Page 15 of Devil's Iris

I yank the door open, and my patience shatters at the scene in front of me. Carlo Benini—Julian’s dusty, perverted excuse for a cousin—is gripping her arm while she’s struggling to break free. The sight of his meaty hands on her triggers something primal in me.

Before I can think it through, I’m crossing the small space and my fist is connecting with his face. He falls to the floor like a sack of potatoes, blood already gushing from his broken nose, staining his expensive shirt. My knuckles sting, but the pain feels good.Righteous.

I shake out my hand as I glance back at Leni. Her eyes are wide, shocked, maybe a little impressed. Fuck, sheistrouble.

Carlo might be a disgusting old toad and was clearly harassing her, but he’s still Julian’s cousin—a retired old cop with connections that still reach high up. The thought does nothing to cool my anger.

“The lady said no.” I scowl down at him.

He struggles to his feet, one hand clutching his bloody nose, but I don’t offer him help. Let him suffer.

“How dare you?” he snaps when he finally makes it to his feet. “Do you know who I am?”

Driven by cold rage, I seize his meaty arm and drag him out of the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind us. Then I shove him against the wall. “I knowexactlywho you are, Carlo. There’snothingyou can do to me.” I savor every word. “Butyou—I can ruin you. What do you think Julian will do when I playthe recording of you harassing that woman? Protect you or deny your relation to him as hard as possible?”

Carlo’s eyes bulge. “You’re bluffing.”

I chuckle darkly. “Okay, let’s go to Julian then. Let’s see what he decides.” I turn and take a few steps towards the ballroom.

“Wait!” Carlo grabs the tail of my jacket but drops it when I level a glare at him. “You’re such a bastard,” he growls as he skulks away.

Fuck, that was close.

What if my bluff didn't work?

What the fuck am I even doing?

I should be back in the ballroom, schmoozing with the guests, trying to get Julian to tell me what he knows about Katie. But instead, here I am, playing hero for a woman I barely know.I’m nobody’s fucking hero.

But I still wait outside the door, anxious to make sure she’s okay before I leave. She’s had a hell of a night.

A few minutes later, she exits the restroom in black pants and a white shirt, her golden-red hair pulled up into a loose bun, bangs resting just above her eyes. And Jesus, even after all that, she still looks like she stepped out of a damn movie.

“What’s your name?” My question comes out harsher than I intend, but she only chuckles tiredly.

“No ‘are you okay’?”

She’s holding it together better than I expected. I study her, looking for signs that she might break down, but there are none. Tough girl. “You’re obviously handling yourself well. You’re not as pale as you were earlier. Now tell me your name.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I don’t know. Something tells me nothing good will come from you knowing my name, so maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”

“I already know you’re Leni. I could just go meet your boss and ask for the full version.” I jerk my thumb down the hallway where Fred is probably still nursing his wounded pride. “Hemight be less than pleased with me after the way I spoke with him, but he’ll tell me anything I ask him to.” He’d be too scared for his business to do otherwise.

“How did you speak to him?”

“Let’s just say I let him know where he stood with the law regarding the way he spoke to you earlier.”

She doesn’t seem all that surprised or angry that I overheard the confrontation with her boss. She just gives me a perplexed look. “You have a savior complex, don’t you?”

Even though I had a similar thought earlier, I chuckle in amusement, thinking she’s joking. But she doesn’t even crack a smile. “Oh, you’re serious? Well, no one’s ever accused me of being a hero before.”

Now she laughs.

“I don’t know why not,” she says with wry humor. “Thank you for tonight,Romeo.” She turns to leave, then pauses and looks back. “My name is Charlene Barlowe, but I generally go by Leni.”

Charlene. Leni fits her better.

She’s quirky, funny, strong—and with a damn good head on her shoulders despite whatever circumstances led her to serving drinks at rich people’s parties. I stare at the door down the hallway long after she’s disappeared through it, then square my shoulders and force myself to head back to the ballroom.