"Well," she says, her voice dripping with challenge, "if you talk the talk so much, why don't you walk it,Chief, and take this dress off like you mean it?"
My jaw drops.
Actually, genuinely drops.
Did she just?—?
She disappears into the changing room, the curtain swishing closed behind her. I stand frozen, processing her words, my brain short-circuiting as I try to comprehend what just happened. What she just said. What she just implied.
Did she really just challenge me to...?
And then I hear it.
The soft rustle of fabric. The quiet hum of her breathing. But no click. No metallic slide. No sound of a lock engaging.
She didn't lock the door.
She didn't lock the door.
My heart is pounding. My blood is rushing. Every Alpha instinct I have is screaming at me to follow her through that curtain and show her exactly what happens when she challenges me like that.
Which means one thing and one thing only:
An open invitation.
CHAPTER 19
Changing Rooms And Confessions Part Two
~ROSEMARIE~
The velvet curtain sways shut with a hushed exhale, sealing me in the changing room's intimate embrace, but my fingers linger on the brass lock—then pull away without twisting it.
No definitive click echoes in the confined space; instead, the absence of sound feels like a deliberate echo, an unspoken lure dangling in the amber-lit air.
My pulse thumps in my ears, a rhythmic counterpoint to the faint,scratchy jazz melody seeping from the boutique's old record player out front, its notes twisting like vines through the lavender-infused haze that clings to every corner. The room itself is a time capsule of whimsy: dark wood paneling gleams with the patina of years, absorbing the soft glow from a single Edison bulb dangling overhead like a captured star, casting elongated shadows that dance across the patchwork rugunderfoot—a mosaic of faded Persian patterns in crimson and gold, soft and yielding against my bare toes.
I face the full-length mirror, its ornate gold frame curling like frozen ivy, reflecting me in layered infinity: Rosemarie the enigma, black hair cascading in glossy waves that catch the light like spilled ink, hazel eyes flecked with gold widened in a mix of anticipation and self-challenge. The burgundy dress clings to my form, its shimmering fabric a deep, wine-rich hue that flatters the subtle curves I've always carried with quiet pride—soft-strong, as if my body remembers the runs through hidden trails back home, the yoga flows in dimly lit studios where no one knew my name.
But those two marks on my neck stare back like fresh signatures:Tank's plum bruise from last night's whirlwind, a territorial echo of leather and smoke, and Elias's newer claim blooming beside it, red as a Valentine's rose, pulsing with the memory of his mouth.
What possessed me to toss that dare?
The words replay in my mind, bold and unyielding:
"If you talk the talk so much, why don't you walk it, Chief, and take this dress off like you mean it?" It wasn't planned, just surged out on a wave of heat from his gaze, his bergamot-and-sage aura wrapping around me like a sun-warmed blanket fresh from the dryer. In the world's eyes, I'm the quiet observer—the runaway heiress turned café alchemist, blending lattes with artistic precision in my cozy nook, letting crowds part around me without demanding entry.
Piercings glint subtly: the small silver hoop in my nose, the barbell arching my eyebrow like a defiant comma. Tattoos hide under layers, butterflies in fine-line ink fluttering along ribs and hip, symbols of rebirth I etched after breaking free from that gilded cage of expectations.
Shy from afar, yes, but when passion ignites—like crafting a perfect espresso swirl or losing myself in the rhythm of desire with alphas who see beyond the silence—I transform. Fearless. A go-getter unraveling knots of want, tying new ones in their place.
Don't spiral into overthinking, Rosemarie.
This is your element now—desire crackling like embers, scents blooming.
If he bites, great.
If not, you've still got a wardrobe win and a story for the pack.
