Chapter 5 #2
Willow awkwardly took the bird’s wing and gave it a small shake.
“That sounds like a very important title.”
“Indeed,” Monty agreed. Iris didn’t think it was pos-sible for his head—or massive beak—to get any higher than it was right then.
“Well, this is me. It was so nice to meet you, Iris. Mr. Featherington.”
Monty missed Willow’s smirk toward Iris.
“You too, Willow.”
“If you need anything, that’s me right there in 5B. But you will usually find me on the roof or in the courtyard.”
Before Iris could say anything else, the doors slid closed, and they continued their ascent toward the penthouse.
Beside her, Monty seemed to be trying to stretch himself taller with each floor they moved past.
The floor numbers blinked higher. Iris swayed slightly, clutching the wall like the box might tilt sideways.
Until, finally, the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.
“Welcome to our new life!” Monty cheered, strutting out of the elevator car, pulling his rolling suitcase behind him. “Look at this! They’re pulling out all the stops!”
Iris glanced over to where a long, rolling rack was sitting in the hallway beside a door. Dozens of articles of clothing hung there. There were intriguing silhouettes and strange fabrics that made Iris want to reach out and run her fingers over.
“Only two beige outfits. These guys know what they’re doing.” Monty had a wing raised, rifling through the material. “Huh. Not a single thing for me. That’s … disappointing.”
“To be fair, I don’t think Finn could know you were coming.”
“That certainly makes more sense than forgetting about me,” Monty decided.
Before either of them could knock on the door, it flew open.
“There you are,” the man declared, gaze tracking over Iris in a way that made her squirm. It wasn’t lecherous but clinical. “Yes, I think you will do nicely.”
“Monty Featherington,” Monty said, stepping in front of Iris to offer the man his wing.
The man, unruffled, took Monty’s wing. “Mr. Featherington, good to meet you. Henry Hadden. I’m Finn’s campaign manager.”
So this was the man responsible for Finn Westrock.
He was less manicured than Iris had imagined. His hair was just a bit longer than seemed fashionable among the humans, and he had a strong shadow of a beard.
“I’m Iris’s Head of Surface Affairs,” Monty declared. He was really leaning into his fictional role.
Iris resisted the urge to point out that he’d made up the title himself.
“Of course. Please come in. We are heavily in prepar-ation mode. May I?”
He didn’t wait for her answer, though, taking her bag and bringing it into the apartment.
“Preparation for what?” she asked, following behind.
Iris had no frame of reference for what a penthouse would look like, but she certainly hadn’t expected for all the windows to go from the floor to the ceiling, giving panoramic views of the city as well as the water of the bay just beyond.
But it looked more like a backdrop than something real, something alive, something that sang in her veins.
The sprawling space was sun-soaked, lighting every corner of the very bland decor.
She knew it was wrong to judge too harshly, given that Finn came from a very different culture than her own. But she couldn’t help but long for the bright colors of the sea—the pinks, yellows, and purples of the coral, and the vivid yellows and blues of the schooling fish.
Everything in Finn’s home was gray. Not just the paint, but the mood. Even the couch looked like it might sigh when you sat on it.
There were no curves. No motion. Just edges. Sharp corners. Soulless.
Iris wandered toward one of the enormous windows, placing her palm against the glass. Outside, she could see the bay glimmering in the distance. But she couldn’t feel it anymore. The barrier had dulled it. Separated it from her.
It was beautifully displayed. But locked behind something clear and cold.
Like her.
“Oh, this will do,” Monty declared, waddling into the apartment. “This will do just fine. Where are our rooms?”
“Uh, about that,” Henry said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “We were only expecting Iris. Finn only has one bedroom.”
One bed?
Of course, there was only one bed.
The surface world had a sick sense of humor.
“But Finn does have a small office we can outfit for you, Mr. Featherington.”
“I suppose that will do.”
“Wait,” Iris said, brows pinching. “If there’s only one bed, and Monty gets the office, where am I sleeping?”
“In the primary bedroom, of course.”
“Where is Finn sleeping?”
“In the same bedroom.”
“Where is Finn? Can I speak to him?”
She didn’t want to speak to him, not really. But his absence rankled regardless.
He’d invited her to move into his home—technically dragged her into it by political contract—and he couldn’t even be bothered to be around to answer her questions?
Part of her wanted to be angry. The other part … wasn’t sure if it was disappointment or relief.
Maybe both.
“Finn is at a meeting with the werewolf construction workers’ union. He will be home later.”
Iris’s gaze moved around the space, her eyes landing on the enormous L-shaped couch. She supposed that would do. Or she could insist on sleeping in Monty’s room. Or, if she got her way, in the bathtub. She had to pick her battles.
“You mentioned preparations,” she said, looking at Henry. “What are we preparing for?”
“To turn you into a proper political wife.”
Iris didn’t know whether to laugh or bolt back to the sea.