She’s dressed in very little. A short pink skirt, platform heels, and a black sweater, all hidden beneath a heavy trench. Her long brown hair is tied into two pigtails, and her delicate face is slathered in a generous amount of makeup.
I’m almost positive she usually wears glasses, but they’re missing now, replaced by a daring look in her eyes.
Dame would be disappointed to know that I cannot remember her name at the moment, but I’m not sure it matters.
I frown as I take her in.
“What kind of choice might that be?” I ask, though I think I have an idea.
In confirmation of my suspicion, she gestures at herself, and I shake my head.
“I’m flattered. But you’re not my type.”
“I could be,” she mutters, eyes rounding as she takes a step closer. “I could be whatever you want me to be.”
I take a few corresponding steps back.
“I seriously doubt that,” I say.
While crazy is my preferred flavor, I like a woman who will just outright kill me. All this scheming from the shadows isn’t really my thing.
Her face sours at my rejection, but she recovers quickly, plastering on a pretty smile.
“Just tell me what you need,” she coos. “I’ll be whatever you need.”
I bare my teeth as she steps closer and rests a hand on my arm.
She’s sweating beneath her jacket. I can smell it. A salty musk, mixing with the scent of lilacs and rain. She’s nervous.
“Do you think this is a good idea?” I ask her, testing her resolve.
She blushes softly at my question, a rosy pink finding its way to her cheeks as she tries to cover her embarrassment.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because the only reason I haven’t killed you yet is that you’re Crescent. But I’m still deciding if I’m going to.”
She smiles, baring her canines, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Oh, come on, Elliot. You expect me to believe she makes you happy?”
I scoff.
Happy?
What a stupid fucking question. I don’t care if Iris makes me happy. I care if she’s safe. And right now, the only reason she isn’t is standing in front of me.
“What do you want?” I ask, patience now paper-thin.
The blush returns, tenfold, but she manages to swallow it down to get the words out.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she whispers. “I want you, Elliot.”
Her hands find my chest, fingers clawing at my jacket as she leans forward, eyes shut, reaching on her toes in an attempt to bring her mouth to mine.
Despite her new persona, she hovers over my lips, too timid to take without permission, and I can’t help but chuckle as her legs start to shake.
This must be her first time blackmailing someone. Probably her last, too. She clearly doesn’t have the stomach for it.
