Page 100 of The Games We Play

My heart thuds low in my chest. “Cillian.”

“He threatened me. He’s using Michael. He told me if I didn’t find out information about the club and pass it to him, he’d stop paying for all the support Michael gets. But I can’t do what he asked. I’m the shittiest spy, and I don’t want to give him anything. Then, when I went to see him, Cillian threatened to keep Michael away from me. He had photographs of you and me fighting that he’d use against me if he had to. And I know it doesn’t make sense because of the crash thing. None of it makes sense anymore.” I look at the bruises blooming over his body and a wave of dread fills me. “Please tell me this wasn’t Cillian, because if he did this to you because of me, I won’t be able to deal with it.”

The tears start again, and even though she just told me everything she did wrong, I tug her to me.

“Fuck, Iris. This wasn’t Cillian. It was those guys we think are trafficking women. But—”

“I’m sorry. It’s not because of your PTSD. I wasn’t snooping because of that, and I’d rather you hate me than think the letters were what I was looking for. I love you too much to let you think that.”

I can’t remember if I ever admitted out loud to her before that I have PTSD. I barely say it to myself. But hearing her acknowledge it without judgment eases something inside. Even though she kept things from me, I understand her reasons.

My mind starts to work on overdrive. Cillian, that fucker, is dead if I see him. And Michael—how do we get him out of Cillian’s clutches and into Iris’s?

And, shit, Iris.

My brothers won’t take this well. She’s been spying on us, even though she’s been unsuccessful. People have died for a lot less. My gut has led me into battle and home again. I’m listening to it well. And it’s telling me everything she’s saying is the truth. At least, I hope it’s that and not my dick leading. “You pass any information to Cillian yet?” I say in a whisper. I glance over to the door and make sure it’s locked.

“Not really.” She shakes her head. “Your phone was locked, and everyone is really careful around me because of who I am.”

“You’re sure, Iris?”

“I promise. I mean, I told him about the clubhouse layout. Plus ... well ... I didn’t expect to ...” She looks down and fiddles with the hem of her—my shorts.

“To what?”

When she looks up, her eyes are clear. “I didn’t expect to love you this much. So much that if I have to choose between you and my brother, I pick you. Which makes me a shit human being because my brother needs—”

“Us. He needs us, little chick.” I tug her to me and grip the back of her head as our lips touch. I missed the feel of her body against mine. I press my forehead to hers. “We do this together. We need to figure out a play here.”

“A play?”

I nod. “One that gets the club on our side, and one that keeps Michael safe.”

“You’re not mad.”

I pause and reflect on the question. “I’m fucking furious Cillian put you in this position. And yeah, I’m pissed you didn’t trust me enough tell me.”

Her eyes go wide. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, when I’m feeling up to it, which is not today, I’m going to fuck my anger out on you, and you’re going to take it.” Her cheeks go pink, and I run my knuckle along one. “You think you can do that for me?”

She nods.

“Words, Iris.”

“Yes, you can fuck your anger out on me.”

“Good girl. And you’re going to move in with me. My house. Your house. Or somewhere else. Wherever, all right?”

She nods and wipes beneath her eyes. “I’d like that.”

“Now we need a plan that makes Cillian think he’s winning while we find a way to beat him.”

33

IRIS

“Are you sure you’re feeling strong enough?” I ask Spark after I arrive at the clubhouse from school. He stands up from his bed and I place my hand on his back. It’s warm. His hair is a mess of knots. He’s wearing shorts, and while all the dressings have been removed, he’s still a mess of bruises and scars.