man like this? Apparently, that’s where my head is now.
I tap his photo, and his profile opens. There’s just one spare line.
Limits: No kissing.
“No kissing?” I mutter. “What? Are you married or something?”
No.
More likely, it’s something worse. An aversion to intimacy that doesn’t involve distance. Or maybe control without closeness.
Still, my reaction to him hasn’t changed, and my choice is set.
I’m not chasing tenderness, and I’m not looking for reassurance. I’m here to play the game. To be with him again. To have what the woman in the domino mask had in that club room. And I’m very sure kissing isn’t the point.
I keep scrolling.
Some profiles list no limits at all, while others are precise.
Will not draw blood. No M2M.
Boundaries stated without apology.
By the end, it stops feeling like selection and starts feeling like alignment. Mongoose, because he’s the biggest of them all, and every mix needs a presence like that. And Snow Fox. He smiles in his profile, clever and watchful.
The screen waits.
And so do I.
The next question makes me gulp.
What’s your darkest fantasy?
The pulse between my thighs answers before I can.
Experimenting as a teenager had been harmless. But this is different.
I punch in some words.
Bondage. Rough sex.
Vanilla? Anyone could give me that.
But this isn’t anyone. This is a game. With Wolf.
My throat tightens.
There is one. It’s a fantasy I’ve carried quietly because I knew better than to ask for it. Because I knew the answer would always be no. With men I’ve been with, anyway. Well, Bobby Derring might’ve been willing. But somehow, I knew better than to trust him that much.
I delete the line and begin again.
My fingers hesitate, then move. I type it, the one I’ve never said out loud.
I stare at the words.
That’s the truth.
I stand back, already imagining the consequences, the aftermath, and the risk of wanting something this precarious and being changed by it.
Trembling, my finger hovers over the screen, ready to erase it.
“Oh, fuck,” I curse as the display times out, and the words vanish before being replaced by the next screen.
Too late.
A message appears: Thank you. Your fantasy becomes ours, provided you follow the rules of the game. They are simple. Respect every limit. Do not unmask any participant.
This game isn’t built for the easily shaken. And I’m not slipping in through a cellar window this time. This time, I’m invited.
I keep reading.
All players are bound to honor your safe word.
The only real risk is allowing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to pass you by.
My hands tremble as I hover over the button.
This is reckless. This is stupid. This is everything I need.
I press it.
Let me in.
The screen responds immediately, and the interface gives way to something darker.
Welcome to the Game, Midnight.
A thrill shoots through me as velvet tones flood the display, lush and indulgent. Then the screen goes blank.
I tap it once. Then again, desperate for another glimpse of Wolf. But the tablet is useless now.
There’s no looking back.