6. IRIS
IRIS
The Uber drops me off, and my heart hammers the whole walk to the front door. I've rehearsed the words a thousand times in my head during my afternoon classes—I miss you. I was wrong. I want you.
But when I step inside, Ivan's voice stops me cold.
"Iris, you're home early."
He's sitting at the kitchen table, not alone. A woman perches across from him, her hands wrapped around a delicate teacup, and even from here I can see how she looks like. She's stunning—sleek dark hair, perfect posture, tailored clothes that scream sophistication. Everything I'm not.
My chest caves in.
"This is Iris, my stepsister." Ivan's tone is careful, measured. His eyes flick to mine, and I can't read them. "Iris, this is Lena. She's about to leave."
"Oh." The word scrapes out. I force my mouth into something that might pass for a smile, but my lips won't cooperate. "Nice to meet you."
Lena stands, smoothing her dress. She looks like she stepped out of a magazine. She offers me a polite nod, voice soft. "You too."
I don't wait. I clutch my backpack straps and make a beeline for the hallway, my worn sneakers squeaking against the hardwood. The stairs blur as I take them two at a time, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Of course he moved on. Of course he found someone who isn't his stepsister, someone who doesn't panic and push him away after the best night of her life. Someone sophisticated and beautiful and easy—not uptight and complicated and?—
I slam my bedroom door and sink onto the edge of my bed, burying my face in my hands.
The tears come hot and fast, soaking through my fingers.
I picture Lena's face, the way Ivan looked at her with that quiet intensity he usually reserves for me.
Was she an ex? Did she come crawling back, playing damsel in distress, and he just… fell for it?
My stomach twists. She's everything I'm not. Polished. Confident. Grown.
A knock rattles the door.
"Iris."
I swipe at my cheeks, but it's useless. "What?"
"I'm making dinner. Come out."
"Not hungry."
Silence stretches, and I think maybe he'll leave, but then the doorknob turns. He didn't even wait for permission. Typical.
Ivan fills the doorframe, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hallway. His jaw is tight, eyes searching my face. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I twist away, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to my chest. "I'm fine."
"You're crying."
"I'm fine."
"Did something happen at school?" His voice shifts, losing the edge. "Someone giving you shit again?"
"No."
He moves closer, the mattress dipping when he sits beside me. Too close. Close enough that his scent—leather and something darker, something uniquely him—wraps around me and makes my throat ache.
"Then what?"
I squeeze the pillow tighter, nails digging into the fabric. My curls fall forward, curtaining my face, but I can still feel his eyes on me. Studying. Waiting.
Then his expression changes. That slow shift I've learned to dread—jaw loosening, one corner of his mouth twitching up, eyes gleaming with that particular brand of Ivan-brand mischief that means he's about to say something infuriating.
"Wait." He leans back, crossing his arms. "Are you jealous of Lena?"
Heat explodes across my cheeks. "No."
"You are." The smirk widens. "You saw her and came up here to cry because you thought?—"
"Yes, okay?" The words rip out of me, sharp and raw. "Yes, I'm jealous. Happy now?"
The smirk dies.
I can't look at him. Can't breathe. The room shrinks, pressing in, and suddenly everything I've been holding back for months comes pouring out.
"I've been miserable since this morning, Ivan.
Miserable. And I know I have no right to be because I'm the one who pushed you away, but I couldn't stop thinking about you.
About us. About how good it felt and how wrong it is but how I don't care anymore because—" My voice cracks.
"Because I miss you. I miss the way we were before I ruined everything, and I came home today planning to tell you that I want you.
That I've always wanted you, even when I was too scared to admit it.
And then I walk in and there's this gorgeous woman sitting at your table, and I just?—"
I swipe at my eyes, but more tears keep coming.
"I can't do this. I can't watch you be with someone else."
Silence.
Then Ivan's hand cups my chin, gentle but firm, turning my face toward him. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, catching a tear.
"Lena's my cousin."
I blink. "What?"
"She showed up because her husband's been putting his hands on her. Nearly choked her out last week. She finally left him and came here to rant and ask for legal advice." His voice drops lower, rougher. "That's it, Iris. That's all it was."
The relief hits so hard I almost sob again. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." His other hand comes up, framing my face, and his gaze burns into mine. "But back up a second. I need to hear that again."
My heart stutters. "Hear what?"
