The lighter slips into the hidden pocket at my thigh, warm metal pressing against skin through silk. I check the knife in the bodice pocket—still secure, easily accessible if I reach through the neckline.
I take one last look in the mirror. The woman staring back is someone my mother tried to create but never could. Polished and deadly in equal measure. The Davenport heiress who learned to bare her teeth.
I grab my clutch and head downstairs.
Sergei’s in the living room, and the sight of him makes my steps falter. He’s wearing a tuxedo that should be illegal—black on black, perfectly tailored to emphasize those shoulders. His silver-threaded hair is slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face and the scar bisecting his left eyebrow. The tattoos on his hands are visible below his cuffs, and when he turns to face me, his grey eyes go molten.
“Jesus Christ, Isabelle.”
The words are rough. Reverent. His gaze tracks from my heels up the dangerous slit in my dress, lingering on the curves the silk emphasizes before finally meeting my eyes.
“You look—” He stops, jaw working like he’s searching for words that don’t exist. “You’re going to get us both killed walking in there looking like that.”
“That’s the plan.” I close the distance between us, hyperaware of how the dress moves with each step. “Distract them with beauty, destroy them with teeth.”
His hand finds my waist, pulling me flush against him. The other traces the open back of my dress, fingers splaying possessive against bare skin. “There’s a slit up to your thigh.”
“I know. I picked it specifically.”
“You’re trying to kill me before we even face Matthew.”
“Motivation to keep you alive.” I slide my hands up his chest, feeling solid muscle beneath expensive fabric. “Can’t let some Chicago contractor take you out when I have plans for later.”
“Plans?” His voice drops lower, rougher, and heat burns through me.
“Very detailed plans.” My lips brush his. “Involving no clothes whatsoever.”
His grip tightens on my waist. “We need to leave in five minutes.”
“Then you better let me go.”
“Can’t.” His forehead drops to mine, breath warm against my lips. “You’re wearing that dress and expecting me to think about anything except getting you out of it.”
“Focus, Wolf.” But I’m not pulling away, can’t bring myself to break contact when he’s looking at me like I’m the only real thing in the world. “We survive tonight, then you can think about the dress. Or lack thereof.”
“Deal.” He presses one hard kiss to my mouth, then steps back before we do something stupid. “You armed?”
“Knife in the bodice. Lighter in the thigh pocket.” I smooth the silk, checking that nothing shows. “You?”
“Three guns, two knives, and enough backup plans to fill a manual.” His eyes sweep over me one more time. “You ready for this?”
Am I ready to walk into a roomful of people who want me dead? To face my uncle and watch him realize we’re not victims anymore? To stand beside this dangerous man and burn down everything my family built on lies?
“Yes.” The word comes out steady. Sure. “Let’s end them.”
He takes my hand, fingers threading through mine with practiced ease, and leads me toward the garage. Behind us, Mila calls out from the stairs.
“Papa! Izzy! Have fun!”
We both turn. She’s standing on the landing in her star pajamas, clutching the stuffed wolf Sergei won her at the carnival.
“We will,ptichka,” Sergei promises. “Milo will take care of you. He’s Andrei’s best friend. You listen to him, okay? And we’ll be home before you know it.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” He glances at me. “Both of us promise.”
The weight of that promise settles between us. We’re walking into a trap, knowing it’s a trap. But we’re walking in together.
