12. Rose
Rose
"No. Absolutely not." I shake my head, staring at the scrap of fabric Luna is holding up—a dress so tiny it would barely cover the essentials. "I can't wear that."
"Why not?" Luna pouts, dangling the black dress from her fingertips. "You have the perfect body for it."
Angel plucks the dress from Luna's hand, examining it critically. "Maybe something a little less...in-your-face. We're trying to give her confidence, not throw her to the wolves."
We've been shopping for two hours, moving from store to store in the local mall.
Bags already dangle from our arms, filled with jeans, tops, and shoes that the women insisted I buy despite my protests.
It seems I have money. Unbeknownst to me until today, Ghost opened a bank account in my name and has been depositing a paycheck every week for the chores I do around the clubhouse.
We're currently in a boutique that seems to specialize in club wear, searching for the perfect outfit for tonight.
"What about this?" Sophie emerges from a rack with a deep burgundy dress.
It's still more revealing than anything I've ever worn, with thin straps and a neckline that would show more cleavage than I'm comfortable with, but the skirt is fuller, falling to mid-thigh rather than barely covering my backside like Luna's selection.
"That could work," Angel says, assessing the dress with a critical eye. "Rose?"
I take the dress, running my fingers over the soft material. It feels expensive—silky and luxurious. Part of me wants to try it—to see myself in something other than oversized jeans and t-shirts. Another part would just as soon remain invisible.
Why, though? Why am I hiding? I’m no longer being held captive in a prison of isolation, yet I continue to create one in my own mind. The thought brings a flash of anger that heats my cheeks.
“I’ll try it," I say, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice.
In the dressing room, I strip down to my plain cotton underwear, hyper-aware of my body in a way I've never been before. My stomach is still flat—no visible sign of the baby growing inside—but my breasts are fuller, tender to the touch. I can't help running a protective hand over my abdomen.
The fabric slides over my head like cool water, settling against my skin seductively. I adjust the straps, smooth the material over my hips, and finally make myself look in the mirror.
The woman staring back seems like a stranger.
The dress hugs curves I didn't know I had, the deep burgundy making my pale skin glow in the fluorescent light.
The neckline dips lower than anything I've worn before, revealing the gentle swell of my breasts.
I turn slightly, watching how the material catches the light, how it moves with me, transforming my usually invisible presence into something that demands attention.
"Rose?" Luna calls through the door, impatience coloring her voice. "Can we see?"
I hesitate only a moment before opening the door.
Three pairs of eyes widen in unison.
"Holy shit," Luna breathes, her mouth dropping open.
"I knew that color would be perfect," Sophie says smugly.
Angel simply smiles, a knowing look in her eyes. "You need different underwear, though.”
“True,” Sophie points out practically. “Your panty lines are showing."
Which is how I find myself, twenty minutes later, in another store surrounded by lacy, barely-there undergarments in colors I didn't even know underwear came in.
"I can't wear those," I whisper to Angel as Luna holds up a black lace thong that seems to be mostly holes. "They're so… minuscule.”
Angel laughs softly. "No one will see them but you…unless you choose to show them to someone,” she assures me. "But trust me, knowing you're wearing something sexy underneath makes you carry yourself differently."
I think of the plain white cotton sets that are my staple—practical, modest, forgettable. Maybe there is something to Angel's theory.
"This one," Luna decides, holding up a matching set in deep burgundy that perfectly matches the dress. The bra is lacy but not overly revealing, the panties provide more coverage than a thong but are still decidedly sexier than anything I've ever owned.
"Fine," I concede, taking the set and ignoring the voice in my head, wondering what Cipher would think if he knew I was wearing these beneath my clothes.
Would his eyes darken with that hunger I glimpsed the night he took my virginity?
Would he call me "Baby Girl" in that rough voice that made my insides melt?
I push the thoughts away. It doesn't matter what he would think. That ship has sailed and is now a wreck at the bottom of the ocean.
After paying, we head back to the compound for phase two of this crazy transformation plan.
"Sit," Sophie commands, pointing to a chair she's positioned in front of her vanity. "And close your eyes. No peeking until we're done."
