Page 75 of Iris
She swallows and takes a step back, running into Xavier.
Asshole, Xavier says in my head.
True. But I don’t explain myself.
“How did I make you break a pencil?” She asks, taking a step forward, curiosity shining bright as she looks around the small room, skirting me as much as she can. “Is this where you keep your contraband?”
Xavier grins and gives his head a small shake.
I let out an irritated sigh, just indulgent enough to get her all annoyed.
Iris glares as she stands in the shadows.
“You’re a brat in need of discipline.”
A tremor runs through her, upping that scent, the sweetness of iris flowers, the musk and spice and spring of that real scent surging to the front.
Icy’s all excited by the thought.
Xavier signs at me,
Probably not.
She picks up an old bottle and examines it. The bottle’s full and the label only has an etching of a silhouette on the rocks of a wild sea, hair whipping out, face raised up. It’s a bottle of Siren rum, old, expensive and it means nothing to her clearly, and then she sets it down on the rack. I know how this looks back here, the room off the alley. Ugly and utilitarian, different to the bar itself.
Not that the main bar’s overly pretty, but this is just nuts and bolts with barrels and crates and shelves of booze. The door’s usually shut between the bar and here. We keep most of the legit supplies that need to be put away here, a few choice old bottles of expensive bribe bottles like the Siren, along with the backups for the bar.
But basic is what it fucking is.
Then again, Iris isn’t privy to anything here, so if it’s not up to Princess Icy’s damned standards, I don’t give a damn.
Iris takes in the room and then she turns those quizzical eyes on me, and as she steps into the harsh light I take her in.
She’s a sight, from the hairdo that’s meant to be romantic and would suit her if she happened to be a dowager, down to the horrible gown.
“Is—”
Stopping, I take her in all over again. The hair and dress just aren’t hideous, her hair’s a little askew and there’s a bruise on her throat.
I drop my gaze down. On her wrists, too.
I take in the tears on the glittery ruffles of her dress—some a little torn—and can imagine bruises on her inner thighs.
Something very dark, very ugly moves through me.
I meet Xavier’s gaze.
Not at him taking a piece, but in the way—I stop. Recalibrate and the darkness burns now, hot, with a jagged edge.
Xavier didn’t touch her.
He’ll play rough, but at the request of the girl. And he looks like he stepped out of some fucking hip magazine. Not a thread is astray.
I narrow my eyes.
Suddenly I want it to be from a little rough and tumble play with Xav.
Not. Me.
