CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The closet door creaks open like it knows my dread.
Inside, hanging from a padded velvet hanger, is the dress he spoke of—deep emerald green, the exact shade that makes my eyes look almost unnatural.
The fabric shimmers like liquid silk, catching the light with every ripple, as if it is alive.
High slit. No back. Thin straps. Nothing modest about it.
Of course not.
This isn’t meant for comfort.
It is meant to be displayed.
I run my fingers down the smooth material and let out a slow breath before undressing. My skin feels feverish with want and frustration, still aching from the moment he’d left me. I slip the dress on carefully, feeling it hug every curve. It fits perfectly. Too perfectly.
I know the Warden had tailors, but somehow I have never seen a single one of them in my room, so he must be really good at knowing my measurements.
I turn toward the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. The way the dress clings to my waist, the soft glide of the slit against my thigh…it makes me look powerful. Dangerous. But I know better.
This is a costume, not armor.
The woman in the mirror is a plaything made to sit at a predator’s right hand.
Still, I dab a hint of color on my lips, brush out the wildness in my hair—though a few strands are still tangled. Good. Let them think what they want.
Let them think he ruined me.
By the time the thirty minutes pass, I am sitting in the chair by the window, spine straight, legs crossed, looking like the perfect accessory.
But inside?
I am already planning how to use every glance, every whispered comment, every breath he takes beside me tonight to push his limits.
He said he’d reward me if I behave.
I plan to make him earn it.
The door handle turns and I rise .
He is always dressed impeccably—tailored slacks, crisp shirt, cufflinks that probably cost more than most people made in a week. But tonight, something about him takes my breath away.
Maybe it is the way he stands in the doorway like he owns the world—or the way his mask tilts ever so slightly, like he is drinking in the sight of me.
“Starling,” he murmurs, his voice smoother than usual. “That dress does wonders to your skin. And it brings out your eyes.”
I tilt my head, half smiling. “How can you tell from the doorway, sir?”
A pause.
Then, a touch of amusement in his tone. “How about you come a little closer and I’ll tell you if I was right?” He extends his hand. “Though why you question me, I’ll never understand.”
I hesitate for just a breath, then move forward—slow, deliberate. My heels whisper against the floor as I cross the room, every step echoing between us like a challenge.
When I reach him, I slip my hand into his.
His grip is warm without his gloves. Firm. Possessive.
And yet…familiar.
The kind of touch that makes my chest tighten and my thoughts blur.
Maybe it is just my overworked brain, desperate for any shred of comfort or validation.
Maybe I am projecting because I want so badly to please him—and be pleased in return. To be seen. Desired. Owned in a way that feels like choice instead of chains.
Or maybe, deep down, I already know there is something about him that sets him apart from the others.
Something that scares me more than all of them combined.