I’d spent sleepless nights hunched over my desk, writing and editing, with nothing but stale, cold cups of coffee to cheer me on. As much as I’d been dreading it, my presentation had gone better than expected. After spending weeks trying to find a topic I liked best, I decided to turn the whole assignment on its head. Instead of researching ancient civilisation occult practices,because, let’s face it, every culture has them, I’d decided to ask how the occult may have impacted life back then.
During my presentation, I’d done all the things I was meant to do. Eye contact, smile, and enunciate. Picture everyone naked. That had almost sidetracked me, given that Thallor was sitting at the back of the lecture hall, and thoughts of him naked did nothing but send a jolt of heat straight to my core and a pinkish hue careening up the side of my neck and cheeks.
By the end, Caldwell had settled me with a look I couldn’t quite piece together. It was as if he was trying to bridge the gap between his incessant need to be disappointed by me and the surprise of being mildly impressed by my presentation. Either way, I was happy. Happy to be done with academia. Happy to be done with Caldwell. Happy to be done with his pathetic, passive-aggressive comments and his overinflated ego.I can’t wait to never see you again, you ginormous prick.
I staredat my reflection and my reflection stared back. I felt like I was temporarily caught in a game of cat and mouse with my own reflection, each one of us refusing to blink. I took a deep, steadying breath as I ran my hand along the dark, satinfabric that currently hugged my body. I felt the evening air from my open window, prickle at the bare skin of my collar bones, which were currently exposed in the dress that showed off my shoulders.
It was a long-sleeved gown, with the neckline cutting straight across my body and highlighting my clavicle before pooling like midnight at my feet. The central bodice was made of mesh lace that exposed my stomach and hips before flowing into a satin-like material slit up one side of my body.
The dress itself was nothing short of stunning. I’d never considered myself anything special, but today I felt beautiful. My often wild and unruly hair flowed behind me in a voluminous cascade–something that made me want to curse it for not always looking like this.Fucking typical.
Given that I had already crossed the barrier from comfort zone to somewhere between ungodly terror and batshit crazy, I decided to push the boat out further by donning a makeup look I had never attempted before. A smoky eye and a red lip. I say “I,” but I had Esme to thank for this.
Given the sheer height of the hunky platform heels I was wearing–shoes where all my grace and dignity were held together by a thin strap, I was still very much concerned with my inability to walk and the likely outcome of me tripping over my feet and breaking an ankle. That's all of my other social anxiety-related worries that rattled around inside my brain. But for the most part, those worries faded away as I continued to stare at my reflection, fighting the smile that crept up my face.
I really did feel pretty. Sexy, almost,although I wouldn’t push it that far.Both feelings were very novel, but I didn’t hate it at all.
Two raps on the bedroom door finally pulled me from my trance. “Come on, Quincey, we are going to be late!” Esme called from the other side of the wood and the lacquer paint barrier. “Will you come out now?
I could hear her shuffling on the other side of the door; the sound of her heels clacking against the hardwood floor echoed through the space. “I think she’s stressing,” I heard her explain to Thallor.Quincey Sterling, battling her anxiety? A valid assumption, honestly.
“I’m not stressing,” I called through the closed door. But the two people just outside, other than my grandfather, are the people who knew me best. And despite my protests and reassurances and the lilt I tried to push into my voice, they knew exactly how I was feeling. A little stressed, and a lot apprehensive about my outfit choice, given that I was a hand-me-down kind of girl.
“I don’t care, I’m coming in.” The door flung open a moment later, and I was greeted by the smell of floral perfume and a beaming smile. Esme was wearing a plunging burgundy dress that hugged her figure perfectly. She had her blonde hair tied up in an effortless updo–one that was the absolute epitome of elegance.
That’s my best friend.I beamed at her.
Esme closed the door before turning to fawn over me. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why when she looked likethat.There was such a stark contrast between her presence and the way I felt. Esme’s default factory setting was confidence. She was beautiful. Stunning. Born to take up space. And I was utterly in awe of her. The way she didn’t shy away or second-guess herself. She made everything look so easy. She made being confident look easy. And I just loved that about her. I often wished I could borrow her confidence–for a day, for an hour–just to see how it felt.
“Just tell it to me straight,” I said quietly, tugging at a thread that had come loose.
“Holy shit, Quincey,” Esme said, eyes glistening as she looked me up and down. Slowly, but surely, a smile made its wayonto her face. And I suppose it wasthat,that reaction, the way she gavemethe permission to glitter and sparkle that meant the world to me. With the way she looked at me, any lingering anxiety about how I felt or looked dissipated, and in its place, a confidence radiated from withinme.
“Quincey, you look unbelievable. You look seriously hot,” she squealed as she shuffled toward me and pulled me into a hug. “And that dress really says, ‘come and fuck me.’If Red doesn’t want you, I’ll have ya.”
“You really think so?” I asked when I finally pulled out of the hug.
“Are you kidding me, Quincey?” She laughed before shaking her head at me. “Get those insecure little thoughts out of there,” she said before knocking gently on my temple. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you, I love you.” I chuckled, letting out an all too relieved laugh.
“Love you too, Quincey girl.”
Without a second thought, Esme whipped open the door to the bedroom and ushered me out into my living space. Thallor was standing in the kitchen, trying to teach our stray catpaw.He was dressed in all black, the perfect counterpart to my current attire–and he looked beautiful. Every muscle, every curve of his body was highlighted in the dark fabric in a way that had my breath hitched in my throat. From his blazer to his shirt to his trousers, everything hugged his body in a way that had me thinking of nothing other than what those clothes would look like on my bedroom floor.
Mortimer meowed once, offering his fang-filled smile of approval before turning back to paw at the tube of fish paste Thallor had just placed on the countertop.
When I finally looked up, Thallor’s eyes had already found mine. They were dark. Almost completely black. His chest roseand fell as his eyes grazed over me. The movements were slow. Unhurried, as they traced each and every curve of my body. They caught on the delicate lace of my waist, the dip of my collarbone, and the bare skin at my shoulders. Thallor’s hands gripped a little tighter at the edge of the counter he was standing by, the tension in his muscles a silent confession to everything he was feeling.
But as time remained suspended, his lack of words had me faltering under his gaze. I felt a temporary wave of fear rush over me as I shuffled where I stood. His deep red eyes continued to bore into me like he was trying to carve the image of me–in my black dress and too high heels, into some place deep inside him where he could keep it forever. It felt as though he was committing every inch of me to memory. Every single minute detail.
Say something. Say anything.
“Say something,” I whispered. But I’d seen that same look before. It was the same one I’d seen when I was pinned beneath him, writhing in pleasure. It was a look of hunger and need and desire. So I wasn’t sure what I needed him to say and why. Maybe I just needed to hear his voice. Needed to hear him confirm that he did still want me the way I wanted him. “You don’t like it?”
And then he blinked. Slow, confused as if he was still caught up in a daze. His voice was hoarse and rough and low as he looked up at me. “Sterling, you’re…” His voice trailed off and he swallowed hard. “Fuck, you’re killing me.”
And then he moved. His steps were slow and purposeful, and it was clear that he was holding himself back. The moment he’d closed the gap between us, his hands found my waist instantly, his touch steady and strong against me. It was a touch that saidI am yoursas much as it saidyou are mine.He cupped my face with one hand as though I were something soft andprecious before letting the pad of his thumb trail across my cheek.
