Chapter 43

Iris

The following day is the day of the exhibition, and I still don’t have anything suitable to wear. But after yesterday’s incident, I don’t exactly feel inclined to go out shopping. Plus, it’s pouring rain even harder than yesterday.

The most obvious solution, of course, is to raid my old closet for a dress.

But that’s easier said than done. I find myself standing outside the bedroom door, trying to build up the courage to open it and go inside. Even from here, I can practically smell Arthur’s cologne lingering in the air, and I can see the exact layout of the room if I shut my eyes.

This is the third time I’ve stood outside this door today. The first time was this morning, before breakfast, and I hesitated for a split second before I quickly turned on my heel and went downstairs. I told myself I would just have coffee and breakfast, and then I would go into the room.

However, the second time, I lasted until my fingertips touched the doorknob. Then, I shook my head and hurried away, claiming I had to check on Miles.

And now here I am, standing outside this damn door for a third time. The event is in just a few hours, and I don’t have any more time to waste.

Taking a deep breath, I turn the handle and open the door.

Just as I suspected, everything is exactly the same as I left it. The four-poster bed is still sitting in the center of the room, the same cream-colored duvet is spread across the mattress, the same vintage lamp is sitting on the bedside table.

There are differences, though. Minor ones. This seems to be the one room that Arthur tried to erase me from; the books I once kept on the nightstand are gone, and the bottles and tubes of lotions and perfumes that I didn’t have time to pack before I left are no longer there—likely thrown out.

Taking a step into the room, that one squeaky floorboard creaking beneath my feet as always, I’m hit by the scent of Arthur’s cologne. It’s woodsy and fragrant, like ash trees and campfire smoke, and it makes something warm and pleasant pool up inside of me.

I hold my breath against the scent, refusing to let nostalgia get to me. I turn on my heel and head for the walk-in closet, hoping that he didn’t throw out all my old clothes. When I turn on the light, I’m relieved to find that the rack to the left is still full of my old things.

I let out a small sigh and walk into the closet, my shoulder brushing the row of suits and sweaters on Arthur’s side. Unfortunately, the scent is even more profound in here. I can’t tell if I want to breathe it in or retch. Maybe a little bit of both.

As I begin to rifle through my old clothes, pulling out a few cocktail dresses that I think might suit me for tonight, my elbow bumps one of Arthur’s hangers and sends a knit sweater cascading to the floor.

Sighing, I stoop to pick up the sweater. It’s soft beneath my fingers, and… dammit, it smells like him just like everything else in here.

Without thinking, I lift the sweater to my nose, driven purely by desire and instinct. I inhale deeply before I can stop myself, and the familiar smell of him envelops me like a warm blanket.

Once, I used to steal Arthur’s sweaters on a regular basis. Whenever he had to travel for work or when he’d be out late, I would slip one on for comfort, curling up with the smell of him. Even now, five years and a whole world of heartbreak later, I feel the urge to tug the sweater on over my head.

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I feel driven by internal forces that are outside of my control, which I know is the mate bond at work. The scent that overwhelms me isn’t Arthur’s cologne anymore, but rather his natural scent, the sort of scent that only a werewolf’s mate can pick up.

And it smells like home.

Before I can think twice, I’m suddenly pulling the sweater on over my head, drawing the thick fabric up to my nose and inhaling deeply. A sense of calm washes over me that I haven’t felt in years, and I allow myself a moment to enjoy the comfort. Just a moment, I tell myself, then I’ll take it off.

With that, I move out of the closet, laying the dresses I’ve picked out on the bed. I run my fingers across a pearly-white number, but it feels a little too formal. I then hold up the deep lilac ankle-length gown that I’ve chosen, but the plunging neckline feels like too much.

Finally, I settle for the black cocktail dress that I used to wear often. I know it looks good on me, hitting just above my knees while the thin straps show off my shoulders.

I then pick up the dresses I didn’t choose, planning on putting them back, when something catches my eye. Arthur’s bedside table drawer is cracked open, revealing what looks like a photograph laying within.

This time, something other than a mate’s instinct drives me. This time, it’s pure nosiness that prompts me to open the drawer and pull out the picture.

As I hold the picture in my hands, my heart sinks heavily. I slowly sit down on the bed, staring at the picture.

It’s… us. Younger, happier, and smiling. We’re wearing our bathing suits, sitting on the sunny beach with a vibrant blanket beneath us and a picnic spread around us.

We look… in love.

I don’t realize that tears have begun to prick at my eyes until I hear the sound of footsteps approaching.

Shit.

I look around wildly, making a snap decision. I’m wearing Arthur’s sweater and snooping through his things—I can’t give him the satisfaction of seeing that. So I quickly put the picture away, closing the drawer, then grab the dresses and rush into the closet, where I hide amongst the racks

As the door opens, I silently kick myself for being here. Surely Arthur will find me and scold me; or he’ll just laugh at me, never letting me live it down.

But when I peer through the crack in the closet door, it’s not Arthur that I see walk in.

It’s Selina.

I furrow my brow as I watch her stand in the middle of the room, sniffing the air and looking around. I wonder if she can smell me; with Arthur’s strong scent in here, she likely can’t tell that I’m hiding in the closet, especially since I have his sweater on as a sort of protective shield against my natural scent. But she can certainly tell I was here.

More importantly, though, why is she here?

Huffing, Selina struts over to the bed and sits down in the exact spot I was just sitting, crossing her legs. She pulls her phone out and begins texting furiously, as if typing out a long message to someone. I watch her back, observing silently as she flips her hair over her shoulder with a manicured hand.

Selina remains like that for a long time. A very long time. So long, in fact, that the sound of the rain outside and Arthur’s scent cocooning me begins to lull me into a sleepy state. When she still doesn’t leave, I finally sit down on the closet floor, leaning my head back against the wall.

And soon, I’m dozing off.

The next thing I know, I’m being jolted awake by the sound of the closet door opening. I blink against the light suddenly being turned on and shield my eyes. Arthur is standing above me, looking utterly baffled.

“Iris? Why are you sleeping in my closet, wearing my sweater?”