4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Iris

The moment I see him, the air shifts. Like the static charge before a storm, it prickles over my skin, sharp and electric. Elijah Winter stands across the room, a perfect picture of tailored sophistication wrapped in an edge he can’t quite hide. White blond hair catching the dim light like spun spider web, those sharp icy blue eyes scanning the crowd with a predator’s calm.

He doesn’t belong here—not really. Too polished for chaos, too restless for peace. And yet, he commands the space effortlessly, a beacon amidst the glittering masses.

I watch in fascination as Elijah shifts slightly, turning just enough for the light to catch the sharp lines of his jaw, the cut of his suit so precise it could draw blood. He’s too perfect, almost unnerving in his stillness.

Following his gaze, I watch him as he watches Mason. It’s subtle, the way his posture shifts, a ripple of awareness tightening his stance.

"Interesting," I murmur under my breath.

I linger in the shadows for a moment longer, letting the tension simmer. My fingers curl around the delicate stem of my champagne flute as I take a slow sip, the bubbles sharp and cool against my tongue. All the while, my eyes stay locked on him. Watching. Waiting. Calculating.

Elijah’s attention drifts back toward the crowd, scanning faces with studied disinterest—until it lands on me.

It’s instant. The shift. The way his body tenses, his sharp blue eyes narrowing just slightly as they track me like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. My pulse quickens, an involuntary response to his focus, but I smother it with a slow exhale, keeping my movements languid, deliberate. Controlled.

I can feel his gaze move over me, sliding down the curve of my shoulders, the dip of my waist, the slit of my dress that reveals just enough thigh to make a statement. It’s a physical thing, his attention—a heat that licks up my skin and settles low in my stomach. Normally, only Mason has this effect on me, but there’s something about Elijah—something dangerous and thrilling—that twists inside me like a live wire.

I let him look. Let him drink in every inch as I start moving toward him. My heels click softly against the polished floor, each step measured and precise. His gaze is palpable now, heavy and unrelenting, and when his eyes finally snap up to meet mine, I feel the impact like a strike to my chest.

I don’t falter. Instead, I let my lips curve into the faintest hint of a smile—a challenge, an invitation. The tip of my tongue darts out, wetting my bottom lip in one smooth motion. Deliberate. Calculated. And oh, so effective. His eyes darken, just a fraction, but it’s enough to send a thrill racing down my spine.

Game on , I think to myself.

I stop just short of invading his space, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne—something crisp and clean, with a sinful edge of spice. He tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable yet undeniably intrigued.

"Elijah Winter, I presume?" I say, my voice smooth and edged with amusement.

His brow lifts at my boldness, a flicker of surprise breaking through his cool exterior before he recovers. "You presume correctly," he replies, his voice low and rich, like velvet dipped in sin. "And you are?"

"Iris," I say simply, offering no last name, no further details. Just a single word, deliberately vague. Mysterious. I see the curiosity spark in his eyes, and it’s immensely satisfying.

"Just Iris?" he asks, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge to it too—like he’s trying to figure out what game I’m playing.

"Just Iris," I confirm, taking another sip of champagne without breaking eye contact. "For now."

"Intriguing," he says, his gaze never leaving mine. "So tell me, Just Iris—what brings you here tonight? Besides the champagne, of course." His tone is light, but there’s a subtle challenge woven beneath it.

I tilt my head, letting my hair cascade over one shoulder as I lean in just slightly, enough to blur the boundaries of personal space. "Do you always ask such predictable questions, Mr. Winter?" I counter, my voice laced with mock disappointment. "Or am I just special?"

His grin widens, and it’s devastatingly charming, though there’s something almost predatory in the way he looks at me. "Oh, you’re definitely special," he says, his voice dipping lower. "But I wouldn’t underestimate my ability to surprise you, Iris."

"Surprise me, then," I say, arching a brow. "I’m waiting."

"Patience," he murmurs, stepping closer. His voice is silk and smoke, winding its way around me in the dim light of the room. "Good things come to those who wait."

