This is it. The moment. The reveal.
I let him help me out of the coat, the black cashmere sliding off my shoulders to reveal?—
Storm-grey silk that moves like liquid shadow. Steel-blue accents that catch the light like blades. Amber beads that glow like captured fire.
Their colors. All three of them, woven into fabric and thread and deliberate choice.
Ryan doesn’t notice. He’s focused on checking the coat, on offering his arm, on playing the role of attentive date.
But they notice.
I watch it happen in slow motion. Jace’s eyes find me first—a casual scan that turns into a locked stare. His entire body goes still, that tactical mind processing what he’s seeing. The colors. The deliberate choice. The message written in silk and steel and amber.
Then Cal sees me. His practiced casualness evaporates. He straightens, his amber eyes going wide and then dark with something that looks like hunger and recognition and regret all tangled together.
Silas is last. His storm-grey eyes meet mine across the space, and I see everything I need to see in that look. Understanding. Appreciation. Possession.
They know exactly what I’m doing.
Ryan offers his arm, oblivious. “Shall we?”
I take his arm because I have to, because this is the role I agreed to play, because backing out now would cause exactly the kind of scene Charles was trying to avoid.
But I don’t take my eyes off them.
Not as I place my hand in the crook of Ryan’s elbow. Not as we move toward the top of the staircase. Not as every step brings me closer to where they’re standing, still as statues, watching me with expressions that make my skin heat despite the distance between us.
We reach the top of the stairs. The main gallery spreads out below us—hundreds of people in formal wear, champagne and canapés and carefully orchestrated conversation. The orchestra is playing something classical and elegant. Everything is beautiful and expensive and completely meaningless.
I pause at the top of the stairs, and the movement draws attention. Heads turn. Conversations pause. People look up to see who’s arrived.
And I stand there in storm-grey and steel-blue and amber, my hand on Ryan Matthews’s arm, my eyes locked on three men who are finally understanding exactly what this dress means.
I’m yours. Even when I’m angry. Even when you’ve fucked up. Even when I’m on another man’s arm.
I’m yours.
The storm-grey silk catches the light, shifting like clouds before rain. The steel-blue accents gleam like polished blades. The amber beads glow warm against my skin.
Silas’s eyes. Jace’s eyes. Cal’s eyes.
All three of them, claimed in color and fabric, visible to everyone but understood by only four people in this entire room.
Ryan says something—probably a compliment, probably asking if I’m ready to descend. I make some appropriate response, letting him guide me down the sweeping staircase, each step deliberate and measured.
Like a runway. Like a claiming. Like a challenge.
And with every step, I feel their eyes on me. Following my descent. Watching me move through the crowd on another man’s arm while wearing their colors like a brand.
By the time we reach the main floor, my heart is pounding and my skin feels too tight and I’m hyper-aware of every place Ryan’s touching me—his hand on my elbow, his presence at my side, the assumption in the way he’s positioning himself as my date.
But I’m not his.
I’m theirs.
And now everyone in this room who matters knows it.
37
