Page 74 of Iris
I think about not answering Xavier.
But it seems a little petty. They didn’t fuck. Sex doesn’t permeate the air.
Need does.
Desire.
Some of that might be from me as well as him. And her. But her desire has the wildness of spring to it. Like she’s waiting to be pollenated.
My fucking whimsy needs a quick and brutal death.
She smells like an Omega on the cusp of heat, an early scent that tantalizes and excites.
I sign to him.
I sign back,
And I’m not.
After all, her clothes are in an intact state, and I know he wants her like I do, but it’s not a wanting her for himself.
Usually the girls we keep as our own don’t ever appeal to us both. It’s like a connection happens, and the air crackles with something I can’t define when a female we’re going to share steps into the same space with us.
Sometimes it’s just a wanting, other times we know it’ll happen.
Iris… Fuck. I don’t know. I should let him have her and keep the fuck away. Xavier always likes the catnip scent of upper-class women. There are so many who like to play, and he likes to indulge. Almost as if fucking one of them protects him. I’ve seen the man carry a crush so delicate, so big, for a female from his class and he hasn’t done a thing about it.
Guided her to others.
The catnip call of upper class is also a shield for him.
I just don’t like them. They’re fucking trouble. The only good an upper-class woman’s done for us is give us Emmie.
And this one?
She’s going to give us something, too.
Eyes, as they say, on the prize.
If I get to have fun then so be it, the three of us can have fun, and pretty Iris can take that with her when she goes. When her fat, rich mate grunts and wheezes on her and fills her with his fucked offspring she can fantasize about us.
Even if we change things, she’ll still have that mate. He’ll be old, too. Ugly. Probably spectacularly un-endowed and not know what to do with it.
Fuck, he wouldn’t know the gift of a brat if he tripped over Iris.
I’d hate him if he wasn’t so fucking pathetic and made?—
“You broke your pencil,” Iris says, eyes narrowed and on me as though she can read my mind.
“Things on my mind.”
“Like what?”
“You,” I murmur silkily.