"That’s what people say when they’re out of ideas," I shoot back, my lips curving into a sly smile.

His laugh is low and warm, the kind that vibrates in your chest. He brings his glass to his lips, watching me over the rim like he’s dissecting every inch of me. It doesn’t unnerve me—it electrifies me. The air between us feels charged, like a storm waiting to break.

"Alright then," he says after a moment, setting his drink down on the table beside him with deliberate care. "Dance with me."

I cock an eyebrow, pretending to consider it, even though I knew this was coming. "Let me guess," I drawl, tilting my head slightly, "this is supposed to be the grand gesture that surprises me?"

"Maybe," he replies, extending a hand toward me. His fingers are long, elegant, and there’s a faint scar running over the knuckle of his thumb—small details that make him somehow more sinful. "Or maybe," he adds, his voice dropping just a fraction, "it’s just step one."

"Step one to what?" I ask, even as I set my drink down also and place my hand in his. His palm is warm against mine, his grip firm but not forceful. There’s a flicker of something dark in his eyes as he pulls me toward him.

"Wouldn’t you like to know?" His grin is sharp now, daring me to press further. But I don’t. Not yet. The game is too much fun to rush.

He leads me onto the dance floor, where the music hums low and slow—a sultry rhythm that feels like it’s seeping into my bones. I can feel Mason’s gaze burning into my back from across the room, and the thought sends a thrill through me. Let him watch.

"Still not surprised," I whisper as he places a hand on my waist, pulling me just close enough for our bodies to align without quite touching. The heat radiating off him is intoxicating.

"Give it time," he replies smoothly, guiding me into the first steps of the dance. His movements are fluid, confident, and he doesn’t take his eyes off mine. It’s unnerving how easily he commands the space around him, how natural it feels to follow his lead despite the stubborn streak in me that usually resists this kind of surrender.

We move together, the tension between us thickening with each turn. His hand presses slightly firmer against the small of my back, sending sparks skittering beneath my skin. My breath comes shorter with every shift of his body against mine, every glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks, his voice barely audible above the music. There’s a smugness to his tone, but it’s tempered by genuine curiosity.

"Moderately," I lie, though the flush rising in my cheeks probably gives me away. He smirks as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking, as if he can read the way my pulse quickens every time his fingers brush against me.

"Moderately," he echoes, his mouth so close to my ear now that I feel the heat of his breath. "We’ll have to work on that."

"Don’t flatter yourself," I retort, though my voice falters slightly as he spins me, pulling me back against him with practiced ease. The movement leaves no space between us now, and I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against mine, the hard lines of his body fitting against me like they belong there.

"Who said anything about flattery?" he murmurs, his lips curving into a wicked smile. His hand slides higher up my spine, and I swear the temperature in the room spikes ten degrees. The world narrows until it’s just us—the music, the heat, the unbearable pull of him.

I glance past his shoulder for half a second and catch Mason’s gaze. He’s watching us, his expression unreadable, but I can feel the weight of his attention, the intensity of it. It sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear.

"Still not surprised," I whisper, leaning in just close enough that my breath ghosts over his jawline.

"Good," he says, his voice rougher now. "I like a challenge. But you’ve already got the advantage." He continues to sway us, leading us to move with the sultry music. His blue eyes flicker with something sharp, like he’s dissecting me and savoring every piece. "You know who I am—clearly—but here I am, entirely in the dark about you. No last name, no breadcrumbs. Should I at least be granted the pleasure of knowing what you do for a living? Or are you planning to keep me guessing?"

"Why spoil the fun?" I tease, letting my lips curve into a half-smile. His gaze drops there for the briefest moment before snapping back to my eyes, his focus unrelenting.

"Because I have a hunch it’s something… interesting. Something as sharp as that mind of yours." He leans just slightly closer, enough for me to catch the faint scent of his cologne and something sinful beneath it—dangerous, alluring, something that’s all him. "Don’t disappoint me."

