I stand in front of the mirror, and the woman looking back at me is a stranger. She's pale and sharp and beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with softness. The dress hugs her body like armor. The ring glints gold against her chest. Her eyes are dark, unreadable.
His ring. His dress. His world.
But I'm still me underneath it.
The fabric whispers against my skin as I move, testing the range of motion. The slits in the skirt reveal flashes of pale thigh with each step. I think about him seeing me like this. Think about his eyes tracing the exposed skin of my back, the curve of my waist, the way the bodice frames my breasts.
I think about his promise.When we have more time.
We don't have more time. Not yet. But soon.
"Ready?" Elena asks.
No.
"Yes."
I find him waiting in the foyer, dressed in a dark suit that probably costs more than everything I owned in my human life combined. He turns when he hears my footsteps on the stairs.
He goes still.
For a long moment, he just looks at me. His gaze starts at my face and travels down, slowly, deliberately. Over the plunge of the neckline. The ring resting against my chest. The way the fabric clings to my waist, my hips. The slits that reveal my legs with each step down the staircase.
His expression doesn't change, not exactly, but something in his eyes does. Something heated and possessive and barely controlled. I recognize that look. I saw it in the war room, right before he pressed me against the wall and slid his hand between my thighs.
My body responds without my permission. A flush of warmth spreading through me. An ache building in places he touched.
"It fits," he says finally. His voice is rougher than usual. Strained.
"Yes." I stop in front of him, close enough to see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands have curled into fists at his sides. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me." He reaches out and adjusts the chain at my neck, an unnecessary gesture, an excuse to touch me. His fingers brush my collarbone, and I feel the contact everywhere. My skin prickles with awareness. My breath catches.
His eyes drop to my lips. Linger there.
"Thank me by making every vampire in that room understand exactly who you are," he says quietly.
"And who am I?"
His hand drops. But slowly. His fingers trail along my collarbone, down over the swell of my breast, before falling away. The touch is so light it might have been accidental.
It wasn't.
His eyes hold mine.
"Someone they should be afraid of."
The car is a black sedan with tinted windows, driven by a vampire I don't recognize. Marcellus wanted to come, but Maximus insisted he stay and oversee the compound's security. "If this is a trap," he'd said, "I need someone I trust protecting what we've built."
So it's just us in the back seat. Close enough that I can feel the tension radiating off him. Close enough that his knee almost touches mine when the car takes a turn.
Close enough that I can smell him. That scent I've become addicted to. Old books and whiskey and something darker underneath.
"Last chance to go over anything," he says, eyes forward.
"Dmitri: formal, never interrupt, address as Lord Dmitri. Vivienne: will provoke me, push back intelligently. Chen: patient, long-term thinker, follows Dmitri's lead. Okonkwo: values honesty above all else." I tick them off on my fingers. "Santos: wild card, probably won't show."
"Good."
