"I handle the audio," Daniel rumbled, seeming to pick up on the idea that Anders had floated. "I introduce you. I temper the room. My voice hits a frequency that calms crowds. I’ll be the warm-up act and the safety net. If you stumble, I pick up the mic."
"And I," Anders said, standing up and buttoning his cuffs, "will be sitting in the front row. Right behind the podium. Except this time, if you freeze, I stop the show. Need me to cut the feed? I cut it. Need me to clear the room? I’ll pull the fire alarm myself."
He walked over to the bed, stepping into my personal space. "The only way out is through, Tessa," Anders said. "You can’t hide from the graduation video. So you have to overwrite it. You have to give them a new video. A video where T.L. Rose walks onto a stage, looks the world in the eye, and doesn't blink."
I looked at them.
Simon, who would paint the world to make me look like a queen.
Daniel, who would scream down a thunderstorm to make me feel safe.
Anders, who would burn the theater down before he let me fail again.
I touched the bite mark on my arm, hidden beneath the hoodie. The unofficial claim.
"You really think I can do it?" I asked.
"We don't think," Daniel said, taking my hand in his massive paw. "We know. You wrote the script, Tessa. You just have to deliver the line."
I took a deep breath. It rattled in my chest, but it didn't break.
"Okay," I whispered. "I’ll do it."
Anders smiled. It was a terrifying, beautiful expression. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we go to war."
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tessa
The suit was armor.
It was black Italian wool, tailored to within an inch of its life, with structural shoulders that felt like they were holding my spine straight when my own vertebrae wanted to crumble. There was no soft chiffon, no cheap graduation polyester, no oversized knits to hide inside. I was wearing a silk camisole that felt like cool water against my skin, tucked into high-waisted trousers that elongated my legs, and a blazer that nipped at the waist before flaring slightly.
I stood before the full-length mirror in the green room of the Paramount Theater, staring at the stranger looking back.
She didn't look like a victim. No, she looked severe, expensive.
"Do not fidget," a voice commanded from the doorway.
I watched in the mirror as Anders walked into the frame. He was back in his element, fully restored from the wet, frantic creature who had driven the SUV like a getaway car. He wore a fresh charcoal three-piece suit, his golden hair swept back into obedient lines, his heavy watch gleaming under the harsh vanity lights.
He smelled of bourbon and teakwood, a scent that hit the back of my throat and instantly lowered my heart rate by ten beats per minute.
"I'm not fidgeting," I lied, though my hands were trembling where they hovered over the lapels of my jacket. "I'm checking the fit."
"The fit is perfect. I threatened the tailor with litigation if it wasn't."
Anders stepped up behind me. He didn't touch me at first. He just stood there, his reflection towering over mine, his icy blue eyes assessing the package. He checked the lines, the silhouette, the presentation. Then, with agonizing slowness, he reached out and adjusted the collar of my blazer, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of my neck.
A shiver ripped through me, not of fear, but of recollection. My body remembered the shower. It remembered the wall. It remembered the bite.
"You look terrifying," Anders murmured, his gaze locking onto mine in the glass. "It’s excellent."
"I feel like I'm about to throw up," I admitted.
"That is a biological response to adrenaline," he said clinically, though his hands settled on my shoulders, heavy and grounding. He squeezed, digging his thumbs in, anchoring me to the floor. "You are flush with cortisol. But you aren't going to throw up. You aren't going to faint. And you certainly aren't going to leak."
The bluntness of it shocked a laugh out of me. "Because you fixed the plumbing?"
