Chapter 23
Nadia
Lena showed up the next evening with a garment bag the size of a body. She kicked the front door shut with her heel and marched into the living room like she was delivering a subpoena.
“I brought options,” she declared.
“Options?” I repeated weakly, sipping my tea to give me life.
Her grin was pure chaos. “Ball gowns, baby.”
She dragged the bag onto the couch and unzipped it with a flourish. The gown she pulled out first was black, glossy, and absolutely illegal. The kind of dress that made you reconsider your entire personality, and possibly your life choices.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “I can’t borrow that. Lena, this thing probably cost more than my car.”
“I don’t care. Put it on.”
“I’m serious. I’ll spill soup on it. My brain-to-body coordination is not… gown-friendly.”
“Nadia.” She put her hands on her hips. “You are going to look like a goddess. Let me have this.”
I groaned, defeated. “Fine. But if I ruin it, I’ll have to sell a kidney.”
“That’s the spirit.”
She dragged me upstairs before I could flee.
My room instantly became a warzone of hair tools, makeup palettes, and discarded bobby pins.
Lena worked in silence at first, her movements gentle, precise.
It wasn’t lost on me that she’d been quieter since the incident with the Sovereign Court.
Shaken. But she was here and brasher than ever. It gave me something steady to lean on.
She curled my hair in soft spirals, pinned pieces back, dusted my cheeks with blush that made me look alive again. She paused halfway through the mascara and said, “You doing okay?”
I nodded. Not entirely a lie. I was tired, shaky in a way I couldn’t explain, but letting her fuss over me helped. My therapist would call it co-regulation. I called it friendship.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m okay. Better now.”
A knock sounded on my bedroom door.
Both of us stilled.
Cristian’s voice filtered through the wood, low and controlled. “May I enter?”
Lena shot me a look—the kind that said it’s go time.
Cristian stood there in a suit. A suit.
A perfectly tailored, black velvet suit that made him look like he’d stepped out of a dark, very naughty, fairy tale. He filled the doorway in a way that made my lungs malfunction. His hair was pulled back. His jaw was shaved clean. And his shoulders—
Holy hell.
“Where did you get that?” I blurted. “You didn’t… own that.”
He looked personally offended. “No. I made Ezra procure one.”
Lena snorted. “You had Ezra buy you a suit?”
“He measured me.” Cristian scowled toward the hallway. “It was… uncomfortable. I do not wish to discuss it.”
Lena burst into laughter. I choked on air. Cristian glared at both of us like he regretted every choice that had led him here.
“I’ll leave you two,” Lena said, backing out of the room with the eagerness of someone escaping a crime scene. “Don’t do anything weird!”
She closed the door behind her.
Silence bloomed.
Cristian’s gaze slid to me. Slow. Intent. Something hot and devastating flashed in his expression.
“Turn,” he said quietly.
I did. My hands trembled as he stepped behind me. He lifted the gown carefully, smoothing it against my spine before guiding the zipper up. His fingertips brushed my skin—barely there—but the bond roared to life like a struck match.
I inhaled sharply.
Our eyes met in the mirror. Tension exploded, thick enough to drown in.
I leaned to the side without thinking. A tiny shift. A tilt of my head. A silent offering I didn’t consciously choose.
Cristian’s mouth touched the base of my throat, warm and reverent. A soft exhale over my skin. His lips traced along the line of my neck, each kiss a question and an answer all at once.
I gripped the vanity.
“Cristian…” My voice cracked.
His mouth curved against me. Not a smile—something darker.
“Hold still.”
His fangs brushed my skin, feather-light.
Then he sank them in.
Pleasure shot through me so sharply that I gasped, my knees buckling. One of his hands came up to brace my stomach, holding me upright as he drank—slow and intimate in a way that made my bones tremble.
Heat unfurled through my entire body.
I felt his breath, his hunger, his restraint. Felt how he tasted me like a secret he didn’t want to lose.
My hands fluttered helplessly over his wrist, gripping him. Wanting more. Wanting…
Everything.
He licked the wound closed, his tongue soft against my skin. I whimpered.
His voice rasped at my ear, low enough to ruin me. “We’ll save the rest for later.”
I blinked at him in the mirror, dazed. “The rest?”
He smirked wickedly. “I will not risk ruining your gown. Or your hair. I worked hard to restrain myself.”
My entire body lit up like a Christmas tree. His hand slid down my hip, slow enough to make a promise.
“Stay close to me tonight,” he murmured. “Very close.”
I nodded because I didn’t trust my voice. And because I wasn’t sure I even remembered how to speak.
