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"You like that, don't you?" I growled in her ear. "You like it when I fuck you like this."

She moaned in response, her nails digging into my back as she pulled me closer. "Yes," she breathed. "I love it."

I couldn't believe how much she turned me on, how much I wanted her. I wanted to claim her, to make her mine in every possible way. "You're mine," I told her roughly. "Say it. Say you're mine."

She looked up at me, her eyes blazing with desire. "I'm yours," she whispered. "I'm yours, Knox."

I groaned at the sound of my name on her lips, thrusting into her harder and faster. I could feel myself getting closer, could feel the pressure building inside of me. But I didn't want it to end. I never wanted it to end.

I leaned down and bit her neck, marking her as mine again. She gasped in surprise, but didn't pull away. Instead, she pressed herself even closer to me, her body trembling with pleasure.

I knew I was being rough with her, knew I was taking out all of my anger and frustration on her. But she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she seemed to like it. She met my every thrust with her own, her body moving in perfect sync with mine.

I couldn't believe how good it felt, how right it felt. I never wanted to let her go. I never wanted to stop.

But eventually, I felt myself reaching the edge. I couldn't hold back any longer. With one final thrust, I came inside of her, my body shaking with the force of my release.

She moaned my name, her own orgasm following shortly after. We stood there for a moment, panting and sweating, our bodies still connected.

I knew I should have felt guilty. But I didn't. All I felt was a deep, primal satisfaction.

We tore away from each other, breathless, the air between us still charged from what we’d just done. The taste of her lingered on my tongue, the heat of her body still burned into my skin, but none of it mattered. Not now.

I needed to shove this down. Lock it up. Pretend like I hadn’t just fucked up all over again.

I yanked my gear together in stiff, jerky movements, hyper-aware of the silence stretching between us. No teasing. No smug remarks. Just this unbearable tension—thick and suffocating, like the goddamn walls were closing in.

Iris bent to grab her bag, her hair falling over her shoulder, and before I could stop myself, I reached out.

Brushed it back.

My fingers skimmed over the side of her neck—over the deep, fading mark I’d left on her last night.

And beside it?

A new one.

My stomach twisted.

That wasn’t possession.

That was a fucking target.

Anyone could see it. Anyone could put the pieces together.

Chambers. My dad. The team.

If the wrong person noticed, it wouldn’t just be me getting buried under this—it’d be her, too.

I ripped my hand away like I’d been burned, my pulse hammering against my ribs as I turned from her, my fists clenching so hard I swore my knuckles would split.

What the hell had I done?

I could already hear my dad’s voice echoing in my skull, cold and final: “You’re not just risking your career; you’re risking hers too.”

And he was right.

Because Iris wasn’t just mine anymore.

She was a walking consequence.

And if I didn’t get my shit together?

We were both going to pay for it.

She looked up at me, eyes full of questions I couldn’t fucking answer. Searching for something I couldn’t give. And that truth—the weight of it—twisted in my gut like a blade.

This wasn’t heading anywhere good. We weren’t walking away clean. There was no neat ending, no quiet resolution.

We were already too far gone.

The air between us felt charged, suffocating. A storm waiting to break.

“Iris,” I said, but my voice came out rough, like it hurt to say her name. Because it did.

I wanted to reach for her. Just one last time. Brush my fingers over her jaw, trace the curve of her cheek, wipe away the uncertainty tightening her features.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Because I knew how this ended.

Blood would spill before this was over.

And God help me, I just hoped it was mine.

I let out a breath, trying to untangle the mess in my head, but it was useless. Every time I pushed her, I wanted her more. Every moment spent coaching her had turned into something twisted—something that felt like a sickness, a need.

And the worst part?

I wasn’t just risking my career anymore.

I was risking her.

I clenched my fists, anger bubbling beneath my skin—at myself, at this whole fucked-up situation, at Chambers watching from the sidelines like a wolf waiting for the right moment to tear this apart.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” she asked, voice soft but steady, and for a second, it cut through the noise.

I looked at her—really looked at her.

And I saw it.

Not just defiance. Not just frustration.

Fear.

Not of me. Of us.

Of what this was turning into.

I clenched my jaw and shook my head, forcing out the lie even as it burned like acid on my tongue. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

But we both knew better.

There was no stopping this now. No undoing what we’d done.

And as the storm rolled in, swallowing us whole, one thing became clear:

No more games.

No more pretending this would end any other way than in flames.