Chapter 32
IRIS
I leave the city because the sound of it is unbearable. And because Marcus keeps asking me if we can talk things through.
Reuben loads my suitcase into the trunk. He’s seen me on good days and bad ones, but I’m not sure he’s seen me this bad. I should’ve driven myself, but I can’t promise I won’t unleash road rage and get arrested trying to get out of Brooklyn. And I have a pounding headache.
“Taking a little break?” he asks, glancing at me in the mirror as we pull away from the curb.
“Something like that.”
He nods, satisfied, and fills the rest of the drive with nothing important. Traffic. Weather. A detour he doesn’t trust. I let his voice blur into background noise and keep my eyes on the window, even though I’m not really looking at anything.
When we pull into my parents’ driveway, my mother is already outside. Reuben unloads my bag, wishes me well, and leaves.
I told my parents I just needed a break from the city. That work’s been intense. That I’m tired. It’s all true, just not the entirety of it.
Mom hugs me too tight, too long, like she senses something’s off but doesn’t want to say it.
“You won’t believe this,” she says, already steering me toward the extension. “Come on. It’s almost finished.”
The floors are level. I notice it right away. And the walls stand firm beneath my palm, without cracks or lean.
“They fixed the foundation,” Mom says, pride bright in her voice. “The crew was incredible. Ahead of schedule, too. The only delay was your father.”
“Excuse me,” Dad says from behind us. “That was a process, not a delay.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “He couldn’t decide between eggshell and antique white.”
“They are very different whites,” Dad insists.
Mom sighs. “You stared at the samples for three days.”
“Someone had to,” he says, slipping an arm around Mom and then kissing her.
“Oh, get a room, you guys!” I try to sound stern.
The tightness I’ve been carrying eases, just a little. Being here already feels like the right call, a decision that’s paying me back in ways I didn’t expect.
Mom leads me into the living room and gestures toward the wall. “And look,” she says. “The bookshelf.”
It’s perfectly fitted, exactly where she said she wanted it. I run my fingers along the edge, warmth blooming in my chest. The project manager promised it would be done. And he kept his promise.
Later, I step outside for air and wander down the neighborhood without thinking much about where I’m going.
Out of the blue, I spot Reuben, parked a little way off, talking with the project manager.
They don’t see me, and I let it stay that way.
It’s not that either of them is doing anything wrong. Reuben’s friendly, and so is the manager. But they’ve barely exchanged more than pleasantries before. Certainly not this, leaning against a car and talking like they’ve done this before.
“…yeah, Lockwood signed off on everything yesterday—”
The name hits so hard that I feel it in my teeth.
“Never seen a job run this smoothly,” the manager says. “But then again, when Marcus Lockwood backs something, it just…works.”
My stomach twists.
Of course it worked!
The prices that had felt generous. Every obstacle that dissolved before it became a problem. I thought I’d negotiated like a professional. Thought I’d handled it myself.
But I hadn’t.
I back away quietly and return to the house. I don’t say goodbye properly because if I do, Mom will ask questions I’m not ready to answer. I grab her keys and head straight back into the city, my hands clamped on the wheel.
He wants to talk?
He’ll get it.
Avelis looks untouched by the mess it creates elsewhere. The first time I came here, I was trying to save Blanket. This time, I’m here because Marcus Lockwood decided my life needed managing.
The receptionist recognizes me instantly. Her smile holds, but only just.
“Miss Vaughn—”
I keep walking.
Security fusses, unsure what to do. The hesitation irritates me. It makes me wonder how neatly I’ve been explained away.
But I doubt Marcus has said much. He won’t put words to the truth and admit that he’s Wolf. He will never own up to the fact that he gambled everything, including me, for the sake of the game. Then he has the audacity to show up in the light, staking claims he was never given.
“I need to see him,” I insist.
In the end, no one touches me. They try to stop me with words instead, like this is a misunderstanding that can still be fixed.
I make a straight line for the only room I know.
Dr. Marcus Lockwood, etched in gold on a mahogany door.
I push it open.
Marcus stands close to the exam chair, studying a woman’s face with focused attention. It seems the bandage has just been removed, and it lies folded on the counter.
The patient turns toward me, panic tearing from her throat. Her face is still red and tender from the procedure.
The nurse steps in front of the chair, one hand lifting a sterile drape, the other guiding the patient’s chin down and away from me.
“Let’s cover you,” she says calmly, already placing fresh gauze and a light veil over the woman’s face.
She angles her body between us, protective without being dramatic.
“You need to step out,” the nurse says to me, firm now. “This is not appropriate.”
Marcus flicks his gaze to the nurse, and she reads it immediately.
She helps the patient to her feet. “We’ll continue in the aftercare room,” she says, steering the woman toward the adjoining door and closing it behind them.
The room empties.
“Iris,” he says, startled, then unmistakably pleased. “Good to see you. How are you?”
I don’t let the moment exist.
“First, you nearly get me killed,” I say, “and now you’re managing my life?”
His brow creases. “What are you talking about?”
My eyes burn. “You sent that bozo to drive me. To watch me.” I jab a finger at my chest. “You actually thought I wouldn’t notice?”
“Iris, before you go any further, please listen to me.” He takes a step toward me, his palms open.
“Not another step,” I warn.
He stops. “I’m so sorry.” His voice softens, but his eyes don’t stop reaching. “What I did in that game was wrong. I know how close it was. You almost died. In my arms.”
