The sudden onslaught of noise freezes me.
In the space of time since I entered the Citadel, dusk has fallen, and the area right outside has been transformed. Lights flare high above me along multiple levels of the building. The skyscraper itself ripples with symbols that swirl and morph into each other and reflect onto the ground at my feet.
On the other side of the open space directly in front of me, within the Citadel’s grounds, rows upon rows of demons sit watching from the bleachers—an audience of at least one hundred, although the front row has multiple empty seats. The way the demons are dressed in evening attire and the flash of jewels and stones on their clothing and bodies must mean they are all elites. From what I've observed and been told, the lower-level demons would not be welcome at any event involving the Citadel and the royals.
Closer to me, only about twenty paces away, the royals stand at intervals in a rough semi-circle facing the crowd—their backs to me. Crone is positioned in front of them, as if she’s preparing to make a speech. She’s so small that it’s difficult to see her, but there’s no mistaking her pure white clothing in the swirling lights.
The moment I step outside, the royals turn to stare at me and the entire crowd hushes.
The royals are all dressed in golden pants and long-sleeved shirts that mimic the armored suit Roman was wearing earlier—the material thickening like molded plates around their chests, thighs, and shoulders. Each of them looks regal, lithe, and strong, the color of the material bringing out the brightness of their hair and the flawlessness of their light brown skin.
Even Koda looks strong, dressed as he is in armor, but his brow furrows the moment he sees me.
I catch Esta’s widening eyes where she stands beside Koda. There’s no mistaking the pure pity in her expression as her focus flashes across my dress. Her whisper cuts across the sudden silence. “Oh, no.”
A second later, the lights at the front of the Citadel flash onto me and stop. A spotlight I don’t want to be in right now.
I’m suddenly aware of Tyrus, located immediately to my left, before his voice booms out—an announcement. “Nova Madden, the seventh child!”
He takes a long look at me, a crease forming in his forehead as he considers my dress—a dress I thought was beautiful.
My wolves growl up at me.
Yep. I definitely got screwed over.
I’m suddenly aware of a stifled snicker immediately to my right and identify it as Carys’s even before I turn to her.
She peels herself off the side of the gleaming Citadel, her fingers pressed dramatically to her lips. “Oops,” she says in a loud whisper. “I guess I gave you the wrong clothing.”
She sashays away from me, heading toward the row of seats at the front of the bleachers.
I brush it off. There’s only one demon whose presence matters to me now on an emotional level and that’s Roman. I don’t search for him in the crowd because he wouldn’t mix with them, instead looking for him in the shadows off to the right—then the left. I find him outside the reach of the glare of the lights, his large silhouette unmistakable even in the dark patch he has chosen to stand within. His arms are folded across his chest and he barely moves, certainly doesn’t turn to the crowd.
His focus on me is like a brand. I imagine the way the soft violet in the dress brings out the color of my still-damp hair, the way it will highlight the purple gleam in my eyes as I allow my wolf’s power to surface and the tips of my sharp teeth to peek between my lips.
I’m suddenly conscious of every breath I’m taking under his scrutiny, the soft whisper of air across my mouth, the trace of the breeze down my neck, the lightest touch running all of the way down the sensitive inside of my arm… to my wrist, where it stops.
I’m still discovering the depth of Roman’s power, but the memory of the way he kissed me back in Vegas, of the way his power warmed every part of my body, heats me again now.
The dress I’m wearing might be exactly wrong for this situation, but it would be perfect in another life, in another place. Without anyone else around us.
It’s almost a shame now that I feel I need to replace it.
Checking that I still have everyone’s attention—the onlookers leaning forward, cruel anticipation in their faces, no doubt waiting for me to quail with embarrassment and shame—I casually lift my left wrist and brush my fingertips across the spot where the power I sensed from Roman has lingered.
Right across my rune. The little one Malia gave me to transform whatever I’m wearing into my protective suit.
For a crippling second, I’m struck with the fear that the rune might not work after all—the communication rune doesn’t, but I remind myself that’s because of the prison’s power, not because of this environment generally.
The rune is Malia’s creation and, even now, I trust her magic to protect me. She may not be standing beside me, but I sense her presence as I activate the power in the rune.
“Clothe,” I whisper.
CHAPTERTWELVE
The soft violet material swathed around my body tightens and transforms into my black protective suit, conforming to my legs, my chest, my arms, but stopping at my neck so that my face and hair remain visible.
Across the distance, Carys looks much less pleased with herself. The snide expression on the majority of the royals’ faces vanish, too. Arga, in particular, appears angry, his eyebrows drawing down and a flush building across his cheeks.
