We sit in the dark, the weight of the war hanging over us, the silence of the compound pressing in. For the first time, I don't feel like the king who has to defend his throne. I feel like a man who has finally found a partner to share it with.
And as I look at her, I know that whatever happens in the next forty-eight hours—whatever Silas tries, whatever blood is spilled—we’re going to walk through the fire together.
"You’re going to be the death of me," I whisper, burying my face in the crook of her neck.
"Then I guess we’ll have to make it worth the trouble," she says.
I pull her closer, the world outside fading into the background, and I think about the gala. I think about the lights, the crowds, the danger.
I think about her in a dress.
I think about holding her hand in front of the world.
I’m never going to let her leave.
25
Atara
Tear me to pieces!
I’ve gone through three different gowns in the last twenty minutes, and every single one of them feels like a costume. If I wear the floor-length black sheath, I look like I’m auditioning for a role as a funeral director. If I wear the gold one, I look like a prize someone’s about to put on a shelf. And if I wear the red... well, the red makes me look exactly like what Lorcan wants me to be: a target.
Focus, Atara.
I’m standing in front of the mirror in nothing but my underwear, staring at my reflection. My skin is pale, and the dark circlesunder my eyes aren't going anywhere, no matter how much concealer I pack on. I look like a woman who’s spent the last week auditing a criminal empire, which I have. I’m tired of the rules, tired of the fear, and mostly, tired of the way my stomach does a backflip every time I hear his footsteps in the hall.
"Stupid," I mutter at my reflection. "You’re a finance major, not a debutante. Pick a color and move on."
"I think the gold one makes you look like the sun," a small voice says from the doorway.
I turn, and Maeve is standing there, leaning against the frame. She’s wearing her pajamas, her dark hair a tangled mess, and she’s holding her stuffed rabbit by the ear.
"Oh, hey, munchkin," I say, my voice softening instantly. "It’s way past your bedtime. Are the puzzles not enough to tire you out?"
"I wanted to see the pretty dresses," she says, walking into the room. She reaches out and touches the hem of the gold gown. "It’s shiny. Why don't you want to be shiny?"
"Because sometimes being shiny gets you noticed by people you don't want to meet," I say, crouching down to her level. "And tonight, I need to be... well, I need to be invisible, or at least very, very prepared."
Maeve tilts her head. "Like hide and seek?"
"Exactly. Like hide and seek, but with higher stakes."
Before she can ask another question, the heavy thud of boots echoes in the hall. Maeve’s face lights up.
"Dada!"
Lorcan fills the doorway a second later. He’s already in his tuxedo trousers, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He looks tired, but the moment he sees Maeve, the lines around his eyes ease up just a fraction.
"Maeve," he says, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "What are you doing in here? It’s past eight."
"Atara is picking a skin," Maeve says, looking at the gowns. "She doesn't like the shiny one."
Lorcan walks into the room, his gaze moving from Maeve to me. He stops a few feet away, his eyes tracking the mess on the bed, then settling on me. He doesn't look at my body with the usual heat he has on, it’s more analytical, almost like he’s trying to figure out which piece of armor fits the situation.
"You’re going to be late," he says.
"I’m struggling with the fashion diplomacy of a mafia gala," I say, gesturing at the pile on the bed. "Gold is too much, black is depressing, and red is a lighthouse beacon."
