Page 3 of The Darkest Gift

“I have not,” I say slowly, taking the clutch, my voice tight as I study him. “But I gather you have.”

His smile is maddeningly calm, his eyes glittering with the thrill of a plan already in motion. "Oh, I have."

Mason offers me his arm, and I take it, the silk of his tuxedo sleeve brushing against my bare skin as we step out of the house and into the cool December night. The scent of pine and frost bites at the air, mingling with the faint trace of his cologne—woodsy, and heady enough to make my pulse quicken. The headlights of the idling car cut through the night, illuminating the circular driveway like a stage set just for us.

"Elijah Winter," Mason begins, his voice smooth and measured, each word deliberate as always. "He’s… an interesting one." His lips curl into that devilish smile, the kind that promises trouble. "We met in court yesterday. An evidentiary hearing. I was challenging the admissibility of their key piece of evidence of course. You would’ve loved it—he doesn’t back down, not even when he knows he’s cornered."

"Sounds like your type," I say dryly, my heels clicking against the gravel as we move toward the sleek black car waiting forus. "But you know how I feel about public figures. Messy. Complicated. They come with strings."

"Ah, yes, but sometimes the mess is part of the allure," he counters, his tone laced with amusement. His thumb strokes lazily over mine where our hands rest together on his arm, a subtle reminder of his control, of the weight of his plans already spinning into motion. "And Elijah... he’s all sharp edges and fire. You enjoy a bit of heat now and then, don’t you?"

"Heat burns if you're not careful," I quip, giving him a side glance. His expression doesn’t falter, though; if anything, my words only seem to stoke whatever fire is already burning inside him. That undercurrent of danger he carries with him hums louder now, more tangible.

"Careful is overrated, darling. You know that better than anyone," he murmurs, his voice dropping just enough to send shivers down my spine.

The driver steps out as we approach, his movements crisp and efficient, polished like everything else in Mason's world. He opens the rear door with a nod, and Mason releases my arm to guide me inside, his hand firm and possessive at the small of my back. The leather interior is cool against my thighs as I slide in, the slit of my dress parting just enough to reveal a daring amount of leg. Wealth may come with its clichés, but I can't deny how much I enjoy this particular one—the power, the indulgence, the way it feels like every detail bends to our whims.

Mason follows, settling next to me with an ease that belies the storm always brewing beneath his composed exterior. Before I can even adjust my dress, his hand finds my thigh, curling around it with a deliberate pressure that shoots heat straight through me. The fabric is no barrier; his touch is searing, branding. My breath hitches, but I keep my face impassive, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. He's watching me, I can feel it, the weight of his gaze heavy and unrelenting.

"Public figure or not," he says, his voice low and intimate now, meant only for me, "Elijah is exactly what we need this year. And you’ll see soon enough, my love, just how exquisite this choice really is."

I let the corner of my mouth curve into a slow, knowing smile as I turn my head to meet his eyes. They're dark, glittering with something almost feral. Wicked. Tempting.

"Exquisite remains to be seen," I purr, tilting my head slightly as his fingers flex, digging into my thigh just enough to make my pulse flutter. "But we will see, my love. We will see."

Chapter 3

Mason

Standing at the bar, I sip on a fresh glass of bourbon. It’s not the same quality as what we keep at home, but it will do. Something to distract me and occupy my hands. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, that saying couldn’t be truer for Iris and me. But instead of her being beside me, I’m watching and waiting for her to make her own separate entry to the Christmas gala. I like to watch her work a crowd, and this crowd has one guest in particular that I’m looking forward to watching her work.

Most of the guests already know our connection, but not everyone. No, that’s something I’ll take pleasure in revealing at the right moment.

A faint rustle draws my attention upward.

There she is.

Iris stands at the top of the grand staircase, her dark silhouette illuminated by the Christmas lights and elegant decorations of the gala entryway. The shadows play across the curves of her body, highlighting every angle and line. Her auburn hair cascades over her shoulders like liquid fire. Most eyes turn toward her, as they should, no matter the occasion or circumstance she makes a grand entrance just by being Iris Blackwood.

Even before she married me, she was a leading criminal psychiatrist. Her name was always one that drew attention, it certainly drew mine. Her beauty was simply thecoup de grâce.

Her piercing emerald eyes find mine through the shadows, unblinking. No words—there never are—but the message is clear. She isn’t backing down from the challenge I presented. She knows what comes next.

And so do I.

My lips twitch into a slow smirk, one she doesn’t return. Iris never gives anything away too soon. It’s part of the game. Instead, she lingers for a beat longer, letting the moment stretch taut between us, daring it to snap. The tension hums like a live wire, buzzing against my skin. My pulse ticks up—not from nerves, no, but from her. Always her.

Then, her eyes sweep away from mine and she moves.

The first step lands with deliberate precision. Her dress clings to her, ink-black and liquid, spilling over every curve with sinful intent. Each step is a performance, intentional, calculated. She descends like she owns gravity itself, pulling everyone toward her without lifting a finger.

My gaze tracks her movements, unhurried, unapologetic. She wants me to look, and I oblige. Always have. There’s power in her walk, in the way she controls the space as if it bends to her will. And maybe it does. God knows I’ve bent enough times myself.

The world outside ceases to exist, swallowed whole by the weight of her presence and the wicked promise simmering beneath the surface of that beautiful face. By the time she reaches the last step, I swear the air could ignite around her, thick as it is with heat and something far sharper.

She pauses briefly, her gaze flicking to mine again. There’s no hesitation, no doubt. Just that spark. Thatpull. Like we’re two opposing forces doomed to collide.

It doesn’t take long for her to disappear into the glittering crowd of guests. Like a huntress looking for her prey. Soon I hear her laughter, soft and sultry, sliding over my skin and sinking deep, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. It’s not just a sound; it’s a weapon. One she wields without mercy. And damn if I don’t let her. Every. Single. Time.

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