Chapter 29 Iris
IRIS
Reggie stands behind me, his fingers already at work. He gathers my hair into a loose bun, leaving strands to frame my face.
“Hold still,” he says, deliberately messing it up. “You want effortless, not I-tripped-on-the-way-out.”
I catch my reflection. The purple cocktail dress skims my thighs, the sequins throwing shards of light every time I move.
“So,” he says, pinning the last strand. “Where are you meeting him this time?”
“His chauffeur’s picking me up,” I reply. “Beyond that? Your guess is as good as mine.”
Reggie pauses, his eyes meeting me in the mirror. “You know that you’re eventually going to have to ask him who he really is.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“You’re falling,” he says simply. “Hard. And if you don’t want this to end badly, you should ask.”
I scoff. “Don’t you get it? Anonymity is the whole point of the game.”
He arches a brow. “Except he already knows who you are. That’s not exactly a mutual mystery.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop. I don’t want to explain it to him. I’d rather think about masked kisses and lips I’ve memorized without knowing the face beneath.
“I don’t want to know who he is,” I say instead. “That would ruin it.”
Reggie finishes the bun, smoothing it. Then casually, he says, “And how, exactly, did you manage to let Marcus Lockwood walk away?”
“Oh, no. Not again.” I groan. “If you want to pursue him, be my guest. Leave me out of it.”
“He’s obsessed with you.”
I spin around. “You saw him look at me for, what, ten seconds?”
“And that,” Reggie says, “was enough.”
I make a show of rolling my eyes, even as my neck flushes. “Fine, I’ll admit it. He looked…decent.”
“Decent?” Reggie arches a brow.
“For a tuxed mortal.”
He doesn’t blink. He just keeps staring at me with that look that says he’ll keep going until I give him what he wants, or until he physically rips the confession out of my scalp.
“Okay, better than decent. He was…aesthetically competent. I guess he’s—” I pause, catching my reflection. “—a bit my type.”
“Aha!” Reggie jabs a triumphant finger in my direction. “There she is. Iris Vaughn, finally cracking open that artfully welded-shut, titanium-grade heart of hers.”
I shake my head. “Don’t get carried away. I’m not letting Marcus Lockwood ruin what I’ve built in my head.”
“You mean the fairytale with an escape clause?”
“He doesn’t leave toothpaste smears on mirrors or own a single tragic tie.”
“And Marcus does?”
“I don’t know! That’s the point!” I exclaim. “Don’t give him dimensions. I want the fantasy intact.”
Reggie stares at me. “Sis, blink twice if the delusion is holding you hostage.”
“I just need it to last long enough to get me through tonight.”
He exhales. “God, you’re exhausting.”
I ignore him and put on my mask, schooling my expression. “I’ll catch you later,” I say.
Reggie gives me a once-over, nodding his approval.
“Wish me luck,” I toss over my shoulder.
“I’d rather wish you love, Eye.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Love is overrated,” I say, then I’m gone before he can dismantle that argument or defend whatever complicated thoughts he’s still having about Marcus Lockwood.
Around the back of the building, the chauffeur is already waiting. He opens the back door and offers his hand.
“You look perfect,” he says, lifting my palm to press a brief kiss to my skin.
I smile. It’s part of the ritual.
When I get in, the door closes, shutting out the street. We don’t speak. We never do. The familiar blacked-out windows and the partition offer no view or hints. I’ve learned better than to speculate. What matters isn’t the destination. It’s him.
The limo slows, then stops.
“Just tell the front desk you’re checking in,” the chauffeur says, opening my door.
Outside, the building blends into the block. It has a narrow frontage and no signage worth remembering.
I step out, my heels clicking on stone.
People move past me without a glance. What does Wolf have in store? This isn’t a crumbling foundry, or a hidden corner of Central Park. It’s just New York, uninterrupted.
Inside, the reception area feels out of time, with dark wood, low lamps casting pockets of smoked light, and heavy drapes framing the room. The desk looks less like a counter and more like a relic, and behind it stands a woman in a matte-black half mask, perfectly still.
“I’m checking in,” I say.
“Certainly,” she replies. She steps from behind the desk and gestures toward a hallway.
The corridor bends, then opens.
Another woman waits there. That shell mask, her long golden hair draping over her bare chest. Venus. Impossible to forget.
“Nice to see you again,” I say, keeping my tone casual.
“He’ll be here soon,” she replies.
Then, she reaches for a discreet door set into the wall and pulls it open.
Sound spills out first, the music heavy with bass, before the lights follow. Purple and pink layer into something sultry, cutting through mist and shadow. A stage dominates the room, and bodies gather close, every face hidden behind a mask. So the night begins with shapes and movement.
Venus guides me to a table near the stage. A man with a trumpet turns toward me, dipping into a small bow as he threads a solo through the room. By the time I settle into my seat, Venus has already disappeared.
I sit back, my senses alert. Waiting.
A server appears at my side, the tray angled just so. “Drink?” he offers.
I shake my head without looking at him. My attention is fixed elsewhere, on the faint sway behind the curtain near the stage. Fabric stirring where it shouldn’t. A presence that doesn’t belong to the music or the lights.
It stirs again. Barely. A broken outline that gives him away.
Wolf.
I rise and follow. Past the curtain, the air changes. It’s cooler and thicker. The noise of the club dulls, absorbed by corridors that twist and narrow before branching into choices.
There are curtains, mirrors, and doors that promise exits and deliver nothing. He appears and vanishes ahead of me, never rushing, always just beyond reach. It’s smaller than the manor club, but just as deceptive.
“Feeling nostalgic?” I say to his reflection as it appears from the glass. “You do like mazes.”
He vanishes again.
I turn the corner and shove through a narrow steel door. But my heel meets air instead of the floor, and my balance tips forward before I can catch myself.
The world snaps sideways.
Hands seize me from behind, and before I can make sense of anything, my arms are wrenched back and pinned. An arm locks across my throat.
“It’s you again!” I growl.
It’s the wrong scent. The wrong hold.
Not my Wolf.
Terror stabs at me as his grip becomes ruthless. I have no leverage. This time, I will really get hurt.