2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Iris

Sitting on our soft leather couch, I swirl the bourbon in my glass while I wait for Mason to get changed, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light of the chandelier overhead. He won’t keep me waiting long. He never does.

The first sip burns, smooth and sharp as it slides down my throat. I let it linger, savoring the warmth that pools low in my belly. My gaze flicks to the doorway just as he reappears, and for a moment, my breath catches. There he is, buttoning his crisp white shirt, each flex of his fingers drawing the fabric taut across his chest. Broad. Muscular. Precise in every movement. His dark hair is slightly tousled, as if even the act of dressing himself comes with a trace of rebellion.

He stalks toward me, deliberate and unhurried, his eyes locking onto mine like a predator closing in on its prey. That’s Mason—calculated, controlled, and entirely too aware of the effect he has on me. A smile curls at my lips despite myself. "Took your time," I murmur, voice low, teasing, though we both know it’s a lie. He’s faster than my patience deserves most days.

"Perfection doesn’t rush," he replies, his tone smooth as silk but sharpened at the edges. His smirk deepens, and before I can retort, he plucks the glass from my hand with infuriating ease.

I don’t protest—why bother? Instead, I reach for the ends of the red bowtie draped around his neck, pulling him closer. The silk feels cool between my fingertips as I begin to knot it, moving with practiced precision. I can feel his eyes on me, their intensity searing into my skin like a brand. But I don’t look up—not yet. Not until he raises the glass to his lips, draining the rest of the bourbon in one smooth swallow.

"Do you remember what today is, Mason?" I purr, tilting my chin up just enough to meet his gaze through lowered lashes. My voice carries the weight of expectation, of challenge, of something darker that simmers just beneath the surface.

The corner of his mouth lifts in a slow, wicked smirk. "Of course," he says, his voice a velvet caress laced with dry amusement. "It’s the 14th of December."

I growl softly under my breath, yanking the bowtie tighter than necessary. His low, seductive chuckle rumbles between us, sending a shiver down my spine. Damn him. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and worse, he knows I know it too.

He places the empty glass on the side table with a deliberate click, the sound cutting through the charged silence between us. The crystal gleams in the low light of the room, but my attention is locked on him as he fingers the bowtie I so lovingly strangled him with. His long fingers tug at it slightly, loosening the knot just enough to breathe, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

"Careful," he murmurs, voice dipping into that dangerous register that makes my pulse quicken. "You might cut off my air completely one day."

"Now where would the fun in that be?" I shoot back, leaning against the edge of the chaise lounge like I own the damn world. My dress pools around me in dark waves, a sharp contrast to the stark white of his shirt as he flicks the first button of his vest closed. Each movement is maddeningly slow, precise, calculated—as if he knows exactly how much I want to crawl out of my skin waiting for whatever game he’s about to unveil.

We’ve always done things differently—our traditions are not the sort you’d find scrawled across festive Hallmark cards or sung in carols. No snowmen or sleigh bells, no stockings hung by the chimney with care. Instead, we mark the twelve days leading up to Christmas with something far more... provocative. Dangerous. Twelve days where the stakes increase every time the clock turns over to midnight. And on Christmas Day? That’s when we exchange our ultimate “gift.” Or sacrifice. Depending on how you choose to look at it.

"Don’t keep me in suspense," I say, crossing one leg over the other, the slit in my gown parting just enough to give him an eyeful. His gaze flicks downward for a fraction of a second—quick, predatory—but it’s gone before I can call him on it. Damn him and his control.

"Patience," he drawls, fastening the last button of his jacket and rolling his shoulders back. The fabric molds to him like a second skin. He adjusts his cuffs, his eyes still burning into mine, daring me to break first. But I don’t. Not yet.

"On the first day of Christmas," he begins, his tone a velvet tease, "your true love is giving to you..." He lets the words hang, suspended in the air like smoke from a dying fire. I arch a brow, refusing to let him see how much he’s already gotten under my skin. How much I need to know what he’s planned.

"Something exquisite," he finishes, his smirk widening into something sharper, darker, infinitely more savage.

Mason crosses the room with a predator’s grace, his movements smooth and deliberate. His fingers curl around the strap of my clutch where I left it draped over the chair earlier. He holds it up between two fingers, dangling it like bait as he turns back to me.

“Exquisite is a tall order,” I say, my voice laced with mockery, one brow arching as I stand again and smooth a hand down my dress. “You’ve promised that before, and yet…” I let the words trail off, smirking.

