7. IVAN
IVAN
The afterglow still buzzes through my veins when Iris suddenly stiffens against me, her amber eyes going wide.
"Oh my God."
I trace lazy circles on her bare shoulder, savoring the silk of her skin. "What?"
"Prom." She bolts upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. "It's tonight. In three hours."
My hand stills. "What are you talking about?"
"Nate asked me today at lunch. I said yes." Her words tumble out fast, apologetic. "My friends were there, and I just—I wasn't thinking?—"
The name hits me like ice water. Every muscle in my body locks. "The transfer kid."
"Yes, but?—"
"No."
She blinks at me. "What?"
I sit up, jaw clenched so tight it aches. "You're not going with him."
"Ivan, I already said yes. I gave my word."
"I don't give a damn what you said." The force in my voice surprises even me. Something about that kid sets every instinct on edge, has since the moment I met him at the door with his parents and their fake-ass pie. The way he smiled. "He's bad news."
"You don't even know him."
"My instinct never fails me." I cup the back of her neck, pulling her close enough that our foreheads touch. "You're not going with him, Iris."
Her breath hitches, but she doesn't pull away. "I have to. I promised."
"Break it."
"I can't just—" She shifts, and the movement sends her curls cascading over one shoulder. "Look, I love you. You know that now. But this is just prom. It's one night. I'll go, dance a little, get the full high school experience, then come home to you."
The logic grates against every possessive instinct screaming in my chest. "Then I'll be your date."
"You can't." Genuine regret softens her face, those wide amber eyes flooding with an apology I don't want to hear.
"School policy. No one over twenty-one allowed as a date.
And there's all this paperwork for outside guests—approval forms, the whole bureaucratic nightmare—that takes weeks to process.
" She bites her lower lip, that nervous habit that usually drives me wild but right now just highlights how helpless this situation makes me feel.
"The prom is tonight, Ivan. In three hours.
There's no way to get you cleared in time, even if you were young enough to qualify. "
The reality of it hits like a punch to the gut.
I'm locked out by red tape and arbitrary age limits, forced to send the woman I love into the arms of a guy who makes every alarm bell in my head ring like a five-alarm fire.
My hands clench into fists at my sides, knuckles going white as the frustration builds to a dangerous simmer.
I run a hand through my hair, fighting the urge to punch something. "This is bullshit."
"You're the one who taught me not to be so uptight, remember?" She presses a kiss to my jaw, tentative. Testing. "To do crazy things, enjoy high school. This is me doing exactly that."
The words land like a blade between my ribs because she's right. I pushed her toward this—toward loosening up, experiencing life outside her books and her careful, controlled world. I just never imagined she'd use those lessons to walk straight toward a guy who makes my skin crawl.
I exhale hard, shoulders dropping. "I don't like this."
"I know."
"He touches you wrong, you call me. Immediately."
"Nothing's going to happen."
"Iris." I catch her chin, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Promise me. Anything feels off, you call."
"I promise."
But the unease doesn't leave. It coils in my gut like a living thing, cold and heavy, as she slides out of bed to start getting ready.
"Fine." The word scrapes out of my throat. "But I drive you both there."
Iris pauses halfway to her closet, curves silhouetted in the late afternoon light streaming through the window. "What?"
"You heard me." I stand, reaching for my jeans crumpled on the floor. "I take you and pretty boy to prom. I pick you up when it's done. And you call me every hour."
"Ivan—"
"Non-negotiable." I yank the denim up over my hips, not bothering with the button yet. "You want to go with him? Those are my terms."
She turns fully now, sheet still clutched to her chest, those amber eyes searching my face. "Every hour seems excessive."
"Every. Hour." I close the distance between us in three strides, caging her against the closet door. "Or you text if you can't slip away to call. I need to know you're safe, Iris. That he's keeping his hands where they belong."
Her pulse flutters visibly at her throat. "You really don't trust him."
"Not even a little." I brush my thumb across her bottom lip, still swollen from my kisses. "Something's off about that kid. Way he carries himself. I've dealt with enough sharks in courtrooms to recognize one circling."
"Maybe you're just jealous."
"Damn right I'm jealous." The admission comes easier than expected.
"You're mine now. Sending you off with another guy—even for something as stupid as prom—goes against every instinct I have.
" I lean down, breath ghosting across her ear.
"But more than that? I'm protective. And my gut's screaming that Nate Bailey is dangerous. "
She shivers despite the warmth of my body pressed against hers. "Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Your terms. You drive us, I call every hour, you pick me up.
" Her hands slide up my bare chest, fingertips tracing the baroque ink sprawling across my skin.
"But you have to promise not to actually threaten him.
Just... give him 'the talk' or whatever intimidating stepbrother thing you need to do to feel better. "
My jaw clenches. "I'll be civil."
"Ivan."
"I won't break any bones unless he gives me reason to."
"Ivan."
"Fine. I'll behave." I catch her wrist, pressing a kiss to her racing pulse. "Now get ready before I change my mind and lock you in this room."