Chapter 35

Iris

Each brush stroke across the canvas takes me deeper and deeper into a state of flow. My hand moves of its own accord, in time with the soft classical music playing on the small record player in the corner. Blues and yellows, pinks and greens.

It’s a simple still life of some potted tulips sitting on the windowsill in front of me, the type of painting that I know will sell quickly. The heavier subjects can wait for now. This one just needs to earn me some cash to put toward a lawyer.

But even so, the process of making this simple painting relaxes me. Over the past few weeks, my work has suffered greatly, as evidenced by the disaster of a painting that I showed to Alice at the gallery.

Here, though, I feel… better. Here, I forget once again that I ever left this little studio, that the past five years ever passed at all.

I feel… safe.

The sun begins to go down, casting vibrant golds and reds across the small room. Fat little birds chirp on the ledge outside the window, ruffling their feathers as they enjoy the warmth from the stones. Far below, I can hear the city bustling, people coming home from work for the day, kids playing in the alley before dinnertime.

Miles is running up and down the hallway, the floorboards creaking under his feet, and he’s making airplane sounds.

Life is sweet. Simple.

That is, until I hear the front door open and shut downstairs.

I stiffen when I hear the deep timbre of Arthur’s voice echo through the house. “Hello? Anyone home?”

“Daddy!” Miles calls out, running to him.

Once, I might have gone running to him myself. I might have peppered his sharp jaw with kisses, scratching my lips on his faint stubble. I might have loosened his tie and chatted with him about our day over glasses of wine and a homemade dinner.

But that was a long time ago. And now, the thought of doing any of the things we used to do just makes me bitter.

I make my way downstairs, not because I want to see him, of course, but because Miles is calling to me now. Arthur is slipping off his leather loafers in the foyer, his briefcase in one hand and his suit jacket draped over his forearm. He looks handsome, in a perfectly polished sort of way.

He looks up when I reach the base of the stairs, and glances at my yellow cardigan—the one with the hole in it—and then down at my paint-stained hands.

“Busy day?” Arthur asks.

I’m not particularly inclined to talk about how my day went. I especially don’t want to tell him about my failure to find a lawyer and how I need to sell paintings to earn money, so I just shrug and say, “Something along those lines.”

Suddenly, Miles says, “We went to a fancy office today! There was an old man there and he said some really big words about laws and stuff.”

“Is that so?” Arthur asks, cocking his head. “You saw a lawyer, I take it? How did it go?”

I press my lips into a thin line. “Fine,” I answer vaguely.

Arthur glances at the tips of my ears, which are surely red as beets right now. But to my surprise, he doesn’t press the matter. Rather, he turns to Miles and says, “You want dinner, kiddo?”

Miles grins, and Arthur begins making his way to the kitchen. I hesitate on the bottom step, debating going back upstairs to continue painting.

Arthur must be able to read my mind, because he calls from the kitchen, “You can at least take a break from painting to eat, Iris.”

My cheeks warm. Back when we were together, I would often forget to eat when I was working. I would get into such a state of flow that I would forget about my body entirely, and Arthur would have to practically drag me away from my easel.

I still do that sometimes, even now. If it weren’t for the fact that I now have a child to care for, I would probably die of starvation without Arthur around to force-feed me.

Sighing, I follow them to the kitchen, where Arthur is already pulling out ingredients for dinner. “I can cook,” I say, used to doing all of the cooking for myself and Miles. But as I move toward the counter, Arthur waves his hand without even looking at me.

“I’ve got it,” he says. “You relax.”

I pause, somewhat stunned. Not because Arthur can’t cook—I know he can, or at least back when we were together he could cook extremely well—but because, for one, I’m used to doing all of the cooking now. And second, I don’t expect the Alpha President to cook for himself anymore.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a personal chef or something, Mr. President,” I remark, sliding onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island as I watch him line up the ingredients and put a pot of water on the stove to boil.

Arthur shoots me a sidelong glance, then gestures around the kitchen with his knife. “You don’t see any staff around here, do you?”

Indeed, I don’t. Not so much as a housekeeper, in fact. Aside from Cliff monitoring the front door downstairs, which is for the entire apartment building and not just us, there doesn’t seem to be any staff on sight.

“What about security?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

“When I first got elected, they followed me everywhere,” Arthur replies as he works. “I got sick of it pretty quick, though. Now, I just keep a couple posted undercover outside the apartment building, and allow them to follow at a distance when I’m out. I only have a full security detail for events and the like. It’s not really necessary, anyway.”

I can’t help but agree. Ordan is a pretty peaceful city, and werewolves’ natural hierarchy instincts keep them from doing things like trying to attack the wolf at the top of the food chain. Arthur is definitely at the top of the food chain right now. As for humans, we would never dream of attacking a werewolf anyway, especially not an Alpha.

“And housekeepers?”

Arthur shrugs. “Selina thinks I should have one. But since it’s just me here, I haven’t felt the need. I can clean up after myself.”

He’s right, of course. Arthur was always pretty fastidious with his belongings when we were together. I was probably the messier out of the two of us.

Once dinner is ready—decadent mashed potatoes, medium rare steak, and roasted carrots and broccoli—we sit at the dining room table and begin to eat.

I suppress a moan as I bite into the steak. It’s perfectly cooked, and melts on my tongue like butter. I forgot just how good of a cook Arthur is.

Miles, for his part, digs in with more gusto than I think I’ve ever seen him eat. He’s practically halfway through his small steak already, and his mashed potatoes are completely gone. He’s even eating his broccoli, which is a surprise. He usually hates broccoli.

“Did you put drugs in the food or something?” I joke, picking up my glass of red wine and looking at Arthur.

He looks almost confused. I gesture to Miles, whose face is completely stuffed right now. Miles flashes us both a toothy grin around an enormous bite of steak, nearly spilling his milk as he goes for a big gulp.

Arthur shrugs. “I just prepared a high protein meal,” he remarks. “Werewolves thrive on red meat, too.”

Now, I’m the one who’s a little confused. Miles is a human—the test I had done when I found out I was pregnant said so. Personally, I’ve always cooked us balanced meals, but humans aren’t really supposed to consume more than eighteen ounces of red meat per week, so I’ve always kept it under that limit.

But Miles is a growing boy, I suppose. I make a mental note to increase his protein intake from now on.

After dinner, I give Miles a bath and then put him to bed. He knocks out pretty much as soon as his head hits the pillow, exhausted from a long couple of days.

I’m not tired at all, though. I make my way back to my studio and get back to work on my painting.

The flow returns almost as soon as I pick up the brush, and before I know it, hours have passed. I hardly even notice the moon rising high in the sky or the heavy feeling in my eyelids. All that exists right now is the palette in my hand and the paint streaking across the canvas.

Suddenly, though, I feel a warm hand on my shoulder that nearly makes me drop my brush. I gasp, looking up, to see Arthur staring down at me.

When I turn my head to look at him, our noses nearly bump each other.

And on instinct, this proximity makes me want to kiss my mate.