“What is this?” I ask him while I can’t take my eyes off the beautiful dresses.
“It’s a showroom of a very good fashion designer, a friend of mine,” he explains, setting our helmets somewhere on a table in the middle of the showroom, surrounded by beautiful chairs and some bottles of drinks.
“Are you taking me shopping?” I smile, confused.
“We’re meeting Lucien at a ball,” he pauses and pours me a glass of sparkling wine from the table, then continues as he hands the glass to me, “and you need a dress.”
“At a ball? I’m supposed to be missing, Kasien.” I look at him with shock and take the glass.
“It’s a masked ball,” he rolls his eyes, “very posh and ridiculous, those people just like to be masked,” he explains with repulsion and sits down on one of the chairs, staring at me.
His legs spread, arms resting behind his head like he owns every square of this room.
“You know, most people would go shopping in the daylight,” I tease.
“We’re not most people, Kiara.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured that out when you broke into my apartment.“
“If I remember correctly, you wanted to kill me with a hairbrush.” One of the corners of his mouth lifts in a cocky smile.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“You scare easily.”
“You know, you could just tell me you were there to save my life.”
“I don’t like to explain myself.”
“So you figured drugging me was the answer.”
“It was quicker, for sure.”
“You know, breaking into my bathroom was a little inappropriate.”
“I was worried you’d hit your head on the sink or the bathtub when you passed out.” He winks. “You’re welcome.”
“So considerate, aren’t you?”
My eyes are immediately lost in his smile.
We pause for a second and just stare at each other. I feel so nervous again, standing in front of him while he sits in the chair, looking up at me. I’m a grown woman, and yet in his proximity I feel like a teenager.
“How many times were you in my apartment?” I eventually break the heavy silence.
He looks down at his glass, swirling the liquid, not answering me. I cross my arms over my chest and wait for an answer that’s not coming. He finally just looks at me from beneath his lashes and sips from his whisky glass, playing innocent.
Does he know what he’s doing to me?
I accept that I’m not getting an answer and start wandering through the space, letting my fingers drift across the dresses, the silk so delicate it feels like it could melt in my hands.
“There are so many beautiful dresses,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
“Take all the time you want,” he says, his voice soft, his gaze never leaving me.
I take my time, eventually settling on the simplest one—still striking in its own way. Dark red silk, ankle-length, a slit along one side, delicate diamond straps, and a deep V neckline dipping just beneath the breasts. It looks like it might fit.
Inside the fitting room, the material slips over my skin like a second layer, molding to me almost perfectly.
