And I'd end up changing anyway.
So I might as well skip the fight.
I unzip the bag.
The dress inside is black. Silk again. Always impractical fucking sink. It's elegant, expensive, and clearly designed to help me disappear into shadows. Straps and slits all over. It’ll bare my skin and tattoos, so not sure what he’s thinking.
There's a note pinned to the hanger in Croesus's neat handwriting:
We're going somewhere we shouldn't be. Blend in. Don't draw attention. And for once, please don't argue with me about the wardrobe.
I crumple the note in my fist.
He's dressing me again. Choosing what I wear, how I present myself, turning me into whatever image serves his purposes. And the worst part is that I understand why. If we're infiltrating somewhere, I need to look the part. Need to fit in. Need to not get us both killed.
Understanding doesn't make me less angry about it.
I take the dress back to my room, lay it on the bed, and stare at it for several minutes while I wrestle with my irritation.
Through the binding, I can feel Croesus somewhere in the house. Not his thoughts, but his presence, steady, focused, preparing for whatever this is. There's anticipation there. Satisfaction. The particular edge of hunger that comes before he's about to acquire something he wants.
I touch the dress. The silk is cool, slippery under my fingers.
Fine.I'll wear his dress. I'll play his game. I'll be whatever weapon he needs tonight. But we're going to have a conversation about this.Soon.
I'm dressed and ready when Croesus knocks.
"Come in," I call, and he enters, looking like he walked out of a noir film, black suit perfectly tailored, black shirt underneath with no tie, dark mask in his hand. His hair is swept back, and even blind, he moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how devastating he looks.
He stops just inside the door, tilts his head in that listening way.
"You wore it," he says, and there's surprise in his voice. Genuine surprise.
"Don't get used to it." I turn so he can see the full effect, or sense it, or whatever he does. "I'm wearing it because it makes sense for whatever we're doing tonight. Not because I like being dressed like a doll."
"Noted." He crosses to me, and I feel the now-familiar pull of the binding, that awareness of him that's become constant background noise. "Though for what it's worth, you look stunning."
"You can't see me."
"I can sense you. The way you move, the way the fabric falls, the heat of your skin against the silk." He's close now, close enough that I can smell smoke and gold. "And stunning doesn't require sight."
Heat floods my face, and through the binding, I feel his satisfaction at getting that reaction.
"You're an ass," I inform him.
"Frequently." He holds out the mask. "We need to talk about tonight."
I take the mask, black lace, delicate, designed to cover the upper half of my face. "Auric said you'd brief me. And that I should be careful around Idris."
"Auric is wise." Croesus moves to the window, stares out at nothing. "We're going to the House of Regret. To a masquerade that Idris is hosting for his contracted souls and favored guests."
"We're crashing a party."
"We're infiltrating enemy territory." His voice sharpens. "This isn't a social call, Raven. This is theft. Strategic, calculated theft, designed to hurt Idris where it matters most, his reputation and his collection."
I sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly very aware that this is different from the Barnes job. That was opportunistic, taking advantage of someone already in crisis. This is deliberate. Aggressive. An act of war.
"Tell me," I say.
