Page 153 of Shots & Echoes

She was there.

Soaked. Shaking.

Wrecked.

Iris stood on my doorstep, her dress clinging to her body, rain dripping from her hair in rivulets down her pale skin. Mascara streaked in smudged trails beneath her eyes, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

She looked like she had fought through a goddamn storm to get to me.

“Iris.” Her name barely made it past my lips.

She blinked up at me, something desperate and unbreakable in her expression. “Knox.”

That was it. Just my name. But it sounded like surrender. Like a confession. Like she had nowhere else to go but here.

I stepped aside without a word, and she moved into my space like she had always belonged there.

And I knew—nothing would ever be the same after tonight.

Then I saw her dress. Torn.

Shredded at the hem, ripped along the side like someone had put their hands on her.

A fire ignited inside me so fast, so violent, it blurred my vision.

Who the fuck touched her?

My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I forced myself not to grab her—not to pull her into me and search every inch of her for bruises, for proof of what had been done.

“Who did this to you?” My voice was low, a growl from the depths of something feral, but beneath it, I felt the tremor.

Because this was my worst fucking nightmare. She had been hurt, and I hadn’t been there.

I took a step forward, closing the distance between us, my body wound so tight I thought I might snap. I wanted to touch her, but I didn’t—couldn’t—because I was barely holding my control together.

She lifted her gaze to mine but looked away too fast, like she was afraid of what I’d see.

“It’s nothing,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Nothing?

The word cracked through me like a gunshot.

“You call that nothing?” I gestured sharply to the torn fabric, my breath coming harder now, my chest tight with a fury I had no place to put. “Who the fuck did this?”

“I told you—it’s fine.” She set her jaw, her shoulders squaring, but I saw the cracks. I saw the way she swallowed hard, how her fingers trembled at her sides.

“Fine?” My voice was deadly quiet now, the rage simmering beneath the surface. I was losing my grip. “You show up looking like this—and you think I’m just going to let it go?”

“I can handle myself.” The fire in her eyes sparked to life, that same fight I had always admired in her—but not now. Not when she was hurt. Not when she looked so goddamn fragile.

I stepped even closer, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes. “Tell me who did it, Iris.” My voice was rough, edged with something desperate, something dark.

She didn’t answer.

And that silence? It was enough to send me over the fucking edge.

Whoever had touched her—whoever had put their hands on what was mine—they had just signed their own death warrant.

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