“I’m Iris’s Head of Surface Affairs,” Monty declared. He was really leaning into his fictional role.
Iris resisted the urge to point out that he’d made up the title himself.
“Of course. Please come in. We are heavily in preparation mode. May I?”
He didn’t wait for her answer, though, taking her bag and bringing it into the apartment.
“Preparation for what?” she asked, following behind.
Iris had no frame of reference for what a penthouse would look like, but she certainly hadn’t expected for all the windows to go from the floor to the ceiling, giving panoramicviews of the city as well as the water of the bay just beyond. But it looked more like a backdrop than something real, something alive, something that sang in her veins.
The sprawling space was sun-soaked, lighting every corner of the very bland decor.
She knew it was wrong to judge too harshly, given that Finn came from a very different culture than her own. But she couldn’t help but long for the bright colors of the sea—the pinks, yellows, and purples of the coral, and the vivid yellows and blues of the schooling fish.
Everything in Finn’s home was gray. Not just the paint, but the mood. Even the couch looked like it might sigh when you sat on it.
There were no curves. No motion. Just edges. Sharp corners. Soulless.
Iris wandered toward one of the enormous windows, placing her palm against the glass. Outside, she could see the bay glimmering in the distance. But she couldn’tfeelit anymore. The barrier had dulled it. Separated it from her.
It was beautifully displayed. But locked behind something clear and cold.
Like her.
“Oh, this will do,” Monty declared, waddling into the apartment. “This will do just fine. Where are our rooms?”
“Uh, about that,” Henry said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “We were only expecting Iris. Finn only has one bedroom.”
One bed?
Of course, there was only one bed.
The surface world had a sick sense of humor.
“But Finn does have a small office we can outfit for you, Mr. Featherington.”
“I suppose that will do.”
“Wait,” Iris said, brows pinching. “If there’s only one bed, and Monty gets the office, where am I sleeping?”
“In the primary bedroom, of course.”
“Where is Finn sleeping?”
“In the same bedroom.”
“Where is Finn? Can I speak to him?”
She didn’twantto speak to him, not really. But his absence rankled regardless.
He’d invited her to move into his home—technically dragged her into it by political contract—and he couldn’t even be bothered to be around to answer her questions?
Part of her wanted to be angry. The other part … wasn’t sure if it was disappointment or relief.
Maybe both.
“Finn is at a meeting with the werewolf construction workers’ union. He will be home later.”
