Minerva is a vision in her gown—black silk poured over her like it was spun just for her skin. Every curve, every line, claimed and displayed without apology. The neckline dips just enough to be dangerous, the kind of cut that makes people forget they’re supposed to make eye contact. She adjusts a strap with such deliberate grace it doesn’t look like she’s fixing the dress—it looks like the dress is obeying her.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say even the fabric’s scared to misbehave.
Me? I expected Belvedere to shove me into something skimpy and call it strategy. Instead, he smirked and handed me a suit that fits like sin. Impeccably tailored, every line sharp enough to draw blood, the jacket cinched at the waist, the bespoke vest hugging me like it was crafted by hands that knew exactly where to cut. The blouse beneath is sheer enough to tease, the ruffles softening the steel just enough to whisper feminine without dulling the granite.
I catch my reflection and do a double take. For a heartbeat, I almost don’t recognize the woman staring back—gorgeous, yes, but dangerous, too. Not prey. Not a pawn. Something far more lethal.
And that? I can absolutely work with. I lift my chin. It’s subtle, but the shift changes my spiral.
“Not bad,” Minerva says, giving me a slow once-over, her smirk widening. “Might even steal a few glances away from your broody alpha.”
Heat prickles up my neck, equal parts fluster and thrill. Typical Minerva—never one to pull her punches. I roll my eyes like it’s no big deal, but inside? The idea of Marcus seeing me in this makes my stomach dip.
I scoff, tugging at my cuffs. “Not everything’s about Marcus.”
The denial comes out too fast, and Minerva’s knowing smirk tells me she hears the crack in it. Gods, I hate that she’s right. That no matter how hard I try to sound flippant, some part of me is always circling back to him.
“Mm,” she hums, clearly not buying it. The sound is maddeningly smug, like she’s ready to break out singingMarcus and Esme, sitting in a tree.
I bite back the urge to snap something clever, mostly because she isn’t wrong, and that’s the part that grates. I’d rather face an army of trolls than Minerva armed with nothing but that knowing smirk.
My eyes narrow, the words slipping out sharper than I intend. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Minerva’s smirk only deepens, like she’s pleased she struck a nerve. Ugh, she always knows how to pry under my skin, and worse—how to enjoy it.
Minerva arches a brow, lips curving as she adjusts an earring. “Just that you protest a little too much every time his name comes up. Like a teenager insisting she doesn’t care about the boy she doodles all over her notebook.”
Heat prickles at the back of my neck, crawling up to my ears. “I don’t doodle.”
Her smirk deepens. “No, you just stare at him when you think no one’s watching. Subtle, Esme. Very subtle.”
I roll my eyes, pretending to smooth the hem of my blouse like it needs fixing. Anything to hide the flush creeping higher. “You’re delusional.”
I need to stop fidgeting with my clothes.
“Sure,” she sing-songs, turning back to the mirror. “Keep telling yourself that.”
I clench my jaw, but the truth digs in anyway. She’s not wrong, and that’s exactly what makes me want to strangle her and hug her at the same time.
Silence stretches, the only sound the whisper of silk as Minerva smooths her gown over her hips. The smirk fades, replaced by something quieter, stiller.
“Look, I’m not saying it’s love,” she says at last, meeting my eyes in the mirror. Her voice has lost its edge, gone softer, almost careful. “Battle bonds make things messy. Lines blur when you’ve nearly died together a few times. It doesn’t have to mean more than that.”
The words settle heavily in my chest. She means it as reassurance, maybe even as permission, but it feels like a warning. And gods, I hate that she might be right.
I let out a breath, the pull in my chest loosening just enough to feign nonchalance. “Exactly. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Minerva’s smile curves, wry and far too knowing, but she doesn’t press. She lets me have the lie. “If you say so.”
The worst part? I almost believe myself—until my pulse skips at the thought of seeing him again.
Minerva lets the silence sit for a beat, then flicks her hair over one shoulder. This preening is unlike her, but I say let her preen. She’s stunning! “Anyway, I’m hot as hell. That’s what matters.”
I laugh despite myself, shaking my head. “Gods, your ego.”
“Someone’s gotta keep it alive. Otherwise we’d all drown in broody-alpha energy.” She winks, sharp and wicked, clearly pleased with herself when a laugh actually bursts out of me—louder, freer this time. It feels strange, almost reckless, letting the sound pour out in a night like this. But I needed it. And she knows it.
The mood turns lighter, the tension bleeding out of the room with my laughter. My shoulders loosen, her teasing dulling the sting of her earlier words. She knows exactly when to press andwhen to pull back, and I’m grateful for it. Not that I’d ever say it out loud. Minerva would never let me live it down.
