Page 120 of Iris
Freya begins cleaning the bar of dust for tonight’s service, the first since Iris went into heat.
“She shouldn’t be here,” she mutters.
I flick her a glance. “It’s daytime.”
“And when we get a shipment?”
“Of?”
“We get shipments of things outside the booze you pick up. Beer, napkins, olives, citrus.”
I tap a hand on the bar. “Do we have any scheduled?”
“That’s not the point. She makes things more dangerous for everyone.”
“Jealous, Freya?” I ask.
She laughs and shakes her head, setting up her service station. “You wish. No. I like her, I’m just thinking about Emmie, about us. This business can be crushed by the Council, and you know it. Considering the agendas we want to push, the thingswe all want changed…tempting fate with someone like her is not smart.”
“She can help us get the ear of the Monarch and the Council.”
“Not if you’re caught fucking an eligible Omega.”
“No one’s about to put on a live sex show in front of anyone. That kind of shit’s a few street’s over.” But I let my gaze drift back to Iris.
Freya puts down the knife and the lime. “You know we need to get her out of here without being seen.”
“Not your problem.”
But she’s right. I go to Xavier and lean against the wall, gaze drawn back to Iris. Freya’s outfit’s a little tight, her tits push at the T-shirt and like that, even if she was from here, she’d fucking stand out.
“We need to get Iris out of here.”
he asks.
When indeed. “Now?—”
It’s a small town, rich town, perfect for small illegal contraband that we often drop directly at estates with some wine.
“And who’ll get her from there?”
He sighs.
“Iris,” I say as I head over to the table, “a word.”
“But Daddy, we are drawing, see?” Emmie shows me the coloring book, and I hide my smile at the creative work she’s been doing.
“Freya wants to help, and maybe Papa.”
The little girl nods, grabs Delores, the crayons, and book, and heads over to the bar, where Xavier leaves his post to put her in a chair.
“Can’t resist me, is that it?” Iris asks.
A muscle beats in my jaw. She’s hit a little too close, and it makes anger at myself flare.
“Back room, now.”
I don’t wait to see if she’s following. But when I turn, she’s almost on top of me, and I point up the stairs.
