3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Mason

Standing at the bar, I sip on a fresh glass of bourbon. It’s not the same quality as what we keep at home, but it will do. Something to distract me and occupy my hands. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, that saying couldn’t be truer for Iris and me. But instead of her being beside me, I’m watching and waiting for her to make her own separate entry to the Christmas gala. I like to watch her work a crowd, and this crowd has one guest in particular that I’m looking forward to watching her work.

Most of the guests already know our connection, but not everyone. No, that’s something I’ll take pleasure in revealing at the right moment.

A faint rustle draws my attention upward.

There she is.

Iris stands at the top of the grand staircase, her dark silhouette illuminated by the Christmas lights and elegant decorations of the gala entryway. The shadows play across the curves of her body, highlighting every angle and line. Her auburn hair cascades over her shoulders like liquid fire. Most eyes turn toward her, as they should, no matter the occasion or circumstance she makes a grand entrance just by being Iris Blackwood.

Even before she married me, she was a leading criminal psychiatrist. Her name was always one that drew attention, it certainly drew mine. Her beauty was simply the coup de grace .

Her piercing emerald eyes find mine through the shadows, unblinking. No words—there never are—but the message is clear. She isn’t backing down from the challenge I presented. She knows what comes next.

And so do I.

My lips twitch into a slow smirk, one she doesn’t return. Iris never gives anything away too soon. It’s part of the game. Instead, she lingers for a beat longer, letting the moment stretch taut between us, daring it to snap. The tension hums like a live wire, buzzing against my skin. My pulse ticks up—not from nerves, no, but from her. Always her.

Then, her eyes sweep away from mine and she moves.

The first step lands with deliberate precision. Her dress clings to her, ink-black and liquid, spilling over every curve with sinful intent. Each step is a performance, intentional, calculated. She descends like she owns gravity itself, pulling everyone toward her without lifting a finger.

My gaze tracks her movements, unhurried, unapologetic. She wants me to look, and I oblige. Always have. There’s power in her walk, in the way she controls the space as if it bends to her will. And maybe it does. God knows I’ve bent enough times myself.

The world outside ceases to exist, swallowed whole by the weight of her presence and the wicked promise simmering beneath the surface of that beautiful face. By the time she reaches the last step, I swear the air could ignite around her, thick as it is with heat and something far sharper.

She pauses briefly, her gaze flicking to mine again. There’s no hesitation, no doubt. Just that spark. That pull . Like we’re two opposing forces doomed to collide.

It doesn’t take long for her to disappear into the glittering crowd of guests. Like a huntress looking for her prey. Soon I hear her laughter, soft and sultry, sliding over my skin and sinking deep, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. It’s not just a sound; it’s a weapon. One she wields without mercy. And damn if I don’t let her. Every. Single. Time.

My fingers itch to touch her, but I will be patient. It’s a simple reminder to myself that I can afford to be patient. I have all the time in the world when it comes to her, because no matter what anyone else may believe at any point, she belongs to me.

My perfect match, my obsession.

My wife.