Chapter 3 Iris
three
Iris
Eight hours on a motorcycle through the apocalypse, and every muscle in my body is screaming.
My thighs ache from gripping the seat. My arms have been locked around Stephan's waist so long I've lost feeling in my fingers. The constant vibration has rattled my teeth until my jaw throbs. Wind has chapped my lips raw despite the helmet he gave me.
But we've covered ground that would have taken days on foot. Two hundred miles of dangerous territory, and we're more than halfway there.
Stephan handles the bike like it's part of his body—weaving through abandoned wrecks, jumping curbs, taking shortcuts through collapsed buildings I never would have spotted. Every move is precise, instinctive. The muscle memory of someone who's been outrunning death for years.
And somewhere in those eight hours, pressed against his back, I've become aware of him in ways I didn't expect.
The breadth of his shoulders. The heat of his body through the leather jacket.
The way his muscles flex and shift with every turn, every decision.
He smells like engine oil and woodsmoke and sweat.
Stop it, I tell myself. Allie is dying. This isn't the time.
But my body doesn't listen to logic. It just knows that I'm alive, and he's alive, and the world is trying to kill us both.
When we stop at an abandoned gas station to siphon fuel from rusted cars, I finally ask the question that's been eating at me since we left.
"Why did you leave the Wolves?"
He freezes, hand on the fuel pump. Then continues working without looking at me.
"Not your business."
"You're risking your life for my daughter. I think I have a right to know who you are."
"I'm the guy getting you to that hospital. That's all you need to know."
"The Iron Wolves destroyed Clearwater Settlement. Killed families in their sleep." I watch his face, looking for a reaction. Some sign of guilt or defiance. "Were you part of that?"
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps in his cheek.
"I left before Clearwater. Before they went full raider." His voice is flat, controlled. "When they crossed that line, I walked away."
"And they just let you go?"
His laugh is bitter, humorless. "No. They're hunting me. Have been for two years." He finally meets my eyes. "So every minute you're with me, you're in danger from more than zombies. Still want to keep asking questions?"
The honesty hits me like cold water. In the apocalypse, truth is rarer than antibiotics. Rarer than hope.
"Why help me then? If you're trying to stay invisible, taking passengers can't be good for survival."
The hardness in his expression wavers, just for a moment, and I glimpse something raw beneath. Pain, old and deep. The kind that never fully heals.
"Because a kid dying from infection is exactly how I lost my daughter." His voice is barely audible. "She was eight. Like I said, I wasn't fast enough." He turns back to the fuel pump, his movements sharp, controlled. "Maybe if I save yours, it'll mean something."
I don’t know what to say. All this time, I've been thinking of him as a monster—a necessary evil I had to accept to save Allie.
But he's not a monster.
He's a father who lost his child. And he's been running from that loss ever since.
Night falls before we find shelter in an abandoned gas station with intact walls and a single entrance we can defend. Stephan clears it room by room while I wait by the door, knife in hand, listening to every shadow.
"Clear," he says finally. "Get some sleep. We've got another six hours tomorrow, and the hospital won't be easy."
But I can't sleep. The adrenaline won't fade, and every time I close my eyes, I see Allie's gray face. Her shallow breathing. The clock running out.
Stephan sits against the far wall, cleaning his machete by the light of a small lantern. The yellow glow catches his tattoos—the Wolves insignia on his neck, but other marks too. A date on his shoulder. A name on his forearm in delicate script.
Sabrina.
"Tell me about her," I say softly.
He goes still. The machete stops moving.
"Nothing to tell."
"Please." I move closer, settling on the floor across from him. "I need to believe this can work. That we can make it in time. That parents can save their children in this world."
The silence stretches so long I think he won't answer. Then, slowly, like the words are being dragged out of him:
"She liked to draw. On everything. Walls, dirt, my arms during club meetings." The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Terrible artist. But she thought she was Picasso. All confidence, that kid. Couldn't argue with it."
"She sounds amazing."
"She was." The almost-smile fades. "Got sick fast. Fever one day, delirious the next, gone by morning. I tore apart three towns looking for medicine. Held her while she died, promising I'd do better." His hand tightens on the machete. "I wasn't fast enough."
I move without thinking, crossing the space between us. He tenses as I settle beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "For what you lost. And for judging you before I knew you."
"You had reason. The Wolves became exactly what you thought they were."
"But you're not them."
He turns to look at me, and something passes between us—recognition of a shared wound. We're both running from loss. Both racing toward the impossible hope of doing it differently this time.
I kiss him.
He freezes for one heartbeat. Then his hand clamps on the back of my neck and he kisses me back like he's drowning and I'm air. Not gentle. Not sweet. Hungry and desperate and dark with want.
When he pulls back, his eyes are storm-dark and dangerous.
"This is a bad idea," he says, voice rough.
"I know."
"We might not make it to tomorrow."
"I know that too."
His jaw clenches. I watch him wrestle with it: whatever code he lives by warring with the raw need I can see burning in his eyes.
"Fuck it."
He stands, hauling me up with him, and backs me against the wall hard enough that the impact steals my breath.
His mouth crashes down on mine and this time there's no hesitation.
No holding back. He kisses me like he's claiming something, his hands already working at my jacket, stripping it off with brutal efficiency.
