His gaze sharpens. Not angry. Interested. “No. You’re astatement.”
“That’s not comforting.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “It’s honest.”
Saint shifts beside me, the movement subtle but tense. I feel it like static along my arm. Last night flashes in my mind — his mouth, his breath, the way he said divine like it was a sin he meant to commit. He still doesn’t look at me.
Rook continues, unbothered. “Wraith will take you. Get what you need. Try not to start an international incident.”
I arch a brow. “Is that a possibility?”
“With you,” he says dryly, “italwaysis.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “Nothing like being warnedandunderestimated in the same breath.”
Vale laughs. Saint exhales through his nose. Wraith’s mouth tightens.
The scrape of chairs follows as the others rise to leave. Saint murmurs something under his breath that I can’t catch, already turning away. Vale whistles low and amused. Only Wraith lingers.
He doesn’t say anything, just nods toward the door. “Let’s go.”
London’s streets glitter after rain, every puddle a mirror of the morning sky. The city hums in low tones—cars, conversation, the rustle of umbrellas snapping open along the row of boutiques.
Wraith walks beside me, long strides measured, silent. He’s dressed down—black slacks, dark shirt, coat undone—butthere’s nothing casual about him. He moves like someone who’s used to being watched and prefers it that way.
We visit store after store. Silk. Satin. Lace. Dresses I can’t imagine ever wearing. Each fitting room smells like perfume and privilege. Sales attendants hover like I might steal something, then fawn the moment Wraith’s voice cuts through the air—low, commanding, expensive.
I lose track of the number of gowns I try until the last one.
Emerald green.
The kind of color that would look too bold on anyone else, but when I slip it on, it feels like it’s been waiting for me. The fabric hugs every curve, draping low at the back, high at the thigh. It gleams when I move—liquid light, decadent and dangerous.
When I step out, Wraith looks up from his seat, and the world narrows. His eyes drag over me—slow and possessive. The kind of look that burns without touching. For a moment, he says nothing. Then his jaw flexes, and he stands. “It fits you well,” he says, voice rougher than it should be.
I swallow. “You think so?”
He takes a step closer, and then another, until I can smell the faint trace of smoke and metal that always clings to him. “Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on mine. “I think it’s perfect.”
The silence stretches. I can feel the weight of it—thick, trembling, waiting to break.
Then he reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of the dress at my shoulder. His knuckles graze skin. A spark waking embers with every touch. A dare waged as a question. I should probably pull away, put an end to this, but I don’t. Instead, I breathe him in, close enough now to see the molten honey flecks in his brown irises, to feel the faint heat of his breath when he speaks again.
“Rook won’t like this,” he says quietly.
“I don’t care,” I say, before I can stop the words from slipping through my teeth.
And before either of us can decide who’s in control of the moment, his mouth is on mine—heat, restraint, and danger all colliding in the space between heartbeats.
The dress rustles as I lean into him. The boutique falls away, the world shrinking to the sound of rain against the window and the pulse in my throat.
He breaks the kiss, grabs me by the throat, and backs me up until we’re inside the dressing room. The door clicks shut behind him, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re going to be thedeathof me.”
“Shut up and fucking kiss me,” I snap—then groan when he does exactly that.
He’s not gentle. He’s claiming me. Like a wolf claims his mate. It’s possessive,searing—everything I can’t help but want. They’re all finding their way beneath my skin, but Wraith does it in a quiet way that leaves me in this ungodly chokehold.
