Chapter 8: You Looked First

Iris Whitmore woke to morning sunlight cutting through the gap in the heavy velvet drapes.

She lay on her side in the middle of the massive mattress, her head resting against a firm down pillow.

Beside her, Kieran Sterling slept on his stomach, one heavy arm draped over her waist. He had slept fully clothed in his wrinkled white dress shirt and trousers from the night before, too exhausted to even unbutton his collar. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm, his face buried against the side of her shoulder.

For the first time since she had met him, the deep, hard lines around his mouth—carved by years of agonizing chronic insomnia and constant physical pain—were completely smooth in peaceful sleep.

Iris shifted her weight, trying to slip out from under his arm without waking him.

The moment she moved, Kieran stirred.

His dark grey eyes opened slowly, cloudy with sleep before focusing on her face. He didn't pull his arm away immediately. He simply lay there in the quiet morning light, breathing in the scent of orange blossoms from her hair.

"Get in the shower," Kieran ordered, his voice thick and gravelly from sleep.

He lifted his arm off her waist and sat up on the edge of the mattress.

Iris gathered the white towel from the nightstand, clutching it tightly against her chest as she slid her legs off the bed. Her knees felt weak beneath her thin lace nightgown, her skin still warm from where his body had pressed against hers all night.

Kieran walked ahead of her into the marble bathroom and turned the brass taps.

Hot water hissed against the tiles, and thick steam began climbing the mirrored walls within moments.

Kieran stood at an angle in front of the steam-fogged mirror, unbuttoning his wrinkled dress shirt and pulling it off his shoulders, tossing it toward the laundry hamper in the corner.

Iris stopped dead in her tracks.

The towel nearly slipped from her fingers.

Black shading spread across the bare skin of his upper back.

It was a massive eagle, its wings spread wide in dark, detailed lines that stretched across his shoulder blades and curved over his shoulder toward his chest.

Iris's breathing hitched in her throat.

Her mind raced back to that dark hotel suite at the Meridian Grand—the smell of spilled whiskey, the burning fever of the stranger in the dark, and the black eagle tattoo she had seen across his back in the grey morning light before she fled.

It was him.

The man who had dragged her out of prison, the man who had forced her into a contract marriage and called her a loose woman, was the exact same stranger she had saved.

Iris took two quick steps through the steam, her eyes fixed on his back. "Your back."

Kieran turned his head slightly toward the mirror, wiping steam from the glass with the palm of his hand. "What about my back?"

"Show me your right shoulder," Iris demanded, her voice shaking as she stepped closer. "Turn around and show me your tattoo."

Kieran leaned his left elbow against the marble counter, his right collarbone angled away from her behind the shower door and rising steam. A mocking smirk touched his lips as he looked her up and down.

"My wife stands in my bathroom in translucent lace, staring at my body," he said, his voice echoing in the steamy room. "Say what you want in plain words, Iris."

"I am not interested in your body, Mr. Sterling," Iris shot back, her chin lifting. "I want to see the tattoo under your right collarbone."

"You sound hungry for a woman who was begging to leave ten minutes ago," Kieran countered, turning his body toward her.

"Show me the eagle," Iris pressed, ignoring his insult.

Kieran's smirk vanished. His dark eyes narrowed as he stepped into her path, blocking her view.

"Half the men in this city have a tattoo," Kieran said, his tone dropping into a warning. "Your stranger must have worn his where the lights stayed off."

"Mine has an eagle with spread wings," Iris told him, stepping right up to his chest to look past his shoulder. "And the tip of the right wing curves directly under his right collarbone, exactly where yours is hidden."

Iris reached out her hand toward his right collarbone, her fingers trembling as she reached for the dark lines of the wing.

Before her skin could touch him, Kieran caught her wrist in a firm grip.

He pulled her hand down between them, his fingers tightening around her wrist until she felt her pulse hammering against his thumb.

"Whose tattoo are you looking for, Iris?" Kieran asked, his dark gaze locking onto hers through the rising steam.

"Yours," Iris answered without backing down.

"Then use your eyes on the front of me," Kieran countered, his grip holding her wrist steady against his chest. "A woman with fresh marks from another man's bed has a strange interest in my skin."

"Those marks came from a night my father sold!" Iris cried, her eyes flashing with anger.

Kieran's jaw tightened. "Sold."

"He handed me a hotel key card outside the prison gates while my mother was dying in St. Clare's," Iris said, her voice cracking as she held his gaze. "He told me her surgery deposit would only be paid if I stayed in that room until dawn. Judge my morals after you meet Gordon Whitmore."

Kieran stood still for a long beat, his dark eyes searching her face.

He didn't let go of her wrist.

"Room 1606," Iris whispered, her voice breaking on the numbers. "The suite at the end of the corridor on the top floor. You were drugged, and men were searching the hallway for you."

Kieran felt a cold chill run down his spine, but his expression remained hard.

"Careful," Kieran warned, his voice dropping low as he stepped closer, forcing her back against the marble counter. "The woman from that suite has a name already. My assistant confirmed her off the hotel register two days ago."

"Then your register is a lie!" Iris spat, shoving her free hand against his chest. "Because Celeste Whitmore wasn't in that room! I was!"

Kieran looked down at her pale face, her red-rimmed eyes, and the fierce determination in her posture.

The paper in Owen's safe named Celeste, but every nerve in Kieran's body said otherwise.

He remembered the heavy rose perfume Celeste wore—the scent that had made his head throb like it was going to split open. And he remembered how Iris's orange blossom scent had cured his five-year agony the instant he held her close.

"Celeste brought me the silver cufflink from under that bed," Kieran said, testing her as he leaned down until his breath brushed her lips. "She knew the room was dark. She knew I burned with fever."

"My father took that cufflink off my sweater at the hospital doors!" Iris gasped, realization hitting her like a physical blow. "He gave it to Celeste!"

Kieran's eyes darkened.

He let go of her wrist, stepping back out of the steam as he grabbed a dry towel from the rack.

"Take your shower, Mrs. Sterling," Kieran said, his tone unreadable as he turned toward the bedroom door. "My grandmother expects you downstairs for breakfast in twenty minutes."

"Kieran, look at me!" Iris called after him.

Kieran stopped at the door without turning around.

"If you want me to believe your story over a certified hotel log," Kieran said, "bring me proof I can show my lawyers. Until then, you remain the maid in my house."

He pushed the oak door shut behind him, leaving Iris alone in the steam.