I drove us to a supernatural masquerade ball in my 2011 Corolla, which had a dent in the front bumper from a rogue shopping cart, and a glove box that only closed if you prayed over it.
Cristian sat in the passenger seat like he was preparing for death by combustion.
This was not his first ride in a car, but he didn’t seem to be growing more comfortable with the idea.
His hand clamped the door handle with such force I heard it creak. “This machine,” he said solemnly, “was not constructed with safety in mind.”
“It passed inspection,” I said, merging onto the highway.
“Did it?” he murmured, bracing himself as if the air itself were plotting against us.
The GPS announced our next turn, and Cristian jumped like it had snarled his name.
I rolled my eyes. “You have fought monsters older than Boston, but a female-coded robot voice has you shook?”
His jaw tightened. “She speaks without warning.”
I patted his thigh. “Welcome to modern living.”
He went utterly still at my touch. The bond gave a quiet tug in my chest.
After half an hour of winding roads and Cristian muttering insults at other drivers (“You call that a lane change, coward?”), we turned onto a private road.
My jaw dropped.
“Holy… Versailles threw up on Tim Burton,” I whispered.
The mansion ahead was enormous and baroque, covered in spires and carved faces, all shadow and gold. Lights glowed from arched windows like molten copper. The grounds were manicured to perfection—unnatural perfection. It seemed to have been curated by beings who had time to kill and no HOA rules.
Cristian stared at it with resigned distaste. “The court likely purchased this place for theatrics.”
“Do they have two houses?” I asked.
“More than two,” he said.
A valet opened my Corolla’s door. He did not hide the confusion and disgust on his face.
Cristian stepped out like he was exiting a limousine and not my poor, exhausted Toyota. He walked around and offered his hand to help me out, and I pretended we were royalty instead of two people deep in denial about our situations.
Inside, an attendant handed us small handheld masks—mine black and beaded, Cristian’s silver and angular, like something a dark prince would wear before seducing half the room.
I gasped as we entered the ballroom.
Dim lights. Music thrumming low and seductive. People dressed in gowns and suits that defied logic. Silks, jewels, fabrics that shimmered like stars. Masks in gold, crimson, and emerald.
Cristian’s presence at my side anchored me instantly. His hand found the small of my back, firm and warm.
“Do not wander from me,” he murmured, voice brushing my ear. “And do not speak to anyone alone.”
“Got it,” I whispered. “Operational rule: remain glued.”
He took my hand, threading his fingers through mine. My chest tightened. Not in panic—something steadier, fuller. I didn’t look too closely at it.
We turned the corner and crashed straight into them.
The Sovereign Court lounged in a semi-circle like the world’s worst Renaissance-themed HOA.
Ambrosia in gold and crimson, draped in danger and ego. Hammond looking like he’d bought his brocade coat from Colonial Williamsburg: Villain Edition. The others—ancient, smug, their masks glinting like they already knew everyone’s secrets.
Ambrosia’s smile curled as soon as she saw us.
“My, my… Cristian. How stunning you look when you pretend to behave.”
Her gaze flicked to me. A bored, feline appraisal, like she was deciding whether I should be ignored or eaten.
“And you brought your little matchstick.”
My spine went rigid, and Cristian squeezed my hand. Ambrosia noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes glittered with interest.
Hammond stepped forward, holding out a goblet of something that absolutely wasn’t wine.
“A drink, Lord Cristian? For old time’s sake?”
Cristian didn’t even blink. “No.”
Delighted laughter rippled through the court, like predators hearing a rabbit sneeze.
Ambrosia glided closer. Her dress whispered against the marble. She angled her body between us—subtle, intentional—and leaned in toward Cristian.
Too close.
Her head dipped. Her lips moved. I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw Cristian go still. He didn’t tense. He froze. Every line of him locked into place, a storm caged behind bone.
Ambrosia’s smile sharpened with satisfaction as she drew back.
Then, in a voice sweet enough to curdle blood, she said, “Enjoy the ball, darlings.”
Hammond added, “Do try.”
And just like that, the court drifted away, fabric swishing, masks gleaming, smugness trailing behind them like perfume.
Cristian didn’t move.
I tugged gently on his hand. “Hey. Are you okay? She didn’t—what did she say?”
His jaw flexed once. “Nothing of importance.”
Which was an absolute lie. Even I could tell. But his expression was carved from stone, and this was not the place for a therapy-level debrief.
So, I nodded.
He slid an arm around my waist, guiding me forward as he resumed scanning the room—every corner, every shadow, every balcony.
Whatever Ambrosia whispered had shaken him. I just didn’t know how. Or why.