His hands lift, palms up and trembling, like he’s still holding me.
I press my lips together. I remember. God, I do.
I was scared as shit, the water closing in, and then there was only his grip.
It was desperation I’d never known before, like he was truly going to lose me.
I don’t remember what came after, or how I was brought back at all.
But I remember that hold. Panicked, guilty, or whatever drove him to keep me that close.
I meet his gaze. Rage still lives there, though not aimed at me, but at what happened. Beneath it, there is an unyielding resolve. I haven’t felt compromised these past days, so I trust him this time.
But that’s not why I’m here.
“Fine,” I say curtly. “But this isn’t over. I want you out of my life. No more Reuben, and hands off my parents’ house!”
“I never meant to intrude,” he says. “I was trying to help.”
I scoff and shake my head.
His voice drops. “Iris, you did something to me. Something no one else ever has. So I wanted to do something that mattered to you, without you ever knowing.”
“Midnight did. Not Iris Vaughn.”
Cracks spread across his face, but he pulls it together before I see how deep it goes.
He gives a weak shake of his head. “You know the line between Iris and Midnight, and Wolf and Marcus, doesn’t hold the way it used to,” he says. “This doesn’t have to be how we end.”
That face. God, I hate that face.
I’d rather see him behind the mask.
Wolf stays in the game, but Marcus Lockwood crosses the line just because he thinks he can. The thought sears through me, hot and fast.
“Jonas Keller,” I say. “Evan Yani. Was that you too?”
“No,” he says immediately. “I never touch your art.”
I laugh.
“Six hundred thousand dollars,” I say. “Someone bought my painting out of nowhere. That was you, wasn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Fuck,” I whisper, more disbelief than anger. Then I say louder, “You did interfere with my career.”
“I bought your painting,” he says. “Because I loved it.”
“Bullshit,” I counter. “You knew Keller. You knew Yani. You probably know everyone! You snap your fingers, and everything happens. That’s how it works, doesn’t it?”
“I never interfered with your career, Iris. Of anyone, I understand what hard work means. I want to be with you, for God’s sake. I would never do that.”
I shake my head. Liar.
And somehow I’m angrier than I was after the tank. Angrier than drowning. Angrier than being used as bait. Not because those didn’t matter. They did. They still do. But those were part of the game, risks I signed up for.
But this? I didn’t choose this.
Maybe to him it’s a nothing decision. But I know how that story goes. Let him start deciding what’s best for me, and it won’t stop there. One interference becomes two, then it becomes a pattern.
And starting something with a man who thinks control is love?
Not a chance.
I look at him. Really look at him.
“I never thought it would come to this,” I say. “Fantasy’s better than reality, isn’t it, Dr. Lockwood?”
His jaw tightens. “You want Wolf?” he challenges.
“What do you think?”
“I am Wolf,” he says. “And I’m Marcus Lockwood.”
“You can’t be both.”
“Maybe not.” His voice lowers. “But right now, I’m just a man who wants to love you. Who wants you to love him back.”
His lips quaver, and there’s a sheen in his eyes he can’t blink away.
The words don’t break me. I do that myself. How well can a man lie? Because what he’s offering feels real, and I have nowhere safe to put it.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
He steps forward, and God help me, I don’t stop him.
“You won’t even try?” he asks. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. But who does, really? Everyone wants a second chance. Even the arrogant bastards.”
“As I told you that night, you’re not what I’m interested in.”
“God, Iris. You don’t even realize what that does to me, do you?”
“I’m telling you as it is. I don’t want love. I want the mask. I want the thrill.”
Because the mask doesn’t ask where this is going. It doesn’t expect to last. With the mask, I get to be exactly who I am in the moment, nothing more. Equal. Unexposed. Safe.
Something crumples in his expression. “Weren’t the games enough for your inspiration? Does it always have to be fantasy that moves you? The lie over the truth?”
“Fantasies aren’t lies,” I snap.
“They are when they’re all you let yourself want.”
“Fantasies are needs. You built him. You created the mask, and now you’re blaming me for wanting it? Just for a while longer?”
“For longer,” he says. “You want him for longer.” A bitter laugh escapes. “At least you’re not pretending it could ever be forever.”
“Nothing is forever. Even I know that.”
He draws a breath. “Everyone wears a mask, Iris,” he says. “Eventually, you change it or shed it. What happens when Wolf isn’t enough? You move on to Snow Fox?”
“You’re twisting everything.”
“Give me a chance,” he says. “I’m not good at expressing my feelings, Iris. But I know I want to start something with you.”
My heart wrenches. Because part of me wants to know the man he could be. I just don’t trust who I’d have to be to stay.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
Something hardens in him. “Then I won’t try anymore,” he says. “Maybe you’re not mine after all.”
Damn. Rejection always hurts, even when you’re the one walking away. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. Because he’s right.
“Please leave my clinic and don’t ever come back,” he mutters.
“That’s what I intend to do.” I turn, striding toward his door.
“One thing,” he adds. “You never sign your paintings with your real name. It’s your work, but you hide behind another identity. Just like you hide from this.”
I freeze.
“You know what your problem is, Iris?” he continues, his gaze heavy. “You want something you can step into when it’s thrilling and step out of when it gets real. That’s not strength. That’s fear.”
I don’t look back. I just walk out and slam his door.