1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Iris

The stiletto dangles from my fingertips, a sleek black weapon made to slice through the night. I slip my foot inside, the leather cool against my skin, and press down until it fits like a glove. One shoe, then the other. The sharp point of the heel taps against the marble floor as I rise, the sound ricocheting through the quiet room. A predator’s rhythm. Click. Click .

I move toward the vanity, each step deliberate, the sway of my hips calculated. There’s something about the way these shoes force you to walk—balanced on that razor-thin edge between grace and disaster. Exhilarating.

I tug the strap of my dress back into place, the black silk sliding over my skin like a lover’s caress. The mirror throws back my image, lit by the amber glow of the sconces above—flame- kissed hair tumbling down bare shoulders, green eyes sharp and glittering with wicked intent. A slow smirk curves my lips. Dangerous. That’s how I look tonight. Dangerous, and just the right side of decadent.

"Not bad," I murmur to my reflection, cocking an eyebrow as I turn slightly, letting the light catch the curve of my hip. The fabric clings in all the right places, whispering promises of trouble. I’m not one for modesty—it’s such an uninspired sin—but even I can appreciate the way this dress makes me feel like a loaded weapon. Ready to fire.

My gaze flicks to the crystal bottle perched on the vanity’s edge, the dark amber liquid within catching the light like liquid temptation. A gift from Mason. My fingers close around it, the stopper cool against my palm. The scent is familiar, intoxicating—jasmine, sweet and heady, with that faint undercurrent of smoke. Like a secret whispered too close to the flame.

I press the nozzle to my neck, spritzing once, twice. The mist settles on my skin, and I inhale deeply, closing my eyes. The fragrance curls through me like a drug, teasing something deep and restless awake. It smells like power. Like danger. Like nights you don’t walk away unscathed. Perfect.

My gaze lands on the newspaper folded neatly beside my silver brush. Not my usual reading material, but tonight... tonight I couldn’t resist. The headline screams in bold letters: "Fifth Disappearance Baffles Authorities."

"Poor things," I murmur under my breath, though there isn’t an ounce of pity in my voice. My fingers trace the blocky print, lingering over the words like they might reveal some delicious secret if I touch them just so. Missing women. No leads. Panic spreading in whispers across the city like wildfire.

"Someone’s been busy," I chuckle softly, the sound low and edged with something wicked. My lips curl into a smirk as I picture the chaos, the frantic investigators scrambling for clues, the hushed conversations behind closed doors. There's beauty in the unraveling, in the way order crumbles so easily when pushed. And this? This has the makings of a masterpiece.

The edge of my nail scrapes over the paper, snagging slightly where the ink bleeds bold and black… Baffles Authorities. I read it again, rolling the words around in my mind like a fine wine. Poor authorities, so baffled. So utterly useless. The corner of my mouth tugs upward as I imagine them—sweaty, sleep-deprived detectives hunched over cork boards littered with red string and photographs. All those connections leading nowhere.

"Bless their hearts," I murmur, voice dripping with mockery. It’s not the disappearances that intrigue me, not entirely. It’s the aftermath—the way the city hums with unease, how fear drips into every shadow. People cross the street faster, check behind them more often. Chaos has a peculiar flavor, doesn’t it? Metallic, electric. Addictive.

And whoever orchestrated this little symphony of vanishing acts? Well, they’ve got style, I’ll give them that. Five women, gone without a trace. No bodies, no clues. Perfectly executed, like an artist’s brush stroke. I wonder if they sit somewhere now, glass of something dark in hand, admiring their work. A kindred spirit, perhaps. My kind of person.

I push the paper away, but the image lingers on my mind—those big, blocky letters screaming out into the void: Missing. Such a heavy word for something so... liberating. For them, at least. They’re free now, aren’t they? One way or another.

Moving from the bedroom and down the staircase to the living area my gaze sweeps the room, a familiar wave of contentment settling over me. The low light from the chandelier catches the crystal decanters on the bar cart, throwing fragmented rainbows onto the walls. The shadows love to play here—stretching long across the Persian rugs, curling into corners like sleeping cats. Everything about this place is beautiful, but there’s an edge to it, like a blade hidden beneath silk.

