I pace the length of the waiting area like a caged beast, my footsteps leaving faint impressions in the plush carpet, my hands clasped behind my back to keep them from doing something inadvisable like tearing the doors off their hinges to see her immediately.
"Monsieur Bloodaxe." Madame Fontaine appears at my elbow with a crystal glass of something amber and expensive, which she presses into my palm with a knowing smile. "You must have patience. Transformation takes time."
"I am not a patient creature by nature."
"No," she agrees, her eyes twinkling with amusement that borders on impertinence. "I can see that. But some things are worth waiting for, yes?"
The fitting room door opens before I can respond.
Cypress steps out, and the world narrows to a single point of focus, everything else falling away until there is nothing in my universe but her.
The gown fits her like it was constructed specifically for her body, hugging the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips before falling in a dramatic sweep to the floor. The crystals scattered across the fabric catch the boutique's lighting and throw tiny rainbows across her skin, and the deep V of the neckline frames the delicate architecture of her collarbones in a way that makes my mouth go dry. She has removed her glasses, and without them her eyes seem larger, darker, filled with a vulnerability that she usually hides behind practical frames and pointed spreadsheets.
"Well? Is it too much? I feel like it is too much. Madame Fontaine insisted on doing something with my hair and I think she put some kind of product in it because it will not stay in the bun anymore and?—"
"Cypress." I cross the space between us in three long strides, stopping only when I am close enough to see the faint dusting offreckles across the bridge of her nose, close enough to smell the warm vanilla scent of her skin beneath the subtle perfume that Madame Fontaine must have applied. "You are magnificent."
She blinks up at me, her lips parting on a breath that catches in her throat.
"I look different."
"You look like yourself." I reach out, unable to stop myself, and brush a strand of hair back from her face, my fingers lingering against the silk of her temple for a moment longer than strictly necessary. "You look like the woman who corrected my math on her first day working for me. The woman who cited an obscure corporate bylaw and bought us thirty days to fight. The woman who commanded a vendor to abandon our enemies and he obeyed because he had no choice."
"Knox—"
"This gown does not make you powerful." I drop my hand, curling my fingers into a fist at my side to keep from touching her again. "It merely makes your power visible to those too blind to see it otherwise."
She stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in the depths of her dark eyes, and then she straightens her spine and lifts her chin and the transformation is complete.
"We will take it," I announce to Madame Fontaine without looking away from Cypress. "Along with whatever accessories are required. Shoes, jewelry, whatever weapons a warrior queen needs for this particular battlefield."
"Of course, Monsieur." Madame Fontaine is already snapping her fingers at assistants who seem to materialize from the walls themselves, a flurry of activity surrounding us as the boutique's staff leaps into action. "We will have everything delivered to your office by tomorrow afternoon. And if I may say so you will devastate them."
The Meridian Foundation gala takes place in the penthouse ballroom of the Chrysler Building, a space so drenched in Art Deco elegance that I half expect the ghosts of jazz-age industrialists to materialize from the gleaming steel walls and challenge me to a duel for daring to invade their territory. The room is filled with the cream of New York's financial elite, men and women in tailored finery whose combined net worth could probably fund a small country, and they all turn to look as Cypress and I make our entrance.
I have chosen my armor carefully for this engagement—a black three-piece suit with subtle silver threading that catches the light when I move, my tusks polished and decorated with the platinum bands that mark me as a chieftain of the Bloodaxe clan, my briefcase left behind in favor of a single silver signet ring that belonged to my grandfather and carried him through a hundred successful conquests. I look, I hope, like a predator who has chosen to wear civilization as a costume, the kind of threat that cannot be ignored but must be respected.
But it is Cypress who commands the room's attention.
She moves through the crowd like a blade through silk, the midnight fabric of her gown catching the light and scattering stars across the floor in her wake. The hairstyle that Madame Fontaine's team created for her—an elaborate arrangement of curls and braids that exposes the long line of her neck—makes her look like a queen holding court among lesser beings. And the way she carries herself, spine straight and chin lifted and eyes sharp with intelligence, turns every head in the room as we pass.
"They are staring," she murmurs to me, her lips barely moving as she maintains a serene smile for the assembled guests.
"Of course they are staring." I place my hand on the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her bare skin through the gap in the gown's fabric, and guide her deeper into the crowd. "You arethe most dangerous weapon in this room, and some part of their primitive human brains recognizes the threat."
"That is either incredibly flattering or deeply concerning. I cannot decide which."
"Both." I flash my teeth at a cluster of hedge fund managers who are eyeing us with a mixture of curiosity and alarm. "It is always both."
The next two hours are a masterclass in combined arms warfare, Cypress and I moving through the gala like a perfectly coordinated strike force. She engages the intellectual targets, drawing them into conversations about market trends and regulatory frameworks that showcase the razor-sharp brilliance of her mind, while I provide the physical presence that keeps potential interlopers at bay and demonstrates that our organization has the strength to back up its strategic vision. When a particularly aggressive rival tries to corner Cypress near the bar, I simply appear at her shoulder and stare down at him until he finds somewhere else to be. When an elderly trust fund patriarch attempts to dismiss me as "that green fellow," Cypress produces a string of statistics about Orc-led companies' outperformance in the current market that leaves him spluttering into his champagne.
And then we spot our target.
Evelyn Thorne stands at the center of a small cluster of admirers near the windows overlooking Manhattan's glittering skyline, her silver hair perfectly coiffed and her black gown dripping with pearls that probably belonged to European royalty at some point. She is the managing director of the Thorne Family Trust, a multi-generational wealth management firm with three billion dollars in assets under management, and landing her as a client would not merely meet our thirty-day goal—it would shatter it.
"She has been watching us for the last forty minutes," Cypress observes, her eyes tracking our target's position without appearing to look directly at her. "Every time we make a successful connection with another guest, she glances over. She is assessing."
"Then let us give her something to assess." I offer Cypress my arm, and she takes it without hesitation, her fingers curling around my bicep with a confidence that sends a thrill of warmth through my heart. "Time to close this conquest."