My shirt follows. Then my bra. His mouth moves to my throat, teeth scraping, and I gasp. He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.
"Quiet," he murmurs. "Or I stop."
I nod, and his mouth returns to my skin.
He kisses down my collarbone, the swell of my breasts.
When he takes my nipple between his teeth, I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
He works the sensitive flesh with his tongue, sucking hard enough to make my knees weak, before moving to give the other the same treatment.
Then he drops to his knees.
My jeans hit the floor. My panties. He spreads my thighs with rough hands and just looks at me for a moment, exposed and wanting and completely at his mercy.
"Stephan."
"I've wanted to taste you since the first time you climbed on my bike." His breath ghosts over my sensitive flesh.
Then his mouth is on me and coherent thought dissolves.
The first stroke of his tongue makes my knees buckle. He holds me up with one arm wrapped around my thigh, the other hand gripping my hip, pinning me in place. I try to move, to grind against his face, but he tightens his grip. A warning. I'm not in control here.
He works me with his mouth—long, slow licks that make me tremble, then focused attention on my clit that has me biting my hand to stay quiet. Just when I think I can't take anymore, he slides two fingers inside me, curling them perfectly.
I'm close. So close. My hands fist in his hair and I feel the pressure building, tightening—
He stops.
Pulls back completely, leaving me trembling and empty and desperate. When I look down, his expression is dark with satisfaction.
"Not yet."
"Please!"
"I decide when you come." His fingers slide back inside me, pumping slowly. "Right now I want to see how much you can take."
He builds me up again. His mouth on my clit, his fingers working inside me, bringing me right to the edge. Then he stops. Again. My thighs are shaking. Tears of frustration sliding down my cheeks. I'm begging without words, my body pleading for release.
"That's better." His voice is rough with satisfaction. "Now you're ready."
His mouth returns to my clit, sucking hard while his fingers curl inside me, and this time he doesn't stop.
The orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave and I have to bite down on my own hand to keep from screaming.
He works me through it, licking up everything I give him, until I'm boneless and gasping.
Before I can catch my breath, he's standing, stripping off his shirt. The lantern light catches on the ink covering his arms, his chest. The scars that tell stories he'll never share. When he shoves his jeans down, his cock springs free—thick and hard and intimidating.
He moves me to the floor with hands that brook no argument. I settle onto our discarded clothes and he follows, covering my body with his. I feel the weight of him, the heat, the hard length of his cock pressing against my entrance.
His hand grips my chin, tilting my face up.
"Look at me," he says. "I want to see your face when I fuck you."
Then he pushes inside.
Slow. Relentless. Stretching me around him inch by devastating inch. He's big—almost too much—and I gasp at the intrusion. He stops halfway, and I feel his control in the way his muscles are locked tight, the way his breathing has gone ragged.
"You okay?" The question is rough but genuine.
I nod, unable to speak.
"Good." He pushes deeper. "Because I'm not stopping."
He buries himself to the hilt and we both groan at the sensation. He fills me completely, so deep I feel him everywhere, and for a moment he just stays there. Letting me adjust. Letting me feel the full weight of him inside me.
Then he moves.
He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, before slamming back in.
The force of it drives me up the floor and I grab onto his shoulders, nails digging in.
He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, hard thrusts that hit exactly where I need them.
Each one sends sparks through my nervous system. Each one makes me clench around him.
"Fuck," he breathes against my throat. "You feel incredible."
His hand slides between us, finding my clit, and I nearly come apart right then. I lose myself to the feeling of his cock filling me, hitting deep with every thrust, and his calloused fingers circling exactly where I need them.
"You're going to come again," he tells me. Not a request. A command.
I shake my head. I can't. It's too much.
"You will." His thumb presses harder, circles faster. "I can feel you getting tighter. Your body knows what it needs even if you don't."
He's right. The pressure is building impossibly fast, coiling low in my belly. Every thrust winds it tighter. I'm gasping, trembling, teetering on the edge.
"That's it." His voice is dark honey and gravel. "Let go. Come on my cock."
The orgasm rips through me and I have to bury my face in his shoulder to muffle my cry. I clench around him helplessly, my whole body shaking with the force of it. He groans, his rhythm faltering.
"Where?" he grits out.
"Inside." I can barely form words. "Inside me."
Three more brutal thrusts and he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he comes. I feel the heat of him filling me, and the sensation draws out my own orgasm until I'm wrung out and boneless beneath him.
We collapse together, sweat-slicked and breathing hard. For a long moment neither of us moves. Then he shifts, rolling us so I'm tucked against his chest. His hand settles possessive on my hip, his other arm wrapped around my shoulders.
The silence stretches. Outside, I can hear the distant groan of the dead. Inside, just our breathing slowly returning to normal.
"Still a bad idea," he murmurs finally.
"Probably." I press closer to his warmth. "Don't care."
His arm tightens around me. We don't talk about what this means. Don't make promises we might not live to keep. Tomorrow we ride for the hospital. Tomorrow we might die.
But tonight, for just a few hours, I let myself feel safe in the arms of a man who understands loss. Who knows what it means to fight for the people you love, even when you know you might fail.
When I finally fall asleep, it's with his heartbeat steady under my ear and his hand warm on my skin.