Iris
I consider turning around and leaving the bar, but Arthur spots me before I have a chance, and
waves me over. Partially driven by curiosity and maybe slightly driven by the mate bond tugging
on me insistently, I sigh and make my way over to him.
“Iris,” he says, standing as I approach. He pulls my chair out for me, as if we’re in a fancy
restaurant. “You came.”
I take my seat, trying my best to ignore the sensation of goosebumps raising on my exposed
skin as his eyes skim across my outfit. I’m not sure why I assumed that Arthur would invite me,
his sordid human mistress, to a nice enough place for a dress like this.
Wishful thinking, I guess. The sort of thinking I thought I squashed like a bug over the past five
years, but it still occasionally rears its ugly he
