"Cyprian," I say quietly.
His eyes snap to mine.
"You are perfect," he says.
Notthe dress is perfect.
Notyou look perfect.
Just:You are perfect.
Like it's a fact.
Like it's undeniable.
Like there's no other possible interpretation of what he's seeing.
My throat tightens.
"You're doing the intense thing again," I say.
"I am aware."
"It's a little overwhelming."
"Good."
Isolde clears her throat again.
"If you are satisfied with the selection, Mr. Thorne, I will proceed with the alterations."
"Proceed," he says, without taking his eyes off me.
She nods and steps back, giving us space.
Cyprian moves closer.
Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"We have a tactical briefing in one hour," he says quietly. "You will need to demonstrate the pressure-point strikes to my team. They need to see exactly how the technique is executed."
I blink.
"You want me to... demonstrate? On who?"
"On me."
"Cyprian—"
"My operatives need to understand the mechanics. The angle of approach. The amount of force required. You are the expert. You will teach them."
I stare at him.
At this towering, ancient, terrifying creature who is asking me to physically demonstrate combat techniques on his own body in front of his entire tactical team.
"That's going to be extremely hands-on," I say.
