The gown is storm grey silk that moves like liquid shadow, fitted at the bodice before flowing into a skirt that shifts with every breath she takes. It’s elegant and devastating and completely?—
Steel blue.
The accents. Threading through the bodice in patterns that look like Damascus steel, catching the light with every movement. Swirling and dangerous and exactly the color of?—
Amber.
Beads along the neckline and hem, glowing warm against her pale skin, catching candlelight like drops of whiskey, like honey, like?—
Oh fuck.
My eyes. Silas’s eyes. Jace’s eyes.
She’s wearing our colors.
All three of us, woven into fabric and thread and deliberate choice, visible to everyone in this room but understood by exactly four people.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
Beside me, Jace has gone completely still. The kind of still that usually precedes violence, except his hands aren’t moving toward weapons—they’re clenched at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from crossing the distance and putting them on her.
Silas makes a sound low in his chest—satisfaction mixed with possession mixed with something that might be pride.
She planned this. The fitting with Sienna, the careful choice of colors, the way she’s standing at the top of those stairs like she owns the entire fucking room.
This is her message. Her claim. Her response to our doubt.
I’m yours. Even when I’m angry. Even when you fucked up. Even when I’m on another man’s arm.
Ryan says something to her, offering his arm. She takes it—she has to, she agreed to this, Charles arranged it—but her eyes aren’t on Ryan.
They’re on us.
Storm-grey silk shifts as she moves. Steel-blue accents catch the light. Amber beads glow against her throat.
Our colors.
She’s wearing our fucking colors while Ryan Matthews touches her like he has the right.
“I’m going to kill him,” Silas says conversationally.
“Get in line,” Jace mutters.
Parker starts down the staircase, and I watch every step. The way the gown moves around her legs. The way her hand rests lightly on Ryan’s arm—polite, professional, nothing more. The way her posture is perfect, her expression pleasant, everything about her screaming Carter breeding and elegance.
Except for the dress.
The dress screamsmine.
She reaches the bottom of the stairs and Ryan guides her into the crowd. His hand moves to the small of her back—possessive, proprietary, exactly the kind of touch that photographs well and means absolutely nothing to her.
I can see it in her body language. The subtle stiffness. The way she’s angled slightly away from him. The polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
She’s tolerating him.
But she’s wearing us.
“We need to maintain composure,” Jace says, his voice tight with the effort of following his own advice. “We’re here to work. To observe. Charles is watching, and if we?—”
