Iris
Some men race for glory. Some race to forget.
The air tightens between us.
Below us, the port continues its endless rhythm. Cranes groan. Containers shift. Radios crackle with mundane chatter about shipping manifests and dock assignments.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
“I’m sorry you had to find out this way. Believe me, this is not how I pictured telling you.”
“Does Otto know?”
He nods.
I scoff.
“We only kept it from you to protect you. It was bad enough that the circuit was coming after you to lead. Otto and I thought we were protecting you, Iris.”
Ronan takes another step forward, and suddenly the space between us evaporates. He’s close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, close enough that his presence overwhelms everything else—the fog, the steel, the fear coiling in my gut.
His hand comes up, fingers curling around the back of my neck, thumb pressing against my pulse point. He can feel it—the way my heart races, the way my breath stutters, the way my body betrays every emotion I’m trying to bury.
I whisper. “He’s here for a reason. This is bad, Ronan. This is—”
“I know.”
His other hand finds my hip, grip firm, anchoring me. The railing presses against my lower back as he crowds closer, caging me in with his body, his heat, his intensity.
“We should be worried,” I say, but my voice has gone breathless.
“We are worried.” His mouth hovers near my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “But right now, I don’t give a fuck about Lucian Roe.”
“Ronan—”
“Right now,” he continues, voice dropping to that dangerous octave that makes my stomach clench, “all I care about is the fact that you’ve been standing up here watching me race, watching me win, watching me kill for you—”
“Not for me—”
His grip tightens. “It’s always for you. Every race. Every victory. Every body I leave behind. And you know it.”
God help me, I do.
“Someone could come up here,” I manage, even as my hands find his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.
“Let them.”
“The radios…” I glance at the radios sitting on the rickety desk in the control tower, which produce only occasional static.
“Are on the wrong frequency.” His mouth brushes my jaw, my throat, the sensitive spot below my ear that makes me gasp. “I checked.”
Of course he did.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper, but I’m already tilting my head back, already giving him access, already surrendering.
“Everything about us is a bad idea.” His teeth graze my neck. “Hasn’t stopped us yet.”
He’s right.
I pull him closer, and he responds immediately—mouth finding mine in a kiss that tastes like victory and desperation. His hands slide under my jacket, fingers splaying across my ribs, my waist, mapping skin he’s memorized a hundred times before.
I should push him away, go down to the wreckage, deal with the body, figure out what Lucian Roe wants and how to protect what I’ve built.
I should be in control.
But Ronan’s hands are already at my hips, lifting my body and setting me on the thin metal railing. Three stories up, the dock lanterns flicker beneath us, container cranes groan like beasts in the fog, and beyond the breakwater, the bay stretches black and uncaring.
My pulse drums—half filled with terror, half with white-hot thrill of dangling over oblivion by his grip alone.
“Do you trust me, Iris Cross?” he rasps, voice low enough that I feel it in my bones.
“Yes,” I whisper, and the word tastes like confession on my tongue.
His fingers curl into my belt loops, hauling me flush against him until my legs coil around his waist. The city’s harsh glow fractures across his face—sharp angles softened by hunger.
We could be spotted. We could fall. We could destroy everything I’ve built.
“Ronan,” I gasp, his name trembling out like a prayer.
He answers with a claim—mouth crushing mine, silencing any protest before it forms. His hands roam down my spine, tangled in my hair, grazing the pulse at my throat.
Up here, with a salty breeze biting at my skin, I’m not the woman who rules Cupid’s Run. I’m simply his.
A crackle stabs through the air—my radio alive with questions about cleanup, about that body. I clamp my teeth shut against the panic rising in my chest and ignore it.
His teeth graze my neck, sending a shock through me, and I arch into him, back pressing painfully against the cold railing.
My stomach is in knots. The height is dizzying.
Every nerve is on fire with fear of being caught, seen, or exposed.
But the want is stronger, a twisting blade straight to my heart.
“Tell me you want this,” he demands, voice rough.
“You know I do.”
“Say it.”
