Page 31 of Devil's Iris
He rolls his wrist and steps closer. Even in heels, he’s still taller than me.Delicious. “My men will take care of it.”
Before I can ask what that means, he tilts my chin up with his index finger and turns my head slowly, directing my gaze across the club where several intimidating bouncers are methodically confiscating phones from wide-eyed patrons.
“This club is mine,” he says simply. “That’s why I asked to meet here. This is my turf.” He lets go of my chin and takes a step back. Only then am I able to breathe again, my chest expanding as his delicious scent lingers around me. But there’s no time to recover, because he extends his hand towards me, palm up. “Come.”
I stare at his hand a beat too long. Those fingers have just been wrapped around a man’s throat. They could probably snap my wrist without effort. I lick mylips nervously, but when I slip my fingers into his, a jolt of pure want shoots up my arm and lodges somewhere behind my breastbone.Jesus, what is this reaction?
His gaze drops to our joined hands, his expression unreadable, but there’s a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there before. Like the simple act of holding me reins something in. Then he’s moving, pulling me through the crowd that parts for us like we’re royalty. Or maybe they’re just smart enough to get out of the way of a man who was just strangling someone seconds before.
He leads me to a door at the other side of the club, then up a narrow staircase that opens into what can only be described as a king’s private viewing box. The music thrums up here, but it’s muted enough that we can actually hear ourselves think.
The room is as big as my bedroom back home, with two leather chairs facing each other across a polished table. But it’s the floor-to-ceiling window spanning the wall that steals my attention. From here, we can see everything—the entire club below, including the entrance.
He must have been watching me from the moment I walked in. The thought makes my stomach flutter.
He lets go of my hand and settles into one of the chairs, tilting his head up to study me. “Are you scared of me now?”
I frown, already walking towards him. “Of course not. Should I be?”
The way he’s looking at me—like he’s imagining all the ways he could devour me—makes my legs feel watery. His only response is a smile as I sit across from him.
The door opens and one of the bartenders walk in, balancing two bottles and a pair of glasses on a tray. We sit in silence as he works, opening the whiskey first, then the wine. I watch curiously as he pours the golden-looking wine into my glass and the whiskey into Romero’s, then caps the bottles and leaves as quietly as he came.
“Presumptuous much?” I pick up my glass, raising a brow. “What made you so sure I’d want wine?” Instinctively, I know he made the order. Nobody would dare interrupt us here with drinks unless he asked.
“Would you prefer whiskey?” His mouth curves into a smirk as he watches me eye the drink like it might bite.
I’ve never had wine in my life, so I’m a bit apprehensive. I sniff it cautiously, then take a sip—and my eyes go wide. I try to swallow my surprised moan, but it slips out anyway as layers of honey, citrus, and apricot explode on my tongue. Whatever this is, it’s basically magic in a glass.
“What is this sorcery?” I gasp, then promptly drain the entire glass in one go. Another pleased sound vibrates out of me. No shame this time.
Romero chuckles. “That’s the 2009Château d’Yquem.” He opens the bottle and pours more of the golden liquid into my glass, watching my reaction with obvious enjoyment.
“Ah, yes.” I nod sagely like I have any idea what that means. Just hearing it sounds expensive as hell.
His gaze is so intense it stokes the fire already crawling up my neck. I try to be classy this time, swirling the wine glass just slightly and holding it below my nose like I’ve seen on TV. The scent alone makes my mouth water. “You should have some,” I say after taking a more controlled sip.
“I’m not really a wine guy.” He drains his whiskey and reaches for the bottle.
“Let me—” Our fingers brush when I move to take the bottle from him, and I jerk back immediately as fire sizzles through my fingers. There’s a spark in his eyes now, charged and curious, like he’s already playing out what might come next.
But thankfully, the door swings open again and the same server from earlier steps in, giving me the perfect excuse to look away.
He carries a tray with two plates of what I recognize from my cooking show days—Foie Gras Torchon with brioche toast and some kind of fancy fruit compote—and sets one down in front of each of us. Before Mom sold the TV, I watched a ridiculous amount of those shows.
“Don’t you think it’s a little arrogant to order for me without asking what I want?”
Romero raises a brow as he picks up his fork. “You liked the wine, didn't you? It pairs really well with foie gras, trust me.”
I shoot him a look but scoop a bite anyway. And damn him, itisdelicious. Though I’m not about to let him off the hook that easily. “It’s still arrogant. You don’t even know me.”
“So let me get to know you. If we’re going to convince people we’re madly in love, we need to actually know each other.”
A valid point. “Well, I now know you’re arrogant and that you favor whiskey over wine. Oh, and that you have a secret savior complex.”
He chuckles. “Shh, don’t let my enemies hear that.”
“Enemies,” I echo, rolling the word on my tongue. “You have a lot?”
