"Yes."
"And slightly unhinged."
"Also yes."
"And you do not care."
"Not even slightly."
She laughs.
It is breathless and shaky and absolutely perfect.
"Okay," she says. "Let us go to your insane corporate gala. Let us steal a data drive. Let us ruin some lives."
I lean forward, resting my forehead against hers.
"Together," I say.
"Together," she agrees.
And for the first time in eight hundred years, I am not walking into battle alone.
I am walking into it with my mate at my side.
My equal.
My partner.
My home.
And I cannot wait to show the world exactly what that means.
Chapter 20: Tamsin
The penthouse wardrobe suite looks like a fashion magazine exploded.
That's my first thought when I walk through the double doors and see the racks of gowns lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. Black silk. Midnight velvet. Charcoal satin with crystalline beading that catches the light like scattered stars.
There are at least twenty dresses.
Maybe thirty.
I stopped counting after the first rack because my brain short-circuited somewhere around "four thousand dollars per linear yard of fabric."
A woman stands in the center of the room, her posture so perfect it makes my spine hurt just looking at her. She's tall—maybe six feet in heels—with silver-white hair pulled into a sleek chignon and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. She's wearing a tailored black suit that probably costs more than my old car.
She turns when I enter, her pale eyes sweeping over me with the kind of clinical assessment that makes me feel like I'm being appraised for auction.
"Ms. Beck," she says. Her voice is smooth, cultured, and completely devoid of warmth. "I am Isolde Vane. Mr. Thorne has retained my services to ensure you are appropriately attired for the Obsidian Crescent Gala."
I blink.
"Appropriately attired," I repeat.
"Yes."
"As in... one of these dresses."