“I want this.” My hands find his belt, fingers working the buckle. “I want you.”
He groans—a sound that’s pure satisfaction and hunger—and his hands slide under my shirt, pushing fabric up and out of the way. The cool night air hits my skin, making me shiver.
“Cold?” he teases, lips curving in a smirk I can feel against my collarbone.
“No.”
“Good.”
His mouth finds every hollow of my throat and sternum, the curve of each breast. I bite back a moan, hyperaware of how exposed we are, how anyone could climb those stairs and find us like this—the woman who controls Miami’s underground wrapped around the man who kills for her entertainment.
The scandal would be delicious.
The consequences would be devastating.
In this moment, I don’t give a fuck.
Ronan’s hands work my jeans open, and I help him, lifting my hips so he can pull the denim down just enough. The railing is cold against my bare ass. The height makes everything sharper, more intense, more real.
“Look at me,” he commands.
His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, expression fierce with possession and need. This is the face he wears after a race—dangerous, barely controlled. This is the man who just killed someone and came straight to me, still high on violence and victory.
Anyone else would be afraid.
Instead, I pull him closer.
He plunges into me in one brutal, glorious thrust. We still for a heart-staggering moment. The buzz between us is electric, perfect, raw. My head falls back. I can’t hold in the gasping cry that tears from my throat.
“Quiet,” he murmurs, but his voice is strained. “Unless you want an audience.”
The thought sends a dark thrill through me—being caught like this, being seen, being claimed in front of everyone who thinks I’m untouchable.
But I bite my lip and stay silent.
Ronan starts to move—slow at first, controlled, each thrust deliberate and deep. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady, keeping me safe even as he takes me apart piece by piece. My fingers claw into his shoulders as the railing rattles beneath us.
Below us, the port continues its rhythm. Cranes groan. Containers shift. Radios crackle with mundane chatter, oblivious to what’s happening three stories above them.
“Faster,” I breathe against his ear.
He complies immediately, pace increasing, his control slipping. The railing shakes with each thrust. My fingers dig into his shoulders, holding on, anchoring myself to him as the world narrows to just this—his body against mine, his breath in my ear, the coil of heat building low in my stomach.
“Iris,” he groans, and my name sounds like a benediction.
“Don’t fucking stop.”
“Never. You’re mine.”
His hand slides between us, fingers finding that sweet, sensitive spot, and suddenly I’m there—balanced on the edge of something vast and terrifying and inevitable.
“Let go,” he commands. ”I’ve got you.”
The orgasm rolls through me like a wave, crashing through me with enough force to make my vision go white. I bury my face against his neck to muffle the sound, body shaking, completely undone.
Ronan follows seconds later—a low groan muffled against my hair, his grip on my hips tightening almost painfully as he comes.
For a long moment, we stay frozen like that—tangled together, breathing hard, balanced on the edge of a three-story drop with nothing but each other for safety.
Ronan pulls back slowly, carefully, helping me down from the railing with steady hands. My legs shake as my feet hit solid metal. He steadies me, hands on my waist, forehead pressed against mine.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“No.” A broken laugh escapes me. “Are you?”
“No.”
At least we’re honest.
I fix my clothes with shaking hands while Ronan does the same. The port sprawls beneath us, indifferent to what just happened, indifferent to the violence and the sex and the fear that coils in my gut.
Below us, sirens wail in the distance—ambulance and fire, coming for a body that’s already cold. The cleanup crew will arrive soon. The port will swallow another death, another secret, another sacrifice to the altar of speed and blood.
And somewhere in the shadows, Lucian Roe is watching.
Waiting.
Planning.
For one more moment, we stand together at the top of the control tower, looking out over the city we’ve claimed and the race we’ve built and the future that’s rapidly spiraling out of our control.
Then I turn and head for the stairs, leaving him alone with the fog and the ghosts of all the men who’ve died for our entertainment.
I don’t look back.
If I do, I won’t leave.
And right now, I need to be the woman who runs Cupid’s Run—cold, calculating, in control.
Even if it’s killing me.