“Fine,” I say, pushing past them. “Forget it.”
My heels hit the marble too hard as I walk away, each step a punctuation mark on my irritation.
“Wraith,” Vale calls after me, still grinning, “better tell the King hislittle red foxis getting restless.”
Wraith doesn’t answer, but I feel his eyes follow me until I’m out of sight.
In the hallway, I stop long enough to catch my breath. My pulse is still racing, part anger, part shame. I’d tried something — stupid, reckless, beneath me — and it failed.
They indulged me. Let me think I had the upper hand, when really they were taking my measure. I hate them for it. And I hate myself for caring that it didn’t work.
Back in my room, I close the door, lean against it, and breathe.
I’m still trapped, and it’s clear I’m still being studied. Still playing a game where every move feels like a confession.
But at least now I know the rules. They won’t break easily.
Which means I’ll have to stop playing fair.
By the time I reach my room, my pulse is still in my throat.
I shut the door, not hard enough to echo—just enough to make the latch click. The kind of quiet that says do not follow.
My hands are still trembling. I can feel where Vale’s sleeve brushed my skin, where Wraith’s fingers closed around my wrist. My attempt to play them backfired spectacularly. They’d seen through me, indulged me, then dismissed me. Like a child throwing a tantrum.
I pace once, twice, then stop in front of the wardrobe.
I’ve been through it before. I know what’s in there—cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, expensive lingerie that doesn’t belong to my world.
But something feels…different.
The air inside smells faintly of perfume, the kind that wasn’t there yesterday. Something citrusy, unfamiliar.
I start flipping through the clothes again anyway—half out of spite, half out of compulsion. Silk, lace, black, red, white. Things meant to soften edges, not survive the world outside.
And then I see it. Hanging dead center like it’s always belonged there… A little black dress. Tight, short, gorgeously sleek. But, I swear it wasn’t there before.
I touch the fabric—smooth, expensive, dangerously soft—and feel something ugly curl low in my stomach. Someone added it, they had to. Does that mean that someone came in here while I slept?
I should be angry. I am angry. But underneath it, there’s a flicker of something else—curiosity. Temptation.
Because it’s exactly the kind of dress that rewrites the room when you walk into it.
And maybe that’s what I need now. A rewrite.
I strip out of my clothes and pull it on. The material slides over my hips, molds to my body like it’s memorized me. The neckline dips low, the hem stops where decency gives up. It fits too perfectly.
Which means whoever bought it knows me—every inch, every curve, every weakness.
That thought should unsettle me, and it does. At least a little. But I can’t help the small, wicked part of me that whispers…good.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, I don’t see the girl who watched her brother die. I don’t see the operative who’s lost control of her own mission.
I see power. Wrapped in silk and threat.
The sight hits me like a confession.
I find the pair of heels shoved beneath the wardrobe—sharp, black, and impossibly high. I slip them on and straighten. My posture changes instantly, my body aligning to the shape of someone dangerous. Someone in charge.
