“Jesus. Your tits look amazing in that,” he says, then grimaces. “Too amazing. Like, distractingly so. Jesus Christ.” He rubs his hands over his face. “Absolutely fucking not.”
Another, this one blood red with a straight, floor-length skirt, earns a slow nod. “I like that slit,” he says. “But you’ll trip on the stairs.”
“I will not.”
“You absolutely will.” His fingers twitch and I think he may push out of that chair and come to me, but Jade steps between us.
“He’s not wrong.” She unzips the back. “But the goal here is to not overshadow the Princess, but look good on the arm of the King while showing just enough personality to make people look twice.” She tilts her head and studies me. “Wait here, I’ve got something in the back.”
She comes back carrying black.
Liquid satin spills over her arms like ink, catching the light without shining.
“I was trying to avoid black because it felt so… predictable, but I want you to try this.”
When I slip into it, it glides over my skin, cool and smooth, strapless, then draping all the way to the floor. The cut is classic–almosttraditional–but there’s an edge to it. Something unapologetic in the way it moves with me.
Jade grins as she secures the tiny buttons up the back, and I step out.
Damon’s head snaps up.
His expression changes instantly–eyes darkening, jaw tightening, that familiar hungry focus locking onto me like I’m the only thing in the room. The twist of jealousy I felt earlier over him knowing Jade fades because of that look.
“Fuck,” he says. “You look like a badass in that.”
Jade grins, pleased. “Honey–yes.”
Heat rushes to my face. I turn slightly, watching the black satin against my warm brown skin, the collar at my throat, the metal pentagram resting where it always does. Power layered on power.
“You like it?” I ask him.
He’s on his feet in seconds, crossing the space and settling his hand on my hip, firm and grounding. His thumb presses in lightly, possessively, like he needs to remind himself I’m real.
“You look like a fucking wet dream, Doll Baby.”
I fight a grin and lose.
“Do you think he’ll like it?” I ask, softer now.
Damon’s mouth curves. “He’d be a fool not to. And you know I don’t think the King is a fool.”
I turn back to the mirror.
For once, I don’t feel like I’m pretending. I feel like the kind of woman that will make my man, my King, proud that I’m on his arm.
It’s earlywhen I’m called to the King’s bedroom the next morning. Damon and Hunter are still in bed. My new dress is hung on the closet door and a pair of shoes are still in a box next to it. Today is for celebrating what’s good in Forsyth. A new baby. A mother’s dedication. It’s not a day for death, but life, and we Barons celebrate both.
My bare feet sink into the thick carpet as I push the heavy door open without knocking.
A presumption. One I’m sure I’ll pay for.
He’s at the table by the window, sitting in nothing but loose black linen pants slung low on his hips. A soft black mask covers the upper half of his face, turning his eyes into shadowed slits that catch the light like polished emerald. His skin is still flushed from the ice bath–pale gooseflesh raised along his shoulders and chest, nipples tight from the cold. His abdomen is lined with hard muscle and my fingers twitch, wanting to touch him, to remember what it feels like to be his bride.
A tall glass of green smoothie sits at his elbow, condensation beading down the side. He doesn’t look up right away. Just keeps scanning the report in front of him, pen tapping once, twice, against the paper like he’s measuring my heartbeat.
I stop a few feet from the table, hands loose at my sides even though every nerve wants to fidget. “You asked to see me?”
He sets the report down.
