Chapter 85

Iris

Arthur arrives at exactly nine o’clock the next morning, looking remarkably different from his usual polished self. Instead of his customary tailored suit, he’s wearing worn jeans, a simple gray t-shirt, and work boots. His hair isn’t perfectly styled—even that single curl is visible across his forehead—and he has a tool belt slung low on his hips.

The casual look suits him—makes him seem more approachable, more human. More like the man I fell in love with.

And it makes him irresistibly handsome, so much so that I can hardly even look at him without turning red.

However, I notice something else as we drive—it’s just us. No Beta Ezra. No journalists following us. Even when we pull up to the orphanage, I don’t see any other cars.

Out of curiosity, I ask, “Did you tell your PR manager about this or anything?”

Arthur gives me a strange look. “No. Why would I?”

I shrug and don’t bring it up further, but it takes me by surprise. Why wouldn’t he want this documented? Arthur has always been careful about his public image, always thinking about how things will play in the press.

A hands-on project at an orphanage would be ideal publicity. Unless...

Unless he’s still too embarrassed to be seen publicly with me. Even when he knows that would be the one thing that would make me come back to him and drop the custody battle entirely.

The thought sours my mood somewhat, although I try to push it aside as we head up the front steps. Giulia greets us at the door, beaming when she sees Arthur’s work clothes and the supplies he’s brought.

Inside, the children are gathered in the lobby, whispering excitedly amongst themselves. The little girl from yesterday—the one with pigtails and the polka dot dress—spots Miles and waves enthusiastically.

“That’s Amy,” Giulia tells us softly. “She’s been here since she was three. Very bright, but very shy, except, it seems, with your Miles.”

Miles hesitates, looking up at me for permission. I nod encouragingly, and he cautiously approaches Amy. Within moments, they’re talking animatedly, Miles showing her his shark toy and Amy showing him a tattered stuffed rabbit in return.

Curious, I glance at Arthur and see his expression shift as he watches Miles play with the little girl—sees how Miles occasionally stumbles over words, how he has to concentrate extra hard to follow what she’s saying, how his hands flap slightly when he gets excited. All the little manifestations of his condition.

It reminds me painfully of that day when I finally told him the truth about Miles’ disability. The flash of disappointment in his eyes and the phrase, “He shouldn’t be like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says suddenly, so quietly I almost miss it.

“What?”

He turns to me. “For how I reacted when you told me about Miles’ condition. I didn’t understand then. I was surprised, and I said something I shouldn’t have.”

I blink, startled by the unexpected apology. Did he sense my discomfort through the mate bond? I thought I’ve been pretty good about keeping my thoughts and feelings to myself—it’s always been easier, anyway, since I have no wolf and can’t manipulate the bond much—but maybe I accidentally let it slip.

“Oh, I thought—”

“I didn’t mean to make it out like I was disappointed,” Arthur cuts me off firmly. “I didn’t know that Alpha wolves could have learning disabilities or be on the spectrum. But that’s not an excuse.”

“No, it’s not,” I agree. But the regret in his eyes softens my anger. “Miles isn’t damaged, Arthur. He’s perfect exactly as he is.”

“I know that now,” Arthur says, watching as Miles and Amy move to the playroom together. “He’s amazing, Iris. You’ve done an incredible job with him.” He hesitates, then adds, “I’d like to learn more about his needs. So I can help him in the future, if he needs it.”

My throat bobs. That was… unexpected. But it’s touching, if I don’t let my mind wander into the darkness and assume he’s just doing it for brownie points. The genuine look in his eyes makes me believe he’s being serious, though.

“Okay,” I say with a nod. “If anything comes up, I’ll do my best to explain it to you.”

“Thank you.”

With that, we separate to begin our respective projects. I set up shop in the lobby, where Giulia has cleared the large blank wall for the new mural. I’ve brought sketchbooks to plan the design, and art supplies for the children to contribute. Arthur heads upstairs with his tools to tackle the leaking bathroom first.

The morning passes quickly as I work with the children to design our mural. We decide on a tree with spreading branches, each leaf meant to be a child’s handprint in various colors. At the base of the tree, we’ll paint the orphanage building with children playing outside.

By noon, I’ve sketched the outline of the tree and building on the wall, and the children have begun adding their handprints as leaves.

It’s a surprisingly warm day today, and I’ve discarded my yellow cardigan as I’ve begun to work up a sweat. The lobby is filled with noise as the kids laugh and Giulia lightly scolds them for trying to smear paint on each other. Thankfully, it’s water soluble, so it’ll come off easily.

I haven’t seen Arthur since he went upstairs, but I can hear occasional hammering or the creak of pipes being tightened. It’s strange to think of the Alpha President up to his elbows in plumbing work, but also oddly endearing.

I try not to think about him working up a sweat, too. The hard lines of his jaw as he focuses, his deft hands twisting a wrench, that one pesky curl falling into his eyes so he repeatedly has to brush it out of the way…

No, Iris, I tell myself, shaking my head. Now isn’t the time or the place, and yet…

I can’t explain it. Ever since that blood transfusion, I’ve been feeling… different. Like there’s something simmering just beneath the surface of my skin. Not just an extra pep in my step, but something else, too. Like the bond between us is electric, occasionally sparking brightly.

Arthur must be manipulating the bond, giving it the odd tug or there—possibly to butter me up. As a human, I certainly can’t do it myself. Not to that extent, at least.

Still, I try not to think about it, and instead focus on the mural.

Around lunchtime, I’ve worked up quite an appetite. In the kitchen, I find Giulia preparing simple sandwiches for the children. I offer to help, and together we make a fresh batch—turkey and cheese for the kids, and extras for Arthur and me. I also mix up a large pitcher of lemonade, adding extra ice to combat the afternoon heat.

Once lunch is prepared, I load a tray with two sandwiches, a glass of lemonade, and some of the leftover cookies from yesterday. I head outside, where the kids are playing on the back lawn.

Arthur has moved to the shade of a large oak tree at the edge of the property, sitting on an old bench as he wipes sweat from his brow. He looks up as I approach, and I feel an instant heat rise to my cheeks when I see his tan muscles peeking out from beneath his shirt, a thin sheen of sweat and grease coating his skin.

“You look thirsty,” I say, holding a glass of lemonade out to him.