“You’re in luck. I just made a fresh pot of tea.” She ducked into the kitchen with a little sashay of her hips.
My gaze immediately went to the wall of vibrant fabrics. She’d taken a rainbow and magnified it, somehow finding colors I hadn’t even known existed. Lightly, so as not to soil them, I ran my fingers along the bolts. “These are beautiful.”
“Oh, hon.” Fiora returned with a tray holding five cups and a bowl of sugar cubes. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” She did a quick once-over of my body before quirking her brow high and turning to Kost. “She’s the one you had me tailor for, right?”
“What?” I glanced at Kost.
He took a teacup and ignored me entirely. “It was the most prudent thing to do before we left for Ortega Key.”
“I can tell by your build.” Fiora nodded to my cup, urging me to take it. I didn’t know whether to be impressed or embarrassed that she read my figure so easily. “I wanted to go bolder, grander, but Kostya insisted I stick with the bare minimum. Not to mention he gave me the slimmest of turnaround times. It was rude of him to stifle such creative genius.” Ozias snickered into his tea. Noc leaned against the only open wall space he could find and chuckled.
Kost still refused to look in my direction. “This time, Fiora, we need all the flair you can give.”
Her eyes lit like a fire. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“But, like last time, we don’t have time for custom pieces,” he cut in before the wheels could go too far off the rails. Though judging by the way Fiora bounced, I’d bet a handful of gold aurics she already had.
She waved him off without the slightest pout. “Winter Crest is two days away. I have so many leftover creations that I’m sure something’s bound to fit.” She rolled her eyes and set the tray down on a low coffee table. “You know how nobles are. If one bead is off, the whole thing needs to be remade. And I’ll be damned if they spout nonsense about my craft at one of their galas.”
“Fiora is the best tailor in Wilheim. She’s even made clothes for the king.” Kost took a delicate sip of his tea.
“Then why do you live out here?” My gaze flickered to the looming castle that housed King Varek and his court.
She shrugged. “I have a shop in the city too. But I do my best work out here. There’s more room to breathe and less pretension in the air.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Noc smirked and reached for me, looping his fingers through mine. It’s as if the sound calmed him. Some of the veins tracking the space beneath his eyes faded, and his own smile chased away the sallowness of his cheeks. I’d laugh for him. Every damn time if it meant keeping him sane.
Kost set his now-empty teacup on the tray. “We can’t tarry, Fiora. I appreciate the hospitality, but let’s talk garments.”
The spark in her eyes glimmered bright. “My favorite kind of talk.” With a twirl that had her skirts swirling about her, she moved to a rack of outfits and began thrusting garments into our open arms with fervor.
* * *
We left Fiora’s after changing, with a spare set of Wilheimian attire and our old rags handed off to Tok. One set for venturing in, one set for leaving. And gods help me, I could not stop staring at my assassins. They walked with a sense of purpose, their heads carefully trained forward but their eyes darting every which way, scouting for potential threats as the gleaming gates came into view.
Fiora had somehow captured each one of their personalities without fault, highlighting their preferred traits and giving them a polished glow. A shimmery bronze overcoat with gold flecks tapered into Oz’s midsection and buttoned neatly down his sternum. The sleeves had faint paintings of branches racing up his arms that crashed into gold shoulder plates. Pants made of the same material were tucked into shined black boots.
Kost didn’t appear much different from his usual attire, but that didn’t mean Fiora’s work was any less stunning. In a high-necked tunic with turquoise leaf accents—Kost had openly sighed when I’d remarked on the color, insisting it was something called verditer—and shimmery metallic trousers, he was entirely at ease. The black cloak around his neck fluttered in the breeze, revealing an iridescent bottle-green lining.
But everything and everyone paled in comparison to Noc. He was a gods-damned king among men, and there wasn’t a pair of wandering eyes that didn’t snag on his presence. His black hair fell against the open high collar of his snow-white overcoat, a stark contrast to the ebony lining. Long-sleeved and tailored to his form, the garment fell to his booted feet. Black buckles and errant thick bands of charcoal leather stretched across his chest. Metal stars sewn into the fabric dripped down the right side of his rib cage, and an embroidered griffin clung to his right bicep. Heavy belts draped across his waist, holding up slim-cut black trousers.
He must have felt the weight of my stare because he shot me a curious glance before allowing a devilish smirk to claim his face. My heart ached.Gods, how I miss that smile.It’d felt like ages since we’d been together without the weight of the world pressing on our shoulders. I wanted—no,needed—him back.
“What are you looking at?”
There was no doubt in my mind that he heard my careening heart. “You, of course.”
His glittering eyes roved the length of my body, paying extra attention to my curves. “Too bad you can’t see what I do.”
My cheeks burned, and want stirred low in my belly. Fiora had dressed me in a gown fit for a winter ceremony, with enough movement that running was still feasible. The gossamer white fabric was fringed in streaks of ice-blue like a glacier. A corset of platinum with aquamarine inlays was strapped in place over the gown, accentuating my waist and breasts. The silk skirt was so fluid it might have been made of water. Given the gown was sleeveless, Fiora had also handed over a thick winter cloak. The exterior was white and sparkled like fresh snow on a sunny morning.
I felt incredible in the outfit, and yet Noc’s heated gaze had me itching to rip it from my body and steal away with him somewhere private.
“Two on either side of the gate. Countless more along the top of the wall,” Kost muttered under his breath, gaze bouncing from Sentinel to Sentinel.
Lust died, and I inched closer to Noc. Every Sentinel looked identical: covered from head to toe in gleaming metal armor. Polished like swords and sharpened to kill with swiftness and surety. Noc had once told me they were a by-product of Mavis’s blood, much like Zane had been to the assassins. I’d never had a personal run-in with the Sentinels, but I’d heard enough horror stories rambled over ales at Midnight Jester. Strong. Fast. Lethal. The recounts were always the same.
“Breathe,” Noc whispered against my ear. “Act like we’re out for a nice walk.”
