Page 12 of The Darkest Gift

Mason's lips curl into a predatory smile as he sets his glass down. "You know it was, darling."

Chapter 8

Mason

I recline in the sitting area of our bedroom, the faint scent of dark roast coffee curling through the air. The chair creaks slightly as I shift, leaning back with my mug and the case file balanced on my knee. The flatscreen on the wall drones on, the morning news anchor deadpan as she recounts last night’s crimes—a robbery gone wrong, a missing woman whose face flashes across the screen like an echo waiting to be solved. My eyes flicker between the file in my hand and the television. It’s a morbid ritual, but one that keeps me sharp. Relevant crimes are always worth noting; you never know when something might tie back to me—or Iris.

The rich bitterness of the coffee lingers on my tongue as I skim another paragraph. A diagonal slash of sunlight cuts across theroom, warming the marble floors. The house feels heavy in its silence, save for the low hum of the TV and the occasional rustle of paper. Comfortable. Predictable. Almost peaceful.

And then she steps out of the bathroom.

"Christ," I mutter under my breath, setting the file down before it slips from my fingers.

Emerald green. Lace. Satin. The color matches her eyes, making them brighter. Stilettos that shouldn’t be legal this early in the morning. Everything about her is sharp edges and soft curves: the way the garters hug her thighs, the way her auburn hair spills over her bare shoulders like molten copper, the way her eyes lock onto mine with a heat that could burn down empires. My gaze drags up her body, deliberate and slow, until it finds her smirk—wicked and knowing, because of course she knows exactly what she’s doing.

I arch a brow as I take another sip of coffee. It's a distraction tactic more than anything, an attempt to keep myself grounded while the sight of her threatens to unravel my composure. If I didn’t already know she had somewhere to be, I’d have her bent over the bed right now, those heels digging into my calves as she screamed my name.

"Really?" Her voice is silk spun over steel, teasing and amused. "That’s all I get? A raised eyebrow?"

"You're lucky I'm not dragging you back to bed." My tone is casual, but there’s an edge beneath it, a growl that makes her smirk widen. She tilts her head, a strand of hair slipping past her collarbone, and I wonder—not for the first time—if she’ll ever get tired of me. If one day her games will end with a knife to my throat instead of a kiss. The thought doesn’t scare me as much as it should. Dying at her hands wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

"Tempting," she purrs, trailing her fingers along the door frame as she steps fully into the room. Her hips sway, her legs long and dangerous in those heels. She’s the picture ofseduction, every movement calculated to drive me insane. And it’s working.

Damn her.

I watch with hungry eyes as Iris sways towards me, her emerald lingerie accentuating every curve. She plucks the coffee cup from my hand, her burgundy lips curling into a knowing smirk as she takes a sip. The scent of her perfume - jasmine and something sinful - envelops me.

"Enjoying the view?" she purrs, her voice husky.

My hand slides up the back of her thigh, relishing the smooth warmth of her skin. I grab a handful of her ass, squeezing appreciatively. "Always," I growl.

Iris hums, a sound of pure satisfaction that sends heat pooling in my groin. Her eyes glitter with mischief as she says, "I won't be gone too long. The police just want me to consult on this current case that's'baffling'them."

The way she emphasizes "baffling" makes me chuckle. It's adorable how she finds their incompetence amusing.

"When I get home, can we have some fun?" she asks, tilting her head coyly.

I nod, my eyes raking over every inch of exposed skin. God, she's exquisite. Dangerous and alluring–the perfect match for me.

She hands me back the coffee before sauntering towards the closet. I swear she adds an extra sway to those hips, knowing full well what it does to me. Minx.

Draining the rest of my coffee, I set the empty cup down next to the file I was working on before I was distracted. There is no way I’m going to be able to concentrate now.

When Iris steps back out of the closet, she is in a black business dress and is pulling on a green blazer over it. The color perfectly complements her eyes, making them seem even more piercing.

"Our guest will need feeding, also," she says casually, as if discussing the weather.

We both turn our gazes to the far side of the room. There, secured spreadeagled to a St. Andrew's cross bolted to the wall, is Elijah Winter. The sight of him sends a thrill through me–part arousal, part wicked anticipation.

"I'm sure he's famished," I reply, matching Iris's nonchalant tone. "Perhaps I'll hand-feed him. Wouldn't want our esteemed guest to feel neglected."

Elijah's eyes flash at my words, a mix of defiance and... is that interest? I'm actually pleasantly surprised by his response to the situation. He hasn't screamed once, though it wouldn't matter if he did.

"You're being awfully quiet, Mr. Winter," Iris purrs, sauntering closer to him. "Cat got your tongue?"

Elijah's lips curl into a smirk. "Just enjoying the show," he replies, his voice rough from disuse but still carrying that smooth charm. "Though I must say, the accommodations leave something to be desired."

I can't help but chuckle. Even bound naked to the heavy wood, wrists, waist, and ankles secured, he maintains his wit. The restraints accentuate his athletic build, and I find my eyes tracing the lines of his muscles. Despite his compromising position, there's an almost feral glint in his icy blue eyes as he watches us intently.

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