"What you just said." His thumb traces my lower lip, slow and deliberate. "About wanting me. About always wanting me."
"Ivan—"
"Say it again."
I swallow hard, my pulse hammering against his palms. "I want you. I've always wanted you."
"And you're mine?"
"Yes."
His mouth crashes into mine before I can draw another breath. No hesitation. No gentleness. Just raw, desperate hunger that steals every coherent thought from my head.
Ivan kisses me like I'm oxygen and he's been drowning, his hands fisting in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it.
His tongue sweeps against mine, claiming, demanding, and I whimper into his mouth because this—this—is what I've been craving since the moment I pushed him away, no, since I met him in our parents' wedding.
"Fucking finally," he growls against my lips, and then his fingers are at the hem of my hoodie yanking it up and over my head in one fluid motion.
The fabric catches on my curls, pulling them loose, and then it's gone. Tossed somewhere behind him. I don't care where.
His gaze drops to my chest, and heat floods my face. The thin cotton of my bra does nothing to hide how my body reacts to him, how my nipples peak and strain against the fabric, already damp with the milk that's been haunting me for weeks.
"Look at you." His voice drops an octave, rough and possessive. "Look at you, looking so gorgeous."
"Ivan—"
He silences me with another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue stroking mine until I'm dizzy.
His hands move to my waist, fingers hooking into the elastic of my leggings, and then he's peeling them down my hips, taking my time, dragging the material over my thighs and calves until I have to lift my feet so he can pull them free completely.
Cool air hits my skin, and I shiver. Not from cold. From anticipation. From the way he's looking at me like he wants to devour every inch.
"Arms up," he commands, and I obey without thinking.
My bra comes off next. He unhooks it with practiced ease, sliding the straps down my shoulders, and then gravity does the rest. The weight of my breasts spills free, heavy and aching, and a droplet of milk beads at my nipple before trailing down the curve.
Ivan tracks it with his eyes, jaw clenching. "Christ."
"Please—" I don't even know what I'm begging for. For him to touch me. For him to stop looking at me like that before I combust. For something.
He doesn't make me wait. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks, and the sensation shoots straight between my legs. I gasp, arching into his touch, and more milk leaks out, wetting his palms.
"You're mine," he says, voice dark and possessive. "Say it again."
"Yours." The word breaks on a moan. "I'm yours, Ivan."
His fingers move to my panties—the last barrier between us—and he hooks them with his thumbs, dragging them down in one slow, torturous slide. The cotton clings to my thighs, damp from how wet I already am, and when they hit my ankles, he lifts each of my feet to pull them free.
And then I'm completely bare.
Naked on my bed, curls tumbling over my shoulders, breasts leaking, thighs trembling. Every vulnerable inch of me exposed under his hungry gaze.
Ivan stands, drinking me in. His chest rises and falls with harsh breaths, hands flexing at his sides like he's restraining himself from pouncing.
"Perfect," he murmurs. "You're so fucking perfect, Iris."
Ivan reaches for the hem of his shirt, and my breath catches.
He pulls it up in one smooth motion, revealing that expanse of sun-bronzed skin, those carved ridges of muscle, the tattoo that sprawls across his chest and down his left arm like dark poetry written in ink.
The thin scar cutting across his collarbone catches the light, a faint silver line that makes him look dangerous. Lived-in.
Mine.
I saw him naked last night. Felt every hard plane of him pressed against me, inside me. But watching him undress now—watching those long fingers work his belt buckle, the leather sliding free with a quiet hiss—it's like seeing him for the first time all over again.
Maybe it is the first time. The real first time. Because last night I was terrified, guilty, drowning in the wrongness of wanting him. Now there's only want. Pure, unfiltered, consuming want that burns away every doubt I've been carrying.
His jeans hit the floor. Then his boxers. And oh God, I can't look away.
Heat floods my face, pooling low in my belly, between my thighs. My fingers twist in the comforter beneath me, knuckles white, because if I don't hold onto something I'm going to dissolve into a puddle of need right here on this bed.
Ivan notices. Of course he does.
That slow, knowing smirk curves his mouth—the one that makes my heart stutter and my skin prickle with anticipation. His dark hazel eyes track every micro-expression on my face, cataloging my reactions like he's filing them away for later use.
"Still shy?" His voice drops lower, rougher. "Even after last night?"