His laughter rumbles low and deep, curling through the air like smoke from a dying flame. “And yet you’re still here, aren’t you?” He steps closer, closing the space between us at an unhurried pace. The clutch swings slightly in his hand, the leather catching the dim light. “Oh, trust me, darling,” he breathes, his lips quirking into something just shy of a smirk, “this one is exactly what we need this Christmas.”

I narrow my eyes at him, suspicion and intrigue warring for dominance. “Need?” I repeat, savoring the weight of the word on my tongue. It tastes ominous coming from him. Mason doesn’t need anything. Not unless there’s something more to it. Something sharp-edged and wrapped in red ribbon.

He stops mere inches away, his heat brushing against my skin like a promise. “But with the higher reward comes the higher risk,” he continues smoothly, tilting his head in that infuriatingly arrogant way of his. His eyes glint with mischief—and something darker. “I dare say this might even be a little bit of a challenge.”

The corner of my mouth curves upward, slow and deliberate. “You know I love a good challenge. And taking risks…” I step toward him, closing the last sliver of space between us until I can feel the tension thrumming in the air. “Risks just make it more exciting.”

His grin widens, all teeth and savagery, as though my response has given him some unspoken permission. He’s pleased—no, thrilled . I can see it in the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his jaw ticks once before smoothing out. “I hoped you’d say that.” He extends the clutch toward me, waiting for me to take it. “Have you had the pleasure of meeting the new District Attorney?”

The question lands between us like a grenade, its pin already pulled. I jerk back in surprise, blinking up at him, searching his face. But Mason doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t stammer or hedge. His expression is locked, focused, predatory. Whatever this is, whatever game he’s about to set in motion—it’s already begun.

“I have not,” I say slowly, taking the clutch, my voice tight as I study him. “But I gather you have.”

His smile is maddeningly calm, his eyes glittering with the thrill of a plan already in motion. "Oh, I have."

Mason offers me his arm, and I take it, the silk of his tuxedo sleeve brushing against my bare skin as we step out of the house and into the cool December night. The scent of pine and frost bites at the air, mingling with the faint trace of his cologne—woodsy, and heady enough to make my pulse quicken. The headlights of the idling car cut through the night, illuminating the circular driveway like a stage set just for us.

"Elijah Winter," Mason begins, his voice smooth and measured, each word deliberate as always. "He’s… an interesting one." His lips curl into that devilish smile, the kind that promises trouble. "We met in court yesterday. An evidentiary hearing. I was challenging the admissibility of their key piece of evidence of course. You would’ve loved it—he doesn’t back down, not even when he knows he’s cornered."

"Sounds like your type," I say dryly, my heels clicking against the gravel as we move toward the sleek black car waiting for us. "But you know how I feel about public figures. Messy. Complicated. They come with strings."

"Ah, yes, but sometimes the mess is part of the allure," he counters, his tone laced with amusement. His thumb strokes lazily over mine where our hands rest together on his arm, a subtle reminder of his control, of the weight of his plans already spinning into motion. "And Elijah... he’s all sharp edges and fire. You enjoy a bit of heat now and then, don’t you?"

"Heat burns if you're not careful," I quip, giving him a side glance. His expression doesn’t falter, though; if anything, my words only seem to stoke whatever fire is already burning inside him. That undercurrent of danger he carries with him hums louder now, more tangible.

"Careful is overrated, darling. You know that better than anyone," he murmurs, his voice dropping just enough to send shivers down my spine.

The driver steps out as we approach, his movements crisp and efficient, polished like everything else in Mason's world. He opens the rear door with a nod, and Mason releases my arm to guide me inside, his hand firm and possessive at the small of my back. The leather interior is cool against my thighs as I slide in, the slit of my dress parting just enough to reveal a daring amount of leg. Wealth may come with its clichés, but I can't deny how much I enjoy this particular one—the power, the indulgence, the way it feels like every detail bends to our whims.

Mason follows, settling next to me with an ease that belies the storm always brewing beneath his composed exterior. Before I can even adjust my dress, his hand finds my thigh, curling around it with a deliberate pressure that shoots heat straight through me. The fabric is no barrier; his touch is searing, branding. My breath hitches, but I keep my face impassive, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. He's watching me, I can feel it, the weight of his gaze heavy and unrelenting.

"Public figure or not," he says, his voice low and intimate now, meant only for me, "Elijah is exactly what we need this year. And you’ll see soon enough, my love, just how exquisite this choice really is."

I let the corner of my mouth curve into a slow, knowing smile as I turn my head to meet his eyes. They're dark, glittering with something almost feral. Wicked. Tempting.

"Exquisite remains to be seen," I purr, tilting my head slightly as his fingers flex, digging into my thigh just enough to make my pulse flutter. "But we will see, my love. We will see."