She took off her new mask- lovelier than the last, and scowled at him.
“I am your artist, not your puppet. You cannot just move me when and how you see fit,” she retorted.
“Mmm,” Tristan hummed, beginning to walk a slow circle around her.
Ophelia’s skin pebbled as his intense gaze took in her black-cloaked figure as he rubbed his chin. Feeling like a rabbit being circled by wolf, she kept her eyes on him warily, and couldn’t deny the excitement she felt when he finally stopped in front of her. She used to hate being under a man’s gaze- but now she felt as if there was something thrilling about being watched so intensely by Lord Perfect.
She waited for him to say something. Some condescending retort about how a proper lady should act. Yet he only continued to stare intently at her until she could not take it anymore.
“What are you doing?” She demanded.
His blue eyes finally flicked up to her green ones, sending another bolt of lightening through her veins. He wasn’t smirking or smiling tonight, which somehow made that intense stare of his even more so invading.
“No one could make you a puppet, Ophelia,” he stated, “You would snap off all your strings.”
Ophelia’s mouth dropped open; completely taken off guard by his words.
“Is…was…was that a compliment about my nature?” She asked after finally remembering how to speak.
“What if it was?” His deep voice mused.
“You hate my nature,” she stated.
“Do not presume to know me,” Tristan answered, a small tone of warning laced within his deep voice.
Ophelia shivered at his deep tones, already delightfully distracted from the new problems she now faced in her real life.
Tristans fingertips reached for her throat then, and she froze.
“What are you doing?” She demanded.
“Looking at your dress,” he murmured, slowing pulling the threads of her cloak from its knot, “I want to see if I properly provided the correct measurements.
He had. Ophelia had marveled at herself in the mirror when she’d first pulled the midnight blue lace ensemble on. It was not black or red as the others wore in the club, but blue. Her favorite color. She waited, frozen in place, as the fabric of the black cloak slipped away from her shoulders and pooled to the ground.
Satisfaction sparked in her as Tristan’s eyes lit up as he took her in. The midnight blue lace gown, which was high-collared and long sleeved, clung to her like a second skin; revealing a matching silk corset and much shorter silk skirts underneath the long bolts of lace that made up the longer skirts. He’d also sent along matching silk slippers, which comfortably hugged her feet.
Ophelia waited, barely able to breathe as Tristan inspected the dress closely.
“It suits you,” he said at last, finally bringing his eyes back to hers.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
“You are shivering though.”
The lie came to her instantly.
“I am cold in this thing. Lace does nothing to protect one from the weather.”
In truth she wasn’t cold at all. The heat in the small room was palpable, nearly making her draw a sweat. Her shivering, she knew, was from the close proximity to Tristan’s muscular form. From the warmth that radiated from him…from the kiss that now, for some reason, brought her comfort when she thought of it.
“Hmmm,” Tristan hummed again, once more dropping his intense stare to her body.
“Well we cannot have your hands shaking while you are trying to paint, can we?” He asked, bending down to pick up her cloak.
Paint. Yes. That is why I am here,Ophelia reminded herself.
“Speaking of, I should get started,” Ophelia said, forcing a hard tone into her voice, “Yourinspectionhas taken enough of my time already.”
