Chapter 66

Iris

Once we’re alone, I turn to Miles. He’s already back to being his usual smiley self, happily eating his sandwich and munching on his apple slices. The sight makes the ice around my heart melt just a little, and I ruffle his hair as I move past him.

I pour him a glass of milk, then one for myself just because, and take a seat next to him. He picks up the cup with both hands and takes a hearty chug before he returns to his sandwich.

“You sure you’re okay, little wolf?” I ask softly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “I’m sorry I left you with that mean lady. I won’t do it again.”

Miles shrugs. “It’s not your fault.”

I bite my lip, not feeling so sure about that. It sort of was my fault, in a way. Deep down, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, I know that I really went to that event tonight for more than just networking. I went because I knew that Selina and Arthur would be there, and I was being… vindictive. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have left my son at all.

Still, it feels like fate that I left early. If I had stayed through until the end of the event, Milesmight have fallen asleep right there at the table, left alone with an adult who was supposed to be caring for him—not forcing her draconian rules onto a five year old.

“Well, I’m still sorry,” I say softly, squeezing his shoulder. “With a cherry on top.”

Miles swallows another gulp of his sandwich and looks up at me with a toothy grin. His little smile makes me smile, too, and I relax slightly in my chair, bolstered by his presence.

It’s not long before Mrs. White trudges back down the stairs, her glare as hateful as ever as she rounds the corner. She’s got a duffle bag in hand and is wearing her coat.

“Incredible,” she hisses, shaking her head as she brushes past. “Our werewolf youths deserve better.”

“Again, he’s not a werewolf,” I call after her. “He’s a human, and you’re a—” I cut myself off, choosing not to say asshole in front of Miles, even though I really want to.

The ex-nanny gives me an amused look from the foyer. “Keep telling yourself that,” she says before storming out. The door slams shut behind her, leaving me more confused than before.

I can’t help but glance at Miles, curious. When I was pregnant with him, the doctor said that he was 100% human, that the werewolf gene hadn’t been passed onto him. And so far, he hasn’t shown any signs of having a wolf.

Most werewolves don’t see their wolves emerge until puberty, but still. If he were a werewolf, I’d see more signs by now. He hasn’t shown any—no special abilities, no claws or fangs, nothing.

Still, out of curiosity, I rest my chin on my hand and look at him. “Miles, do you ever feel like you might have a wolf?”

He glances up at me, his cheeks stuffed with the last bit of his sandwich. He just shrugs, his mouth too full to speak, and I brush it off. Mrs. White didn’t have a fucking clue. I think I know my own son better than she does.

After Miles has finished his sandwich, I take him to bed, helping him change into his pajamas and tucking him in. Just as I’m moving to leave, he catches my hand. “Can you sing me a lullaby, Mommy?”

The innocent request warms my heart, and I nod, perching on the edge of the bed. Slowly, gently, I hum the soothing tune of a familiar lullaby. Miles, comforted by the sound of my voice, begins to drift off almost right away. I watch him, still humming and gently stroking his dark hair, until his breathing evens out.

Once I’m certain he’s asleep, I let out a soft sigh and bend down, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Goodnight, little wolf,” I whisper. The familiar nickname feels even more ironic now.

After changing out of my gown, I’m not even close to feeling tired. Rather, I change into a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, stuffing my feet into slippers and padding down the hall to my studio. Arthur’s room is quiet and dark when I pass, and I figure he’s sleeping.

Quietly, I enter my studio and get to work. I don’t have any particular idea in mind tonight—I just put on a pair of headphones and listen to classical music and let my brush flow. Before I know it, shapes and silhouettes are forming on the blank canvas, my arm moving in time with the gentle strains of a symphony.

But it’s not long before I see it.

The figures in the painting.

Two figures, a man and a woman, fumbling in a dark closet. A bare breast, a tongue lapping at flesh, a head thrown back in pleasure. By the time I realize what I’ve done, I gasp, dropping my paintbrush on the floor.

I’ve accidentally painted myself and Arthur without even meaning to.

Stunned, I stare at the painting for several long moments, the symphony still playing in my ears. Each curve of flesh, each harsh line of that tuxedo feels like a stab in the heart. Tears begin to well up in my eyes, a hot fire burning through my low belly.

The symphony grows in speed, the tempo turning frantic, just like my pulse.

I can’t take it anymore. As the music crescendos, and as my vision clouds with tears, I spot a box cutter sitting on my taboret. Before I can stop myself, I’m suddenly picking it up, my arm moving on its own as I begin to slash at the canvas.

Choked sobs lodge in my throat with each slash. Paint splatters across my hands, my arms, my shirt, even my face, but I don’t care. Each slice feels like a release and a shard of glass in my throat at the same time. Slash, cut, rip, destroy. I have to destroy every memory of him, every taste of his skin, every—

Strong hands suddenly grip my wrist, spinning me, just as I’m about to deliver my finishing blow. The headphones fall off of my head, clattering to the floor, erratic string instruments faintly humming through the air.

Arthur stares down at me, shirtless, his eyes wild and stunned. It’s only then that I notice the shreds of canvas all over the room, the paint covering my hands like multicolored blood, and the boxcutter pointed directly at his heart.

Only, I wasn’t the one who positioned it there. It was him. He’s holding the point to his chest, right over his heart, his green eyes silently willing me from beneath a shock of black hair.

Cut the painting, and you cut me, his eyes seem to say.

Trembling, I open my fingers and the boxcutter falls to the floor alongside my headphones.

Arthur doesn’t let go. He just stares at me, our chests heaving in tandem, as the classical music draws to a climax and then fades away.

Only then, once the room is silent enough to suffocate, does he release his grip on my wrist. I stagger backwards and sink down onto the daybed behind me, not caring if I get paint on the pillows.

Slowly, painfully so, he stoops and picks up a particular shred of canvas. White and black paint smear across his fingertips as he studies the depiction of my face, eyes closed and mouth smiling.

“Iris,” he says, his eyes fixed on the image, “we need to talk.”