Chapter 25 Iris
IRIS
Whack.
Fake Wolf goes down hard.
The red maple branch vibrates in my hands. I swing again, wide and brutal, and this time he gets the message. He scrambles back, his shoes slipping on damp leaves and gravel, retreating into the dark.
The second invitation never outlined the rules, so I assume the original ones still stand. Which means I’m well within my rights to defend myself against anyone who tries to claim me but isn’t my Wolf.
Relief barely has time to register before my skin prickles. There’s another presence, and it’s close.
I pivot and lift the branch on reflex.
“It’s me.”
Everything in me halts.
“Wolf.”
I drop the branch and run straight into him. He catches me, his arms locking around me. His chest rises and falls hard beneath my cheek, and whatever part of his face is exposed tells the truth. He’s rattled, which is a good sign, because that means he cares.
I breathe him in, and the familiar scent settles me instantly.
Oh yes, it’s him.
“Don’t ever test me like that again,” I warn, my voice muffled against his shirt. Did he really think I wouldn’t know? That I wouldn’t feel the difference?
His hands slide to my waist firmly. “No one claims you but me, Midnight.”
The words do what they’re meant to. I feel them settle as the edge eases from my shoulders. It’s absurd how effective it is and how much more intense safety feels when it’s close to not arriving at all.
“Come on,” he says. “This is only the ground before it.”
We turn back toward the boardwalk, hip to hip. He keeps me close, his hand never leaving my side. Every few steps, he glances back, then around, scanning the ruins.
“I hope the lesson sticks,” I say lightly. “Though he might invoice you for damages.”
He lets out a short laugh. “He knew what he was risking.”
I lean into him as we descend the uneven steps.
“It’s beautiful here,” I murmur.
And it is. The ruins glow in the last stretch of daylight, the iron ribs and stone bones softened by vines and moss.
Rusted wheels loom like sculptures abandoned mid-thought.
The brook threads through it all, turning decay into something soothing.
It feels like walking through a film set designed for longing.
“They’re ruins,” he says, barely sparing them a glance. “They don’t compete.”
His palm wraps over my ass. It should flatter me, but…
“Are you okay?” I blurt.
He squeezes my ass cheek. “Never better.”
Better for me, I guess. Because he’s flat-out jealous.
We reach the car at last.
It’s black, low-slung for something so substantial, and glossy enough to mirror the fading sky.
A Lamborghini.
I arch a brow. “You know how to impress a lady.”
He smirks like he already knows that.
Then I notice the flash of blue velvet peeking from his pocket.
“Let me guess,” I tease, holding his gaze. “Another blindfold? Another rose garden waiting somewhere?”
In the dying light, his eyes catch just enough glow for me to imagine what’s behind the mask. He pulls the cloth free and presses it into my hand instead. “It’s yours tonight.”
“Wolf?”
Then, he lifts the keys. “You drive. Take us wherever you want.”
Oh.
I raise the cloth and step closer, guiding it over his mask, tying it carefully. His breath changes, not faster, just…attentive. He lets me do it. Fully.
Then I open the passenger door and steer him in, my hand at his elbow, my other brushing his back. He goes willingly, his head tilting, accepting the loss of sight.
I slide into the driver’s seat.
And wow.
The interior gleams with stitched leather, sculpted lines, and a dashboard that looks more like a cockpit than a car. Everything reflects with a low sheen, from the metal to the glass. This isn’t an off-roader. It’s a weapon on asphalt.
I lift the red cover and press the button. The engine answers immediately. I smile to myself.
So this is how the other half moves through the world.
The Lamborghini responds to the smallest input, the engine purring rather than roaring. The steering feels intuitive, like it already knows where I want to go. I don’t have to fight it. I just guide it.
Wolf sits obediently in the passenger seat, his hands resting where I left them.
“Are you afraid of colors?” I ask, my eyes on the road.
“Wolves see blues and yellows,” he replies evenly. “What colors are you talking about?”
“The ones you don’t see,” I say. “The ones you feel.”
My hand drops onto his thigh, my fingers hovering close to the zipper of his khaki pants. His breath deepens, and I move closer.
He’s compliant…and very responsive.
“That makes you hard?”
He turns his head slightly. “I’m always ready for you, Midnight.”
I close my hand around him through the fabric, already expecting him to step in and rein me back.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches blindly, his arm swinging wide as he searches for me. It takes him two tries to find the space between my thighs.
“There are a lot of things I want to do to you right now,” he says calmly, “but I’m not letting you crash my car. I like this one.”
