Page 4 of The Darkest Gift

My fingers itch to touch her, but I will be patient. It’s a simple reminder to myself that I can afford to be patient. I have all the time in the world when it comes to her, because no matter what anyone else may believe at any point, she belongs to me.

My perfect match, my obsession.

My wife.

Chapter 4

Iris

The moment I see him, the air shifts. Like the static charge before a storm, it prickles over my skin, sharp and electric. Elijah Winter stands across the room, a perfect picture of tailored sophistication wrapped in an edge he can’t quite hide. White blond hair catching the dim light like spun spider web, those sharp icy blue eyes scanning the crowd with a predator’s calm.

He doesn’t belong here—not really. Too polished for chaos, too restless for peace. And yet, he commands the space effortlessly, a beacon amidst the glittering masses.

I watch in fascination as Elijah shifts slightly, turning just enough for the light to catch the sharp lines of his jaw, the cut of his suit so precise it could draw blood. He’s too perfect, almost unnerving in his stillness.

Following his gaze, I watch him as he watches Mason. It’s subtle, the way his posture shifts, a ripple of awareness tightening his stance.

"Interesting," I murmur under my breath.

I linger in the shadows for a moment longer, letting the tension simmer. My fingers curl around the delicate stem of my champagne flute as I take a slow sip, the bubbles sharp and cool against my tongue. All the while, my eyes stay locked on him. Watching. Waiting. Calculating.

Elijah’s attention drifts back toward the crowd, scanning faces with studied disinterest—until it lands on me.

It’s instant. The shift. The way his body tenses, his sharp blue eyes narrowing just slightly as they track me like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. My pulse quickens, an involuntary response to his focus, but I smother it with a slow exhale, keeping my movements languid, deliberate. Controlled.

I can feel his gaze move over me, sliding down the curve of my shoulders, the dip of my waist, the slit of my dress that reveals just enough thigh to make a statement. It’s a physical thing, his attention—a heat that licks up my skin and settles low in my stomach. Normally, only Mason has this effect on me, but there’s something about Elijah—something dangerous and thrilling—that twists inside me like a live wire.

I let him look. Let him drink in every inch as I start moving toward him. My heels click softly against the polished floor, each step measured and precise. His gaze is palpable now, heavy and unrelenting, and when his eyes finally snap up to meet mine, I feel the impact like a strike to my chest.

I don’t falter. Instead, I let my lips curve into the faintest hint of a smile—a challenge, an invitation. The tip of my tongue darts out, wetting my bottom lip in one smooth motion. Deliberate. Calculated. And oh, so effective. His eyes darken, just a fraction, but it’s enough to send a thrill racing down my spine.

Game on, I think to myself.

I stop just short of invading his space, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne—something crisp and clean, with a sinful edge of spice. He tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable yet undeniably intrigued.

"Elijah Winter, I presume?" I say, my voice smooth and edged with amusement.

His brow lifts at my boldness, a flicker of surprise breaking through his cool exterior before he recovers. "You presume correctly," he replies, his voice low and rich, like velvet dipped in sin. "And you are?"

"Iris," I say simply, offering no last name, no further details. Just a single word, deliberately vague. Mysterious. I see the curiosity spark in his eyes, and it’s immensely satisfying.

"Just Iris?" he asks, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge to it too—like he’s trying to figure out what game I’m playing.

"Just Iris," I confirm, taking another sip of champagne without breaking eye contact. "For now."

"Intriguing," he says, his gaze never leaving mine. "So tell me, Just Iris—what brings you here tonight? Besides the champagne, of course." His tone is light, but there’s a subtle challenge woven beneath it.

I tilt my head, letting my hair cascade over one shoulder as I lean in just slightly, enough to blur the boundaries of personal space. "Do you always ask such predictable questions, Mr. Winter?" I counter, my voice laced with mock disappointment. "Or am I just special?"

His grin widens, and it’s devastatingly charming, though there’s something almost predatory in the way he looks at me. "Oh, you’re definitely special," he says, his voice dipping lower. "But I wouldn’t underestimate my ability to surprise you, Iris."

"Surprise me, then," I say, arching a brow. "I’m waiting."

"Patience," he murmurs, stepping closer. His voice is silk and smoke, winding its way around me in the dim light of the room. "Good things come to those who wait."

"That’s what people say when they’re out of ideas," I shoot back, my lips curving into a sly smile.

His laugh is low and warm, the kind that vibrates in your chest. He brings his glass to his lips, watching me over the rim like he’s dissecting every inch of me. It doesn’t unnerve me—it electrifies me. The air between us feels charged, like a storm waiting to break.

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