Chapter 14

Iris

I’ve just pulled up to the gallery when I notice that the lobby is already filling up. It’s surprising, to say the least; all these people aren’t just coming for me, are they?

As an artist, I’ve always kept my identity private—more for Miles’ sake than mine, although I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also to keep Arthur from finding any information on me if he searched. I use the pseudonym ‘Flora’, and I’ve rarely shown my face online. My work might be up and coming, but few know anything about the real woman behind it.

Which is exactly why a crowd of this size takes me aback, especially when I see all of the cameras and notepads.

Before I can even reach the front doors, someone with a camera spots me and comes rushing over, causing the rest of the crowd to follow.

“Hey, you! You’re the Alpha President’s fated mate, right?!” the person asks, their camera already flashing. “What do you have to say about your fated mate, Alpha President Arthur?”

My eyes widen into saucers as I put two and two together.

These are journalists who want the next big scoop on the Alpha President’s supposed ‘love triangle’.

I’m not sure what to say, not that I really even have much of a chance. Before I know it, I’m being bombarded with questions about my past with Arthur.

The only good thing is that it seems as though no one knows the actual story. Some of them ask if Arthur and I only just met last night when those photos were taken, and others ask if we’ve known each other for longer.

Still, I avoid answering, instead trying to push my way back toward the street.

Suddenly, a low and unfamiliar voice cuts through the din. “Move out of the way!”

I turn to see two tall, muscular men in sleek black suits and dark sunglasses with earpieces in their ears moving toward me. Brian is between them, and his face is as pale as if he’s just seen a ghost.

They whisk me away before I can even comprehend what’s happening, although I’m grateful. The crowd parts for the two bodyguards like warm butter, and within mere moments, I’m sliding into the backseat of an awfully familiar car.

“Is this… Arthur’s car?” I ask, turning toward Brian with shock written across my face.

He nods, and he looks just as shocked as I am. Brian explains everything that happened at the Alpha gathering, and as he does, his expression morphs into guilt.

“I’m sorry, Iris,” he says, clasping my hands tightly between his own. “I just got so angry, and you know how much I care about you… I should have talked to him in private, not in front of all those people. But then his fiancee said those things about their ‘unshakable bond’, and…”

I swallow hard and pat his hands. “It’s okay, Brian. I can’t blame you.”

Brian’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Really?”

“I don’t think this is your fault,” I reply with a nod. “Arthur is a public figure who dragged us all into this mess by yanking me around the other day. I think… I think he’s still trying to cause chaos in my life, even after all these years.”

There’s a brief silence after that. Brian looks like he’s not sure what to say, and my throat suddenly feels a little too constricted to speak.

Truthfully, I feel… helpless. Arthur and I broke up five years ago, and I only came back to Ordan to further my art career. My visit to the city I used to love had nothing to do with him, or at least, it wasn’t supposed to.

And yet here he is, getting involved, trying to ‘win’ his human mistress back with money. And in doing so, he’s impeding on my art career.

But I can’t let him ruin everything. This career is too important to me; so, steeling my resolve, I ask Brian to take me home so I can change.

Brian is a bit surprised, but doesn’t argue. We return to the apartment, where I slip into different, more nondescript clothes: a black turtleneck and a pair of slightly paint-stained white painter’s pants, a far cry from the sleek dress and heels I was wearing before. I pull my hair back into a claw clip, put on dark red lipstick and black eyeliner, and my oversized reading glasses.

When I’m finished, I look like a different person. The perfect picture of a slightly messy artist, which is more true to my style anyway. I don’t think anyone will be able to tell that I’m the same person, so long as I take care to avoid getting too close.

And I do just that. When we return to the gallery—in Brian’s car rather than Arthur’s—I go in the back entrance.

I explain the situation to the gallery staff, who, to my surprise, all express their understanding. They assure me that they’ll keep my identity confidential, which I appreciate more than they realize. One of the staff even helps me adjust the lighting so that my face is harder to make out during the seminar.

By the time I step out onto the stage, the crowd is none the wiser. It seems they’ve come to the conclusion that the artist ‘Flora’ is not the same person as the woman from the pictures, and the woman who was here before.

I’m safe. For now, at least. I just need to get through the remainder of this trip and return to Bo’Arrocan, to Miles, before anything else happens.

With that, I begin my talk, pulling up the slides I prepared. My collection for this show is a series of portraits depicting humans and wolves intertwining. It’s meant to represent bridging the gap between humans and werewolves, baring ourselves in our most primal states—humans in the nude, werewolves in their wolf forms.

The star piece, which comes up on the second to last slide, portrays a nude human woman embracing a wolf pup. The pup is cradled in her arms like a baby, and is suckling from her breast.

It elicits a few gasps and murmurs, which makes me smile. This is the reaction to this piece that I was intending; shock, intrigue, and maybe even a hint of disgust.

“Perhaps some of you are offended by this piece, titled ‘Wet Nurse’,” I say as I pace the small stage.

“Perhaps your first instinct is to believe that this human woman is committing a sin by feeding her breast milk to a wolf pup. Perhaps others believe that the human woman is nothing more than, as the title of the painting implies, a wet nurse for the werewolf’s child.”

The crowd murmurs, a few nodding in agreement.

“But,” I continue, “that is not so. This pup is the human woman’s child—the product of a human and a werewolf. And I hope you can look at this piece and see it for what I see: something beautiful and natural. A woman caring for her child.

“The child is no different from her in her eyes, and the mother is no different in the child’s eyes. The child is the flesh of her flesh, the blood of her blood. The mother is the child’s source of life, the hand that feeds, the womb that carried him. Notice how he does not bite at her breast with his fangs, but rather suckles calmly. They fully trust one another.”

When I’m finished speaking, the room is momentarily silent before I allow questions. A woman’s hand shoots up at the front, and I call on her. I almost wish I hadn’t.

“Given the nature of your collection, do you have any thoughts on the recent scandal involving the Alpha President and his human fated mate? Do you think it’s immoral for her to get involved with the Alpha President when he’s already engaged to a werewolf?”

I suppress a groan. Of course this would come up.

But I manage a smile and say, “I believe that the woman in question may be a victim of a discriminatory culture. Perhaps, instead of scrutinizing the woman’s choices, we should focus on the root cause of the issue.”

The reporter tilts her head. “Can you please clarify what you mean by the ‘root cause’?”

“Well,” I say, “it’s no secret that equality between humans and werewolves has long been a point of contention. Perhaps issues like that of the Alpha President and his alleged fated mate wouldn’t come up if we weren’t living in a society that subscribes to such an antiquated social hierarchy.”

“Do you believe that the Alpha President also views humans as lesser?” another reporter abruptly cuts in. “And that it is his inaction as a leader that has stagnated our social progress?”

I don’t even hesitate. “Yes,” I reply firmly, my lip curling bitterly. “Yes, I do believe that.”

The crowd murmurs, reporters jotting down notes and audience members glancing at one another. But they’re not disagreeing with me. Not yet, anyway.

After the seminar, I’m leaving the gallery when the curator suddenly runs up to me. “Iris,” she says, grabbing my arm with a grin. “That was fantastic.”

I blush a little. “I hope my statement at the end wasn’t too inflammatory.”

The curator shakes her head firmly. “No. If anything, we’re all impressed by your boldness. You’re going to make some big waves, Iris. Just you wait and see.”