Mason and I—we’ve both always had a taste for the dramatic. For beauty that bites back. Anyone who steps into our world can feel it, even if they don’t understand it. They smile politely, their eyes flickering to the shadows as though something might reach out and drag them under. We let them wonder. Let them sweat. It’s amusing how much people reveal when they think they’re in danger.

A quick glance at the clock on the mantle makes my pulse hitch. He’s late. Not by much, but enough to stir that familiar thrum of anticipation low in my stomach.

Stepping to one of the large windows, I pull the curtain aside and lean into the shadows, letting them curl around me as I peer out over the city. The house is perched high on the hill, away from others. The city sprawls beneath me, a glittering carcass, its lights winking like stars—no, not stars. Stars are too pure. These are more like shards of broken glass, beautiful and dangerous all at once. A kaleidoscope of chaos waiting to be shattered further.

Somewhere down there, someone is screaming. Not literally, perhaps—not yet—but in this city, you can feel it even when you can’t hear it. Desperation hums like electricity in the air, crackling just below the sequined surface. And I like it. That tension, that barely-contained madness—it’s addictive. I let it seep into me, a slow bloom of power spreading through my chest. Mason feels it too; I know he does. It’s part of what binds us.

My reflection ghosts over the glass, my green eyes catching the flicker of streetlights far below. There’s something thrilling about knowing we own this view—this moment. People scurry like ants under our gaze, oblivious to the predators perched above. They don’t know how easy they make it for people like us. Like him. Like me.

Mason. The name alone is a spark, striking something deep and volatile inside me. He wasn’t supposed to fit so perfectly into my world. Or maybe I wasn’t supposed to fit into his. Either way, we’ve carved something out of the chaos together, something dark and sharp-edged. Something alive.

The low hum of an engine cuts through the quiet like a blade, faint and teasing at first, but growing louder, closer. I know that sound—it’s him. My pulse stutters, then picks up in double time, hot and erratic, as if my body already knows what’s coming.

The anticipation smolders under my skin, sharp and addictive, curling into something electric. The air around me feels charged, alive—like the house itself is waiting, watching. There’s a strange kind of intimacy in the silence, broken only by the distant rumble of tires on asphalt.

Moments later I hear the sound of the lock twisting through the air, low and deliberate, like a knife being unsheathed. My pulse kicks; it always does when he’s near. The door creaks open—not timidly, no, but with the kind of confidence that says whoever’s stepping through owns the space entirely. And Mason? He owns everything he touches.

I don’t turn right away. Let him wait for it, let him watch me for a moment—the curve of my back, the way the dim light catches on the sheen of my dress. I know he’ll linger there, just long enough to take in the silhouette I’ve crafted for him tonight. The predator in him always appreciates the art of anticipation.

"I was starting to think you wouldn’t make it," I say finally, letting the words slide out like smoke, lazy and sharp all at once. My reflection in the window shows the corner of my mouth curling up, a private smile meant just for him, though I still haven’t turned around. Not yet.

His laugh rolls into the room, velvet-wrapped steel. "And miss this view? Never."

I hear the door click shut behind him, the soft thud of his shoes against the polished floor, and then—him. His presence is unmistakable, filling the room before his hands ever reach me. But they do, eventually. One brushes against the curve of my hip, casual, claiming. The heat from his touch seeps through the fabric, branding me in ways only he can.

He lingers there, fingertips grazing my hip like a promise, the warmth of his hand a brand against the silk. My breath catches—just for a moment—but it’s enough. He knows the effect he has, and he revels in it.

I turn slowly, savoring the moment, the deliberate tease of revealing myself to him. When our eyes finally meet, the anticipation thickens, heavy as smoke. His dark gaze travels over me, slow and deliberate, devouring every inch like a man starved. The sharp lines of his face soften with something wicked—something that makes my pulse stutter in my throat.

"Good evening, Mr. Blackwood," I purr, the words laced with equal parts amusement and challenge. My lips curl into a wicked smile, the kind that promises nothing good—or perhaps everything.

His hand slides to the small of my back, firm now, drawing me closer until there’s barely a breath between us.

"Good evening, Mrs. Blackwood," Mason murmurs, his voice a rich caress that slides over my skin like velvet. His words are deliberate, each syllable soaked in power and possession, the title rolling off his tongue with an intimacy that sets my nerves alight.