Probably.
Maybe.
The real comfort lies in knowing the others are nearby. Cassius, sleeping in the recovery room with his shadow tendrils standing guard. The rest of my bond mates, somewhere in this space, presumably accessible if I needed to scream for assistance. If this stranger intended harm, he's had countless opportunities while I lay unconscious and vulnerable.
My survival must matter to him.
The question is why.
The logic isn't perfect, but it's enough.
I step into the room.
The threshold crossing happens without conscious decision—one moment I'm hovering in the doorway debating wisdom versus hunger, the next I'm committed, my body having apparently decided that food outweighs caution in the hierarchy of immediate needs.
Warmth.
The sensation washes over me the instant I pass through the entrance, magic brushing against my skin with the intimate familiarity of a lover's touch. It doesn't hurt—nothing about it suggests threat—but it changes something, power restructuring reality around me in ways I feel rather than see.
I look down.
And freeze.
The medical gown is gone.
In its place flows fabric that seems woven from midnight itself—deep blues bleeding into rich purples, the colors shifting and interplaying with each breath I take like living art that responds to the wearer's existence. Gold threads trace patterns through the material that catch light and scatter it into constellations across my skin, stars that pulse with rhythm matching my suddenly racing heart. Some of the threads form symbols I almost recognize—incantations perhaps, or decorative script in languages I've never studied but that feel familiar regardless.
The dress fits like it was crafted specifically for my body.
Not tailored—designed. Every curve accommodated, every angle complemented, the garment understanding my form with precision that transcends simple measurement. The bodice hugs my torso with support that requires no visible structure, the material somehow knowing exactly how much pressure to apply and where. The skirt flows from my waist in cascades of fabric that move like water when I shift my weight, responding to motion with fluidity that suggests enchantment rather than simple physics.
The important parts remain opaque, modesty preserved by fabric that carries weight and substance, darker where coverage matters most. But the rest... the rest is transparent in ways that make my cheeks flush with heat that has nothing to do with the room's temperature. Panels of sheer material create windows toskin beneath, strategic glimpses that reveal the curve of a hip, the length of a thigh, the subtle shadows along my ribcage.
Seductive.
The word surfaces unbidden but accurate.
This dress was designed to seduce—to draw attention to the body beneath while technically concealing it, to suggest rather than reveal, to promise pleasures that remain barely out of reach. The balance between modesty and temptation is masterful, walking the line between appropriate and scandalous with precision that suggests its creator understood exactly what effect they intended to achieve.
I hate how much I appreciate the artistry even as I bristle at being dressed without consent.
The fabric brushes against my skin with every micro-movement—soft where softness serves comfort, structured where structure provides shape, the sensations varying across my body in ways that keep my nerve endings perpetually aware of the garment's presence. It's clothing that refuses to be forgotten, that demands acknowledgment of its existence with every breath I take.
My hair has changed too.
The silver strands that usually fall wild around my face have been pinned up in arrangements that feel elaborate despite their apparent effortlessness. Curls escape strategically, framing features I can't currently examine, and the style somehow manages to be both elegant and practical—beautiful without sacrificing the ability to see, to move, to fight if necessary.
How?
When?
What kind of magic transforms someone so completely in the span of a single heartbeat?
A mirror catches my attention.
Golden frame, ornate carvings depicting scenes I don't have time to study, surface that reflects with clarity suggesting enchantment beyond simple glass. It hangs on the wall several feet away, positioned perfectly to allow appreciation of whatever changes have been wrought.
I walk toward it without consciously deciding to move.
