Chapter 10
The dress arrives at sunset. At least according to the clock on my phone. No telling with the way the light shines through the windows in my room.
I’m sitting on my bed, going over the details of the assignment in my head, David Barnes, investment banker, pride contract, isolated and breaking, when there’s a soft knock at my door.
The same servant as when I arrived. Same black dress, same white apron, same completely black eyes that never quite focus on anything.
She’s holding a garment bag.
“Lord Croesus requests you wear this tonight,” she says in that flat, emotionless voice.
Requests. Right.
I take the bag. “What if I don’t want to?”
She blinks slowly. “Lord Croesus requests you wear this tonight.”
Same words. Same inflection. Like a recording on loop.
“Got it. Thanks.” I close the door before she can repeat herself.
I lay the garment bag on the bed, then stare at it and consider. I could refuse. Could wear my own clothes, the jeans and t-shirt I came here in, now freshly laundered and hanging in the wardrobe alongside all those expensive things Croesus provided.
But “request” from an angel who owns me for the next year doesn’t really mean I have a choice, does it?
I unzip the bag.
The dress inside is not what I expect.
It’s black, floor-length, and when I pull it out, I realize it’s made of some kind of silk that catches the light like liquid.
Simple cut, elegant lines, but there’s a slit up one side that goes dangerously high, and the back is completely open, just two thin straps crossing between the shoulder blades.
It’s beautiful.
It’s also completely impractical for breaking a contract. And will look ridiculous on my figure.
I hold it up, examining it in the mirror. This is a dress you wear to a gala or a museum benefit or anywhere you want to look expensive and untouchable. Not a dress you wear when you’re about to absorb someone else’s sin and potentially collapse in an office building. Especially without Spanx.
But Croesus “requested” it.
Which means I’m wearing it?
I change quickly, irritation building with every second.
The dress fits perfectly; of course it does.
Croesus knows my measurements, knows exactly how fabric should drape on my body.
The silk is cool against my skin, whispering when I move.
The slit reveals most of my left leg with each step.
The open back makes me feel exposed, vulnerable.
I assess myself in the mirror.
I look...expensive. Like something Croesus would collect. Ugh. Another beautiful thing in his hoard.
I grab my own practical beat up leather boots, not the dreamy ones, and pull them on.
They look ridiculous with the dress, but I don’t care.
If he wants me in this impractical outfit, I’m at least wearing shoes I can run in.
Sometimes clients fight back, as if they are compelled by the sin chaining them, and I like to be prepared.
There’s another knock. I yank open the door, ready to tell the servant exactly what I think of this dress, but it’s Croesus himself.
He’s wearing a different suit than this morning, still charcoal, still perfectly tailored, but this one has gold cufflinks that catch the light. His hair is swept back, the gold veins in it shimmering faintly. Those molten gold eyes are fixed somewhere near my face.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.” I gesture at the dress. “This is completely impractical. If the purge goes badly, this thing will be ruined. And silk doesn’t handle blood well, in case you weren’t aware.”
“I’m aware.” He doesn’t seem bothered by my complaint. “May I come in?”
It’s not really a question. He’s already stepping into my room, forcing me to back up or get run over.
I back up.
He closes the door behind him, and suddenly, the room feels much smaller. He takes up so much space, not just physically, but energetically. Like reality bends around him, making everything else smaller in comparison.
“Turn around,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Turn around. I want to see the dress.”
I should refuse. Should tell him to go to hell. But there’s something about the way he’s standing there, patient, expectant, like he has all the time in the world to wait for me to comply, that makes me do it.
I turn slowly, feeling the silk swish around my legs.
“Stop.”
I stop, my back to him. Rigid. What the fuck is he doing?
I hear him move closer, one step, two, and then his hand is on my shoulder blade. Just his fingers, tracing the line of one of the thin straps.
My breath catches.
“Exquisite,” he murmurs. His fingers slide down my spine, just following the line of the dress, nothing inappropriate, but it feels intimate anyway. Invasive. “The silk is from Lyon. Eighteenth century looms, modern dyes. The cut is contemporary, but the craftsmanship is old-world.”
“I don’t care where it’s from.” My voice comes out rough and throaty. The anger. Definitely the anger. “It’s not practical.”
