Page 125 of Made for Cyn

I haven’t heard from Cyn, and I don’t know if he’s angry or busy, but the silence has me on edge. Still, with the shadows washed away by the cleansing light of a new day, I wonder if maybe I can have my happily ever after, after all.

I should know better, though, because nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

Iris raises her eyes to mine, and I pause as she stretches her lips in a brittle smile.

Wide eyed, I stare at her. “What?”

“I know you don’t understand now, but eventually, you will.”

“Understand what?” I ask with a trickle of unease.

She looks away with a shrug, but it’s too casual, and there’s a pinch around her mouth.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing that didn’t have to be done,” she insists, standing and depositing her cup in the sink.

“Which is what?”

“I told the truth,” she says simply, and I sit back in my chair, running her words through my head.

“About what?” I search her eyes, but there’s nothing there. She’s dead inside, just as I worried would happen. What have I done?

Absently, I note my hands are trembling in my lap as Iris gives me a piteous look and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Rain, I know you don’t want to believe this, but Cyn really was using you to get to me.” She holds up her hand when I bristle. “I’m not saying for sex, but he wanted information. The truth is, Jagger sent me in to find out about Cyn’s dealings, and Cyn was trying to do damage control. You got caught in the crossfire, and I’m sorry. But now we need to move on, and we can’t do that with Cyn all up in our business.”

“Move on?” I ask, licking my lips.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “We can’t afford to be associated with Cyn when he goes down.”

“No, Iris. What did you do?” I choke out, pulling up Cyn’s number on my phone.

“I wouldn’t bother,” she says tiredly.

“Why?” I ask, my stomach burning.

“Because he knows.”

“Knows?”

“Yes, Rain, he knows. Did you really think getting with Saul was about sex? No, it was about Cyn.”

“What did you do?” I slam the phone on the table and stalk toward her.

“I gave him the photos,” she says, raising her chin when I stop before her.

“What photos?”

“Of you and Saul.”

What the fuck?

“Iris, you didn’t. You took photos?”

“Oh, calm down, you were clothed—mostly. But it’s enough to send Cyn a message.”

I can’t even wrap my brain around what she’s saying. Photos? Fucking photos?