I laugh, give him one last squeeze, then put my hand back on the wheel.
I’ve always enjoyed this drive. The trees thicken here, the hills flattening into muted shapes as daylight fades. I leave the main road for my studio.
“Phew!” I let out a sound of triumph as I park.
The drive was charged, but not nearly as much as knowing who I’ve brought with me.
I open his door and guide him out, one hand at his elbow, the other hovering, ready.
He misjudges the ground by a fraction and recovers too late.
It isn’t my driving. It’s the blindfold.
He’s unused to being deprived of sight, and the way he holds on tells me exactly how much he dislikes not knowing where his feet are.
I unlock the barn door and haul it open. The breeze moves through the space, carrying the scents of wood, oil, linen, and paint. His head tilts, trying to orient himself by scent.
“Colors, you said?” he prompts as we cross the threshold.
“Do you feel it?” I ask.
“Very much so.”
I shut the door and dial the lights down. Then I reach up and remove the blindfold.
He goes still.
The space opens to him. It’s the barn turned studio, wide and unfinished, with canvases stacked and leaning where they please. Paint freckles the floor, catching what little illumination the track lights offer. There’s nothing hidden, nothing polished for show.
He smiles, and the expression softens something in my chest. “You made something that could withstand being alone.”
I laugh softly, not expecting the observation, and annoyed by how true it is.
“Not quite the caliber of your mansion on the other side of the valley,” I reply, watching his eyes keep moving and taking it all in, “but yes. This is my space. And I can survive days without my favorite Chinese food.” I pause. “Barely.”
He moves closer to the pieces from Between Us, studying them with real attention.
“Your current project?” he asks.
“Absolutely. I’m working with Evan Yani.”
His brows lift slightly. “The up-and-coming dealer. New York’s Young Entrepreneur of the Year. Congratulations.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Me?”
“You’re my inspiration.”
He studies the canvases again, escaping my stare. “I’m not seeing wolves anywhere.”
I smile. “Ever heard of ‘implied’?”
He laughs, low and warm. “So you’re going to be rich and famous?”
“That’s the plan,” I say lightly.
“I should start charging you,” he teases. “My clients pay top dollar to be in the game.”
“You wouldn’t,” I say with a laugh.
His hands slide to my waist, firm but unassuming. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“Well,” I add, “the money will go toward renovating my parents’ house anyway. And clearing a little debt.”
“All that,” he says, amused, “thanks to me?”
“Absolutely.” I cup his chin, tilting his face toward mine.
He exhales. “I feel noble now.”
“But we’re not here to talk about the future, are we?” I rasp, unbuttoning his shirt. One button stretches the moment, slowing time.
He inhales, his fingers sliding into my hair and stopping at the nape of my neck. There’s pressure there. God, we’re close. Close enough that my attention fixes on his mouth, the shape of it, and the fact that I still haven’t tasted his lips.
He draws back a fraction.
I don’t pursue it. I know better than to break the spell.
“Tell me what you meant by ‘implied,’” he says.
I answer by finishing what I started. His shirt slips from his shoulders, and I trace him with my hands, mapping planes and lines, and finding his form the way I do a canvas, with structure, tension, and balance. He’s beautiful. Any artist would call that a gift. But my heart knows better.
I lower my mouth to his skin, breathing him in and letting my lips linger where I’m allowed. This is as close as I get to tasting him, and it’s enough to make my body pulse.
The wolf mask shows up in the low light, the edges clean, the mystery intact. There’s a sliver of skin between the mask and his cheek. So close, so tempting. My fingers itch with the impulse to lift it, to finally see.
But I don’t.
He gave me this. Control. Trust.
So I stay where I’m welcome.
“Now I understand,” I murmur, smiling against him, “why control feels like its own kind of indulgence.”
“Tonight is yours,” he says.
“My reward for not mistaking your double for the real thing?”
“You could say that.”
An alpha who steps back by choice.
Admirable.
I crouch and roll down his briefs. His length dominates my vision. It’s impossibly thick and built to intimidate, yet it pulls me in. I close my mouth around it, and the texture scrapes against my lips as my need for him blooms.
He groans, his fingers threading my hair, his nails softly scratching my scalp. There’s no pressure or hint for more of me, just appreciation.
I begin shallow, just enjoying the salty tang. Then, slowly, I reach his base.
“Midnight…” he groans.
A sweet, warm fluid coats my tongue, and it’s exquisite, like the rest of him.
“Fuck…” he exhales. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold it if you keep this up.”