“It’s not meant to be practical.” His hand moves to my waist, spanning it. Measuring. Learning. “It’s meant to make you look like you belong at my side. Like you’re valuable. Expensive. Mine.”
There’s that word again. Mine.
“I’m not a possession.”
“For the next year, you are.” His other hand finds my hip, and now he’s touching me with both hands, mapping the shape of me through the silk. “Turn around again.”
I turn, and now we’re face to face. Close enough that I can smell him, metal and smoke. His otherworldly gaze is somewhere near my collarbone rather than my face.
His hands don’t leave my waist.
“You’re angry,” he observes.
“You put me in an impractical dress and summoned me like a doll you’re playing with. Yeah, I’m angry.”
“Noted.” His hands slide up my sides, still over the dress, still technically appropriate, but it doesn’t feel appropriate. It feels possessive. “But you wore it anyway.”
“You requested it. We both know a request is just a nice way to pose an order for the next year.”
“True.” His hand moves from my shoulder to my neck, fingers spanning my throat gently. Not squeezing. Just resting there, feeling my pulse.
“Your heart is racing,” he breathes.
“You’re touching me.”
“Does that bother you?”
Yes. No. I don’t know. “Does it matter?” Besides Ash, I can’t remember the last time someone’s touched me so intimately. Goosebumps pebble my bare arms.
“Always so defensive.” His thumb brushes against my jawline, and I have to fight not to lean into the touch. “I can’t see you, Raven. Not the way you can see me. Touch is how I know things. How I understand the world. How I learn what’s beautiful and what’s not.”
“And?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“And you’re beautiful.” He says it matter-of-factly. “The dress suits you. Makes you look dangerous and elegant at the same time. Like something worth protecting. Worth keeping.”
His hand drops from my throat, and I can breathe again.
“We should go,” he says, stepping back and giving me space. “The car is waiting.”
He heads for the door, and I follow on shaky legs, trying to process what just happened.
He touched me. Mapped me. Learned me through his hands because he can’t use his eyes.
And I let him.
Worse, I liked it.
I’m so fucked.
This time the portal trip is a little more disorienting. Croesus wraps a hand around my waist to help me to the car. It’s not the same building I entered when I arrived either. How many portals does he have?
I was bracing for something ostentatious—a limo, or some kind of vintage Rolls Royce dripping with gold accents. Instead, it’s a sleek black sedan, expensive but understated, waiting in what appears to be an underground garage.
The garage itself is disorienting. We left my room, walked through corridors that shifted and changed, and then stepped through a door that opened directly into this space. No elevator. No stairs. Just… an instant transition from the house to a garage that smells like concrete and motor oil.
Magic. It’s weird. Technically, what I do is magic, but it feels different seeing someone else’s so readily. I’ve only ever seen sins, and sin-eater magic. This... is something else.
A driver is waiting by the car; another servant, this one male, tall and silent. He opens the back door without a word.
Croesus gestures for me to enter first.
I gather the ridiculous dress and slide into the back seat. The leather is soft and creaks as I shift inside. It smells like a new car.
He slides in beside me, and the driver closes the door. The sound is solid, final, like a vault sealing.
The car pulls out smoothly, heading up a ramp that I swear wasn’t there a second ago, and then we’re on city streets. Real streets. Normal traffic and stoplights and people crossing at crosswalks.
The transition from the house to reality is jarring.
“You’re quiet,” Croesus observes.
“Processing.” I look out the window, watching the city scroll past. “How does that work? The door from the house to the garage?”
“The house exists in a pocket dimension, but it has access points, doors which lead to various locations in the mortal realm. The garage is one of them. More convenient than manifesting a car from nothing every time I need to travel.”
“So you can just... open a door and be anywhere?”
“Within limits. The access points are fixed, so I can’t simply create new ones at will. But I have enough scattered throughout the city and beyond to make travel efficient.” He shifts slightly, angling toward me. “Why? Planning an escape?”
“Would it work if I tried?”
“No, you’re bound to me for the year. Even if you slipped through an access point and ran, the binding would pull you back. Painfully.” He says it casually. “I don’t recommend testing it.”
“Good to know.” I turn from the window to look at him. “So what’s the plan? We show up at Barnes’s office, I break his contract, and we leave?”
“Essentially. Though there are complications.”
“There always are.”