I look at my arm. A small bruise is forming in the crook of my elbow where the needle was. It matches the bruise on my neck. It matches the bite mark on my palm. I am a map of his violence, and now, I am his lifeline.
"Elodie."
His voice is a whisper, scraping against the silence of the penthouse. I turn my head. His eyes are open. Silver slits in the morning light. He doesn't move his head; he just tracks me with his gaze.
"I'm here," I say, my voice raspy.
"Time," he croaks.
I look at the digital clock on the sleek, black wall.07:00.The Gala is at19:00. Twelve hours. Twelve hours to turn a fugitive into a queen.
"We have to move," he says, trying to sit up. He makes it halfway before his face twists in agony. He collapses back, a hiss of breath escaping his teeth. "Damn it."
"Stay down," I command, swinging my legs off the couch. The room spins. I grab the armrest to steady myself. "You are the general today, Alaric. Generals don't march. They direct."
He looks at me, assessing my sway, my pallor. "Drink," he orders, pointing to a bottle of electrolyte water on the table. "And eat. There are protein bars in the cache. You need to replenish the volume."
I obey. I drink the salty-sweet water. I force down a dry, chalky protein bar. It tastes like sawdust, but I eat it.Fuel.I am the vehicle. He is the driver. The vehicle needs fuel.
"The Supply Drop," Alaric says, his eyes clearing as his mind locks onto the mission. "It’s in the service elevator. I arranged it before we left the asylum. A contingency package."
"You planned for this?"
"I plan for everything," he murmurs. "Even for the end of the world. Go get it."
I walk to the service elevator in the kitchen. It’s a dumbwaiter system, larger than the one in the suite. I press the call button. It hums. A minute later, the doors slide open.
There are three black boxes. sleek, matte, unmarked. I carry them into the living room, stacking them on the coffee table. "Open them," Alaric says.
I open the first one. Weapons. Not guns. Knives. Ceramic blades that pass through metal detectors. Garrote wire disguised as jewelry. A small, lipstick-sized canister of something that I suspect isn't lipstick. "VX gas," Alaric narrates calmly. " localized. Lethal in three seconds. That’s your 'break in case of emergency' option."
I open the second box. Tech. Earpieces. Micro-transmitters. A tablet with hacking software pre-loaded. And a jammer.
I open the third box. And I gasp.
It’s a dress. It spills out of the box like liquid midnight. Black velvet and silk. Strapless. With a slit that goes all the way up the left thigh. And shoes. Stilettos with heels that look like ice picks. And jewelry. Diamonds. Real ones. Cold and heavy.
"The armor," Alaric whispers from the couch. "It was designed for you. For the Vienna debut you never made."
I touch the velvet. It’s soft. Expensive. "It looks like a funeral gown."
"It is," he smiles darkly. "For them."
He shifts, grimacing. "Go. Shower. Scrub the forest off you. Scrub the blood off. When you come out... Elodie Fray stays in the bathroom. Only the Muse comes out."
The shower in the penthouse is a waterfall. I stand under the scalding spray for thirty minutes. I scrub my skin until it is raw and red. I wash the river silt from my hair. I wash the dried blood of the mercenary I killed from my fingernails. I watch the water swirl down the drain. Grey. Red. Black. Then clear.
I step out. I dry myself with a towel that feels like a cloud. I look in the mirror. The girl staring back is thin. Too thin. Her collarbones jut out like knife ridges. Her eyes are huge, shadowed, haunted. But there is something new in the set of her jaw. A hardness. The porcelain has been fired in the kiln. It’s not fragile anymore. It’s ceramic armor.
I open the dye kit I found in the bathroom cache. My hair is a mousy, dirty blonde. Innocuous. Forgettable. Alaric wants a statement. I mix the chemicals. The smell burns my nose. I apply the dye. Dark. Raven black. Just like his soul.
When I wash it out and dry it, the transformation is shocking. With the black hair and the pale skin, I look like a vampire. I look severe. Dangerous. I apply the makeup from the kit. Blood red lips. Smoky eyes. Sharp contour. I hide the bruise on my neck with foundation, but I leave the bite mark on my palm visible. A reminder.
I walk out into the living room. I am naked except for the towel wrapped around me. Alaric is awake. He has managed to sit up, propping himself against the cushions. He has the tablet in his lap, typing with his left hand. He stops when he sees me. His eyes go wide. The pupil swallows the silver. He drops the tablet.
"Come here," he growls.
I walk to him. I drop the towel. He stares at me. He doesn't touch me—he can't, his hands are too weak, too damaged—but his gaze is a physical caress. He traces the line of my throat, my breasts, my hips.
