"This is the primary option," Isolde says. "Custom-designed to complement Mr. Thorne's natural coloring. The silk has been treated with a specialized dye that mimics the texture and sheen of gargoyle wing membrane."
I stare at her.
"I'm sorry. Did you just say this dress is designed to match hiswings?"
"Correct."
"That's... incredibly extra."
"Mr. Thorne was very specific in his requirements."
Of course he was.
Because Cyprian doesn't do anything halfway.
If he's going to dress me up for a high-society supernatural gala, he's going to make absolutely certain that every single person in that room knows I'mhis.
The possessiveness should probably bother me.
It doesn't.
Not even a little bit.
Isolde holds the gown up against my body, assessing.
"Remove your clothing, please."
I hesitate.
"All of it?"
"Undergarments may remain. The gown requires a strapless foundation."
Right.
I strip down to my bra and underwear—both of which are from Target's clearance section and look absolutely ridiculous in this hyper-luxury setting—and stand there feeling extremely exposed while Isolde helps me step into the gown.
The silk slides over my skin like water.
Cool.
Smooth.
Impossibly soft.
She pulls the dress up, adjusting the bodice, and then moves behind me to zip it closed.
The fit isperfect.
Not tight.
Not loose.
Just... perfect.
The bodice hugs my ribs and waist, the fabric molding to my body like it was made specifically for me. The skirt falls in a sleek column to the floor, with a high slit up one thigh that's just revealing enough to be dangerous.
I turn to look at myself in the mirror.
