For a few minutes, we work in silence. The only sound is the hum of the iron and the soft shuffle of Eve’s feet as she moves around the chair.
She finishes, then stands back and surveys her work. “Almost done. Now the dress.”
She holds it up, and I feel my face go hot. “Are you sure?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she pats it and slips it over my head, tugging it into place with expert hands. The hem barely covers my ass. The neckline plunges. The sleeves cling to my arms, ending just above the wrist.
I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror by the closet. I don’t recognize myself.
My hair is a mass of loose, wild waves. My eyes are rimmed in black, smoky and huge. My lips are painted deep red, almost bleeding. The dress makes me look older, meaner, dangerous.
I touch my face and smile. For a moment, I almost believe I am beautiful.
Eve stands behind me, hands on my shoulders. “Holy shit. Jules is going to lose his mind.”
I freeze. “Julian’s not coming, is he?”
She shrugs, the hint of a smile tugging her mouth. “No idea. The Feral Boys have a way of showing up when you least want them to. But tonight is for you. Not for him. Or your father. Or anyone else.”
She turns me around, inspecting me like a jeweler with a diamond. “You are a fucking goddess. If you don’t feel pretty tonight, I dunno what the fuck else to do.”
I laugh, a little too loud. “I’ve never worn anything like this.”
Eve leans in, brushing a stray lock from my cheek. “Good. You look like you could eat the next guy who tries to hurt you.”
There’s something soft in her eyes. For a second, I wonder what it would be like to kiss her. Not to prove anything, just to see what it feels like.
She reads my mind and winks. “Next time.”
She tosses a leather jacket over my shoulders and grabs a pair of boots from the duffle. “We go hard or we don’t go at all.”
I zip up the jacket. The boots fit perfectly, lacing up my calves in a way that makes me feel like I could make for a beautiful stripper.
The thought makes me pause. Maybe I’ll try my hand tonight. Could be fun… if I don’t fall on my ass. Thestrengthit takes to pole dance is insane and way too many people discount it.
“Ready?” she asks.
I take one last look at the girl in the mirror.
She’s still me. But she looks like someone who could say no. Or yes. Or fuck off.
She looks like someone who could make Julian Roth beg.
I nod. “Ready.”
Eve grins. “Let’s go shake our asses.”
We leave the room together, two shadows lengthening down the hallway, heads high, hearts armored in borrowed steel.
We slip out the side gate, cutting between two utility sheds and out through the overgrown field that marks the edge of campus. It’s darker than I expect, the moon low behind a bank of clouds, but I feel Eve’s hand on my wrist, steady and insistent, like she’s afraid I’ll run.
A truck idles just beyond the last lamp post, engine rumbling low. It’s an old Chevy, black with silver trim, the kind of car that would look at home barreling down a country road. Dahlia sits behind the wheel, fingers tapping the wheel in time to the basspulsing from the radio. The music is Italian, something fast and mournful.
In the passenger seat, Isolde is a silhouette against the window, her hair in a loose braid, her stomach swelling under the stretch of her dress. One hand is splayed over her bump, thumb tracing lazy circles across the fabric. She looks tired, but content.
Eve yanks the back door open and shoves me in first, then slides in beside me. Dahlia doesn’t look back, just raises two fingers in a lazy salute.
“Nice of you to join us, Marcus,” she says.
