Page 7 of Iris' Lying Eyes

“Yes. What does that mean?”

“Iris?”

I look up with wide eyes at the last fucking person I thought I’d ever see again. Why the fuck is Bastion Smith here?

His granite stare is decidedly cool as he looks me over with a moue of distaste. I shrink into the bed before going stiff. I know I look like a crack whore. Shit, I am a crack whore.

I allow myself two seconds of weakness and drink in his savage glory. He has to duck to step into the room. His wide shoulders stretch his shirt, showcasing his glorious chest and fuck-hot abdominals.

His thick arms are covered in tattoos that blend into sleeves I’ve traced my fingers over as a prelude to sex.

Even his shaved head is hot, making his appearance severe and forbidding. I suspect it’s his beast-like persona that drew me to him. I was looking for someone to save me.

Too bad he’s not the saving type. Besides, I know the only person I can count on is me. I made sure of that.

Inhaling quickly, I raise a brow and infuse bitchy into my tone. It’s the only way. I can’t afford to reveal my weakness. For reasons even I don’t always believe.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask.

His eyes flash, and miraculously, the parts of me I thought long since dead dance in appreciation.

“I don’t know. They called me,” he says, glancing at the nurse.

“Your emergency contact,” the nurse says helpfully, and I turn my glare on her.

Thanks for outing me, bitch.

Bastion shifts, and I sink into the bed, willing back the flush staining my cheeks. I was clearly delusional when I picked him, but fuck, what were my other choices? Mom? John?

From the corner of my eye, I spy his brows rise, but I huff, putting on the nasty persona he now expects from me. “Whatever. You’re not needed.”

Just to make sure he gets it, I wave my hands in a shooing motion, suppressing a grimace when he scowls.

“I drove all the way down here. I think I deserve an explanation,” he growls.

Glancing away, I stare at the wall. I have no comment because although he’s here and doesn’t have to be, it’ll take about five seconds for us to be at each other’s throats.

I’m tired of the fighting, and I have no desire to hear, again, just how much he hates me.

“Iris?” he says, and the nurse pats my leg.

Pulling away from her violently, I close my eyes and bite my tongue to suppress the retort burning on my lips. She did this, and if Bastion weren’t standing here with his judgy damn face, I’d make her understand her mistake.

She sails from the room with a breathy goodbye to Bastion, which brings my head around, but my glare is for nothing because she’s already gone.

“Well?” he says, and I stare at my cuticles.

I used to get manicures religiously, but now my fingers are torn up and my hands ridiculously dry.

Clearing my throat, I mumble, “It’s nothing. I had a bad reaction to something.”

I think. I don’t know beyond the flash of images.

“Reaction? Is that code for overdosing?” His tone is hardly one of concern, and once again, I feel backed into a corner.

No surprise with this one. I’ve long since stopped caring what people think of me. They don’t know my story, and they can all go fuck themselves. But Bastion . . . he’s different.

I can’t define it, but he was the only guy who treated me like I was more than just a series of holes, at least back before all this. And during that time in my life, I was just learning how cruel the world could be. Bastion was a salve…until he wasn’t.

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