And freeze.
Because the woman staring back at me doesn't look like Tamsin Beck, broke massage therapist with a coffee-stained Target dress.
She looks like someone who belongs in Cyprian's world.
Someone powerful.
Someone dangerous.
Someone who could walk into a room full of predators and make them all sit up and pay attention.
The dress isstunning.
The obsidian silk catches the light, shifting and shimmering with every breath I take. The bodice is structured but not restrictive, emphasizing the compact strength of my frame. The high slit shows off my thighs—muscular from years of climbing onto massage tables and using my body weight for leverage.
I look like a weapon wrapped in silk.
"It suits you," Isolde says.
It's the closest thing to a compliment I'm going to get.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "It does."
She moves around me, pinning the hem, adjusting the fit at the shoulders.
And that's when the door opens.
I don't have to turn around to know it's Cyprian.
I canfeelhim.
The shift in the air.
The sudden weight of his presence.
The way my entire body goes hyper-aware, every nerve ending lighting up like I've been plugged into a live current.
I meet his eyes in the mirror.
And my breath catches.
Because he's not just looking at me.
He'sdevouringme.
His amber eyes are molten gold, glowing so bright they cast shadows across his slate-gray skin. His frame fills the doorway, wings folded tight against his back, every line of his body radiating coiled, predatory focus.
He doesn't speak.
Doesn't move.
He juststares.
And I feel it everywhere.
The weight of his gaze tracking over the curve of my hips, the line of my throat, the exposed skin of my thigh where the slit falls open.
His amber veins flare.
