Callum isn't amused. "I mean it, Keira. One wrong move, Octavian loses you, and I'm pulling you out. I'm going to have a team standing by."
"Fine." I pick up the invitation. "I'll behave."
"You better." Callum's gaze shifts back to Octavian. "And if you want to make it back to Bucharest, you'll both leave alive from this gala."
Octavian doesn't flinch. "Understood."
Declan claps his hands together. "Great. Now that we've all agreed not to kill each other, can we talk about the actual plan?"
Callum gestures toward the chairs. "Come sit."
As we move, I grab Octavian's arm. "Hey, thanks for having my back."
He looks down at me and smiles. "I've never not had your back, Keira," he says, and leans in to whisper, "but I do enjoy putting you on it." He finishes and walks past me to sit.
I bite my lip to hide my smile.
I don't know who I should fear more, the people we're up against or the man sitting next to me that's slowlybecomingmy oxygen.
27
OCTAVIAN
The boutique smells like expensive perfume. It's the kind of place where they don't put price tags on anything because if you have to ask, you can't afford it. Soft classical music plays from hidden speakers as I sit in an overstuffed purple velvet chair near the wall, hands on my knees, pretending to be relaxed.
But I'm not.
Keira stands in front of the three-way mirror, turning slowly as the boutique owner fusses with the hem of her dress. It's the fourth gown she's tried on, and each one has managed to make breathing slightly more difficult.
This one is a dark blue color that somehow makes her red hair look like it's on fire. The dress hugs every curve, the neckline dips just low enough to be dangerous yet tasteful, and the fabric catches the light when she moves.
The others, while good, weren't this good. No, this one is trouble.
She shifts her weight, turning to examine herself from another angle, and the dress moves with her like water. The woman sayssomething low, adjusting a pin, and Keira nods absently, her fingers gliding across her waist.
I should be thinking about security. About exit routes. About how many people will be in that ballroom and which ones pose a threat.
Instead, I'm thinking about how that dress would look pooled on her bedroom floor.
Her eyes lift to the mirror. She catches me staring.
She smiles. "See something you like?"
I don't look away. I let my gaze travel up her body slowly before meeting her eyes again.
"Just want to make sure I can hide a wire someplace."
Her brow arches. "A wire?"
"Might as well capture everything," I say, my voice cool. "Who knows what we'll find? If we're heading into battle, might as well get everything we can."
It's not entirely a lie.
A wire would be useful. Audio recordings of whoever approaches her, whatever they say. It's easier to listen to it later and connect things you may have missed.
But that's only part of it.
The real reason I can't stop staring is obvious — because every dress she tries on reveals more of what I've already touched, already tasted, already claimed. The curve of her shoulder. The dip of her spine. The way her waist narrows before her hips flare out.
