• • •
We arrive at the cafe, and I help her out of the car before following her inside, my eyes scanning every corner, every face, every possible threat.
The café is small, tucked between brownstones, sunlight spilling through tall paned windows, casting a golden glow over distressed wood.
The walls are lined with art and I’m surprised at the kind of people I see. I’d have expected to only see artists but surprisingly there’s a lot of corporate workers too.
She picks a table near the window and sits down across from me, immediately diving into the menu with an enthusiasm that softens the mood.
She starts ordering different slices of cake, one after another, and when the waiter mentions they have a new flavor, her whole face lights up in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch her.
"Sure," she says, practically bouncing in her seat. "Bring them all out."
The plates start arriving, and she's already smiling, clearly in her element, and I find myself watching her instead of the room. She's texting someone again, probably that same friend she mentioned earlier, and I don't really care because she looks happy and I like seeing her happy.
Until I feel the shift in the atmosphere.
It's subtle at first, a slight tension in my shoulders, an instinct honed from years of violence telling me something is wrong. I notice my guards shift in my peripheral vision, their hands moving toward their weapons with practiced ease. Then I hear her voice, bright and welcoming. "Hey Jackson, over here!" She waves her hand, and I turn to look.
Some guy is walking toward us. He looks surprised at first, then cautious, his eyes sweeping over the number of men in black scattered throughout the cafe like he's counting threats. His gaze lands on me, and I see the exact moment recognition flickers across his face.
I know immediately who he is. What he is.
He reaches for something at his hip.
I don't hesitate. My hand is already on my gun, pulling it free before he can even clear his holster, and by the time his weapon comes up, mine is already aimed right between his eyes.
"Iris," I hear him say, confusion bleeding through the word.
She stands up fast, her chair scraping against the floor. "Whoa, whoa, whoa—stop! Both of you, stop! What the fuck are you doing?" The entire cafe freezes. Every head turns toward us, conversations dying mid-sentence as the reality of the situation sinks in. The man with the gun pointed at me. Me, calmly pointing mine right back at him. Neither of us backing down.
Iris rushes to my side, her hand reaching for my arm. "Put the gun down," she says, her voice tight with panic. "Ilay, please, put it down."
My grip doesn't waver. "No. I'm not going to." I keep my eyes locked on the dead man standing across from me. "Why the fuck do you know somebody who carries a gun?"
She tugs at my arm, trying to pull it down. "I knowyou, and you carry a gun even when you go to bed."
"That's not the same thing," I snap, my patience wearing thin. "Why does he have a fucking gun, and why does he know who the fuck I am?"
Jackson meets my stare, his jaw set with a stubbornness that makes me want to put a bullet through his skull just to shut him up. "I'm not obligated to tell you anything."
I narrow my eyes, letting every ounce of violence I'm capable of bleed into my expression. "If that's the case, why don't I just blow your head off right here in this fucking restaurant? By the time the police even think about showing up, you'll alreadybe rotting in an unmarked grave somewhere no one will ever find you."
We exchange threats like currency, each word a promise of violence, and I'm so focused on calculating exactly how many seconds it would take to end his miserable existence that I almost miss what happens next.
Iris moves.
She grabs my gun hand with a confidence I wasn't expecting, lifting herself slightly on her toes, and before I can process what she's doing, her lips press against mine. The kiss is quick, decisive, designed to disarm rather than seduce, and it works. It fucking works.
She pulls back just enough to whisper against my mouth, her breath warm on my skin. "Please. Just put the gun down."
I don't even register the moment my grip relaxes. The gun slips from my fingers like she's pulled it free with nothing but that single kiss, and my other arm wraps around her waist on pure instinct, drawing her closer, needing her against me. I give my bodyguards a firm nod, signaling them to lower their weapons.
The cafe remains locked in stunned silence. The tension is thick enough to choke on, and everyone in the room knows this isn't over. Not even close.
After a long moment, Iris frowns and peels herself away from my body, putting distance between us, and I hate it. I hate it so fucking much. She's the only thing keeping the monster inside me chained, the only thing preventing me from painting these walls red, and she just walks away like it means nothing.
Then Jackson, the dead man walking, has the absolute nerve to sit down right beside her.