For the next hour, I surrender myself to their ministrations. Sophie works on makeup, Angel handles my hair, and Luna buzzes around, occasionally refilling our drinks. No one gives me any grief for sticking to ginger ale.
"Okay," Angel says finally, her hands settling on my shoulders. “Ta-da!” She turns me to face the full-length mirror. “Take a look.”
That can't be me. Blonde hair falls in loose, tousled waves around a face transformed by makeup—smoky eyes that make hazel irises pop, cheekbones sculpted with something shimmery, lips painted a deep red.
The new dress hugs my body perfectly, and the sexy underwear beneath makes me stand a little straighter, just as Angel predicted.
Four-inch black heels make my legs look longer than they have any right to.
No way. I hardly recognize myself.
The woman in the mirror looks sophisticated, sexy, confident—everything I'm not.
"Is that really me?" I whisper, reaching up to touch my face before Sophie slaps my hand away.
"Don't touch! You'll smudge it," she scolds. "And yes, it's really you. We didn't change anything—just enhanced what was already there."
"You're beautiful, Rose," Angel says softly.
A knock at the door interrupts us. "You ladies decent?" Rash calls through the wood. "Ghost nominated me to be your escort tonight."
Sophie opens the door, revealing Rash in his leather cut over a clean black button-down shirt. His eyes widen comically as they move over us, from one to the next.
"Holy shit," he says, giving a low whistle. "You girls clean up nice."
Rash makes a sweeping gesture of exaggerated gallantry with his arm. "Shall we? Your chariot awaits."
The common room is busier than I expected, with brothers gathered around the pool table and sprawled on couches. All conversation dies as we pass through, heads turning to stare. I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest, to hide from their appraising looks.
"Damn, Rose," Hawk says from his spot near the bar. "You trying to cause heart attacks tonight?"
"Back off," Luna says, linking her arm through mine possessively.
"Just appreciating the view," Hawk says, raising his hands in surrender. "No harm in looking."
I scan the room, pretending I'm not searching for one particular face. I shouldn't care what Cipher thinks of my transformation. I shouldn't want his approval or his desire. But my traitorous heart still leaps when I spot him emerging from the hallway that leads to his surveillance room.
When his eyes land on me, he comes to a dead stop.
For a split second, something flashes across his face—something hot and hungry that makes my skin tingle—before his expression hardens into a sneer of disapproval.
His gaze rakes over me from head to toe, lingering on the low neckline of the dress, the expanse of leg revealed by the hem, the high heels that bring me closer to eye level with other women.
"What the fuck are you wearing?” he demands, striding toward our group with barely leashed aggression in every step.
"It's called fashion, grandpa," Luna snarks.
Cipher ignores her, his eyes locked on me. "You're not seriously going out looking like that, are you?”
Involuntarily, I shrink back, my shoulders hunching, and I hate myself for it—for cowering.
"You look...” His features contort into an expression of revulsion as his frigid gaze sweeps over my dress, my hair, my makeup.“Unacceptable. Go change.”
His words hit me with the force of a Mac truck, and I want to run to my room, hide under the covers, and cry my eyes out.
He’s disgusted by me. A week ago, I might have crumbled under that icy stare, might have actually done it—run to my room in tears.
But something has shifted inside me—maybe it's the hormones, maybe it's the sexy underwear, or maybe it's just that I'm tired of living in a prison.
“No," I say simply, lifting my chin. His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
His hands clench at his sides, and for a wild moment, I think he might reach for me.
For a moment, something raw and vulnerable flashes in his eyes, so quickly I almost miss it.
Then the mask slams back into place, harder and colder than before.
Without another word, he turns and stalks away, his broad shoulders rigid with tension. I watch him go, my moment of courage faltering as the adrenaline fades, leaving behind the familiar ache of rejection.
"Well," Luna breaks the silence, "that was rude as hell.”
Rash puts a supportive hand on my shoulder. "You okay, little sis?"
I nod, though the truth is more complicated. Standing up to Cipher felt good—empowering in a way I've rarely experienced. But his disdain for me cuts deeper than I want to admit.
"I'm fine," I lie, forcing a smile. "Let's go. I'm ready to have some fun."