"Disappoint you?" I laugh softly, the sound low and rich, designed to pull him closer. "I’d hate to ruin your expectations, Elijah."

"Then don’t," he replies, his tone dripping with challenge.

"Fine," I say after a beat, tilting my head as if weighing whether or not to let him in on this small piece of me. "I’m a criminal psychiatrist."

His reaction is instant, visceral. His eyes flare, glinting like steel catching light. For a moment, a shadow flickers across his face, something mysterious and unreadable. He blinks, and it’s gone, replaced by a slow, crooked smile that’s equal parts impressed and wicked.

"Criminal psychiatrist," he repeats, tasting the words like they’re a rare delicacy. "Beauty and brains. Now I really should be worried."

"Should you?" I ask, arching an eyebrow, the playful edge in my voice sharpening just a little.

"Well," he considers, his gaze sweeping over me again, slower this time, like he’s reevaluating every inch. "It depends. Are you psychoanalyzing me right now?"

"Would it bother you if I were?" I counter, leaning closer until we’re nearly breathing the same air. The tension crackles like static electricity, thick and buzzing. My pulse kicks up, and I don’t bother hiding it; I know he can feel it, sense it, the way predators always do.

"Only if you find something worth worrying about," he says finally, his voice dropping an octave. There’s a hint of amusement there, a glimmer of sin lurking beneath his charm.

"Maybe you should be worried," I say, my tone light, teasing, though the weight behind the words lingers between us.

"Maybe I like the idea of being worried," he fires back, his smirk deepening as he tips his head toward mine, close enough that I can see the darker flecks in his irises. For a beat, neither of us moves. The world around us—the music, the voices, the clinking glasses—fades into background noise, irrelevant compared to the charged silence stretching taut between us.

I can still feel Mason’s gaze on us, a tangible heat that slides over my skin like a brand. It’s heavy, deliberate—a presence I can’t ignore even if I wanted to. Elijah, though… he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does. His eyes keep flicking past me, just quick enough to make it seem unintentional, but I catch it every time. He’s watching Mason too, and I wonder what he thinks.

Does he believe Mason is only watching him? Is he trying to provoke something, dancing with a woman like this? Does he think he can use me as bait to pull jealousy out of Mason? My lips curve faintly at the thought. If only he knew. If only he had any idea how much more tangled this web really is. How much more dangerous.

And oh, if he knew who I actually am to Mason…

Elijah’s mouth twitches into a smirk as he leans closer still, his breath warm against my jawline now. The shift is subtle but intentional, his lips brushing the edge of my skin so lightly it feels like a suggestion rather than an accident. His voice dips lower, intimate now, meant just for me. "Should we take this somewhere quieter, more private? Away from… prying eyes?"

The way he says it, the way his breath feathers against the shell of my ear, sends a delicious shiver down my spine. It’s bold, reckless, and yet there’s a naivety to it too. Does he mean Mason when he says "prying eyes"?

Oh, Elijah. Sweet, beautiful Elijah. You have no idea.

"Sure," I say, letting my smile soften. Play along. Let him think he's leading. "Somewhere private sounds perfect."

"Perfect," he echoes, and there’s a spark of triumph in his voice as he takes my hand, guiding me toward the edge of the grand room. Away from the glittering chandeliers and polished marble, away from the crowd of sequined bodies swirling under the hushed glow of the Christmas gala. We slip through an archway, the air cooler now, quieter, the shadows stretching longer here.

As we leave, I glance back—just for a second—and catch Mason’s gaze. It’s steady, unblinking, and laced with something wicked and knowing. The humor on his face is so subtle, so faint, no one else would notice it. But I do. Of course I do. I know him better than anyone. And I know exactly what that look means.

He’ll follow. Not yet, but soon. He’s giving me the lead on this, letting me sink my claws in first. That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal.

Still, my stomach flips under the weight of his stare, a jolt of adrenaline and anticipation sparking through me. This game is only getting started, and already, I can’t wait to see how it plays out.