Chapter 5

Iris's POV

I wrote.

The words came faster than they had in weeks, pouring out of me like water through a broken dam. My fingers flew across the keyboard, barely keeping pace with the scenes unfolding behind my eyes. A new hero emerged from the haze, darker than Daniel, sharper around the edges. He had dangerous hands and a voice that curled through the heroine like smoke. He didn't ask permission. He took what he wanted and made her beg for more.

By noon, I had twelve new pages. By two o'clock, twenty.

I saved the file, leaned back in my chair, and stared at the ceiling with my heart hammering against my ribs. The words were good. They were better than good. They were the kind of words that made readers stay up until dawn, the kind that got quoted in reviews with breathless caps lock and too many exclamation points.

They were also terrifying.

Because the hero's voice sounded exactly like someone I was trying very hard not to think about.

My phone rang. Linda's name flashed on the screen.

I grabbed it before the second ring. "Hey, I was just about to send you the new pages."

"Then send them faster," she said, her voice crackling with her usual caffeine-and-enthusiasm energy. "I have a hole in my schedule and I want to read something that makes me forget my marriage exists for at least an hour."

I laughed, hit send, and waited.

Three minutes later she called back.

"Iris."

"Yeah?"

"Who the hell is this?"

My stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"

"I mean this hero." Her voice had gone strange, almost reverent. "This is not your usual sweet, dependable type. This man is dangerous. He's possessive. He's wild. He looks at this woman like he wants to eat her alive, and she likes it."

I gripped the phone tighter. "You think it's too much?"

"Too much?" She laughed, sharp and delighted. "Honey, it's not enough. Give me more. More edge and more possession. Make him darker and make her choose him even though she knows she shouldn't. That's what readers want. They don't the safe man. They want the man who ruins them."

The words landed like stones in my chest.

The man who ruins them.

Linda kept talking but I stopped hearing her. My mind had snagged on that phrase and couldn't shake loose. I thought about Victor's hand on mine, his thumb pressing my pulse point like he was testing how fast my heart would race for him. I thought about the way he'd said my name, low and knowing, like he'd already decided exactly how it would sound when he whispered it in the dark.

"Earth to Iris." Linda's voice cut through. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah." I shook myself hard. "Yeah, I'm here. More edge, more possession. I got it."

"Good. Send me the next batch when you have them and Iris?"

"Yeah?"

"Whoever put fire in your veins? Keep them."

She hung up before I could respond.

I stared at my phone for a long moment, then set it down carefully, like it might explode. My skin felt too warm. My pulse was doing that thing again, the skittering rabbit-fast thing it only did when I thought about him.

No.

I stood up so fast my chair rolled backward and hit the wall. I needed to move. Needed to shake this off before it took root.

I dropped to the floor and did twenty jumping jacks. Then twenty more. My heart pounded from exertion now, which was better, which was normal. I kept going until my breath came in gasps and sweat beaded on my forehead.

When I finally stopped, hands on my knees, chest heaving, I stood in the middle of my office and waited for the thoughts of Victor to fade.

They didn't, they just sat there, patient and waiting, like they knew I couldn't outrun them forever.

My phone buzzed.

Marcus: Dad wants us for dinner Friday night. Just the three of us again. You in?

I stared at the message.

Friday night is just three days away.

The universe is definitely conspiring against me.

I typed back: Sure. Sounds fun.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Marcus: He specifically asked for you. Said he enjoyed your conversation last time.

Of course, he did.

I locked my phone and pressed it against my forehead, eyes squeezed shut. This was fine. Everything was fine. I would go to dinner, be polite, make conversation, and absolutely nothing would happen because I was a grown woman in control of her own choices.

I called Maya before I could talk myself out of it.

She answered on the second ring, her voice warm and familiar. "Iris! I was literally just thinking about you. How's the book?"

"Chaotic." I flopped onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. "Want to have lunch together tomorrow? I need to see a friendly face that isn't attached to my laptop."

"Absolutely. Do you want to try out That new place on Fourth? The one with the amazing bread?"

"Perfect, noon?"

"See you there. Are you okay? You sound weird."

"Just a writer's brain. I'll tell you tomorrow."

We hung up. I lay there for another minute, then forced myself back to my desk. Linda wanted more edge. I could give her more edge. I would channel all this restless energy into the page where it belonged.

I wrote for another hour. The words came easier now, darker and sharper, the hero's voice growing more distinct with every scene. He was consuming the heroine, pulling her into his world whether she wanted to go or not. She fought him. She lost. She loved every second of it.

By five o'clock I had fifteen new pages.

I closed my laptop and stared at the wall.

What's gonna happen gotta happen.

The words whispered through my mind unbidden, that quiet voice that had been speaking to me since the handshake. I shook my head hard, like I could physically dislodge the thought.

No! I was in control, and I'll be writing this story, not living it.

My phone buzzed again.

Marcus: Headed home soon. Thai food and documentaries still on the plan?

I smiled despite myself. My sweet and steady Marcus. My safe harbor.

I typed back: "Actually, can you pick me up? Let's go to that place on Fifth instead of takeout. I need to be around people".

"OK, I'll be there in thirty minutes".

I changed into a soft blue sundress, something simple and comfortable, and added a swipe of lip gloss. When Marcus arrived, he kissed me hello like he'd been gone for days instead of hours, his hand finding mine as we walked to the car.

Dinner was good. Normal. We talked about his meeting, my book, the documentary we'd postponed again. I watched his face across the table, the familiar lines and warm eyes, and tried to remember why he'd ever felt like enough.

He was more than enough. He was kind and steady and he loved me. That should be enough.

When we got home, I curled into him on the couch for exactly thirty minutes before we both gave up and went to bed. He wrapped himself around me the way he always did, one arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

"I love you," he murmured, already half-asleep.

"Love you too," I whispered.

I lay there in the dark, listening to his breathing slow and deepen, feeling the solid warmth of his body against mine. This was where I belonged. This was safety. This was the life I'd chosen.

But somewhere in the quiet, beneath the rhythm of his breath and the steady beat of my own heart, a voice whispered:

Friday night. Just the three of us.

And my body answered before my mind could stop it.

I pressed my thighs together once, quick and guilty, then forced myself still.

Stop it, I told myself. Stop.

But the ache didn't listen.

And neither, I was beginning to fear, would I.