30. Addie
ADDIE
OMAR RAAFAT – FALLING
“So Marie’s a certifiable bitch, huh?” I whispered as soon as Beck closed the door on her.
I was rewarded with a twitch of his lips, catapulting my ego into the heavens.
I was affecting Hunter Beckett. I couldn’t wait to see what else I was capable of. Maybe these stylists were onto something, after all.
“Yes,” he admitted with just a hint of mischief. “But I might have just cost her her job.”
I couldn’t find it within myself to feel sympathy for the snide cow who’d just ripped hairs off every inch of my body, excluding the freshly styled blonde locks on my scalp. I hated her, particularly for that sly smirk she’d hidden from Beck’s view when she tore them away from my honey pot.
Thank you, Mr James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser—the man that you are—for that particular synonym.
When I told Beck about my profound lack of sympathy and the reason why, I had to snatch his arm to prevent him from going back there. As it was, every movement had me hissing in pain, and I firmly believed it was for that reason alone he relented.
Waddling like a fucking penguin farther down the hall, he guided me, this time, to a door on the left.
The doors on this side were black with golden doorknobs, while those on the right were all white.
It felt like stepping onto a chessboard—and honestly?
That was probably more accurate than I’d like.
I was playing checkers while everyone around me had been playing chess the whole time.
“Prepare yourself,” Beck warned, a heartbeat before choosing the prize behind door number three.
The prize ended up being one of the greatest gifts of my life.
Pyotr, as it turned out, was a gay Russian beauty mastermind whose number one goal in life was to uncover everyone’s secrets—and boy did he have some dirt on Marie.
“...so she slipped him beneath the waxing bed for the entiiiire duration of her next appointment, spending extra time by her client’s calves and getting awfully flustered by them, if you know what I mean,” he mock-whispered in one of the strangest accents I’d ever heard.
“You’re kidding,” I gasped, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “So he just—what—hid beneath the table and helped himself to the underside of her skirts?”
“Mmhmmm,” Pyotr hummed with a self-satisfied smirk. “And with that nasty little confession that’s been positively eating away at me to keep contained—”
“Oh, please, as if you haven’t told anyone else.” I grinned up at the six-foot stringbean with baby pink hair and fierce royal-blue winged eyeliner.
Beckett snorted.
“Okay, fine.” Pyotr raised his hands in mock surrender. “I told Gina. And Greta. And everyone else who sat in this very chair that week.” He winked. “But you, my darling angel, are done. Are you ready to see my masterpiece?”
A smile curved my freshly painted lips. Nodding enthusiastically, I turned to face Pyotr’s mirror. Instead of finding yet another version of myself, I caught the uncharacteristically open expression on Beckett’s face.
“What? Is it awful?” I asked, heart sinking.
He jerked his head to the side. “No. Not even remotely.”
Pyotr cackled. “Of course it isn’t awful, bitch—it’s my handiwork. I could make Commander fucking Varco catwalk-ready if given enough time and good, expensive products.”
I snorted at the visual.
“Well, go on then! Look at yourself!” He waved his hands at the gold-rimmed, vanity-lit mirror and did as I was told.
I froze, lips parted at the sight of the almost unrecognisable woman staring back.
Her bright blue eyes shone beneath long, black lashes and winged liner so sharp it could cut a man.
She possessed no dark hollows underneath her eyes, nor stress-induced pimple on her chin.
Her skin was flawless, her lips a perfect, sultry red, and she looked like she’d be right at home on the A-list.
I didn’t know her, but Lord did I want to be her.
“Stanley’s going to have a heart attack when he sees you.
” Pyotr smirked. “Actually, I’m done for the day now.
Maybe I’ll come with. The more the merrier, right?
” He extended a hand that I automatically grasped, then helped me to my feet and turned the vanity lights off with a hurried flick of his free hand.
“Come now honeybunch, Stan the man doesn't like to be kept waiting and you were already off to a bad start getting scheduled with Gina first.” He held the door open for Beckett and me, then led the way to the very end of the hall, where the narrow, black-and-white space opened up into an enormous lounge area.
Dressing rooms sat to the right, fitted with sheer curtains that gave the illusion of privacy, and rows upon rows of couture clothing, footwear, and accessories lined the left.
Beck dropped unceremoniously onto an S-shaped sofa in the centre of the space—grey and rigid-looking—while Pyotr clapped, summoning Stanley from the dark recesses between racks.
“About bloody time,” Stanley grumbled in a sharp, aristocratic British accent.
His bald head appeared before the rest of him, arms laden with an entire arsenal of women’s clothing.
“Miss Sinclair, if you could be so kind as to accompany me into one of the dressing rooms to your right. I’ll take your measurements first, and then you can try some things on to take home while we create some custom garments for you. ”
“Oh, I don’t need—” I began, cut off by the deep rumble of Beckett’s whisky tones.
“Thank you, Stanley. Adelaide appreciates the offer very much.” He shot me a pointed look, unbeknownst to the short, middling, glasses-wearing, fashion-savvy man.
I knew when to shut up. It was a necessary skill growing up where I did—learning to read people by the actions laced between their words. People said a whole host of things with their bodies that their mouths covered with pretty lies.
I stepped into the first room, displaced by the 1930s Steppin’ Out Barbie staring back at me. The urge to comb the waves out of my hair and scrub all the makeup from my skin rode me hard. My skin prickled, and again I locked eyes with the less-and-less ogreish man acting as my living shadow.
Beckett shot me a tiny smile, interrupted by Hurricane Stanley as he swept into the room with his bright yellow measuring tape.
“Strip down to your undergarments, please,” he instructed briskly but not unkindly.
Since I’d already been exposed to one person today, I mentally shrugged, wondering what harm another could do.
Stanley whizzed around with his tape, muttering to himself as he jotted down numbers on a sheet of paper by the door.
He left in a flurry once he was done, returning several minutes later with six hangers, informing me more were on the way.
“Those absolutely won’t do.” He scowled at my sports crop and cotton panties like they personally offended him, handing me a set of black lacy lingerie instead. “Might as well find out exactly what we’re working with.”
He stepped out, sliding the sheer curtains closed behind him. “Let me know when you’ve got those on and I’ll assess how accurate my guesswork was—though one can never tell what’s hidden beneath those hideous Academy standards.”
Chuckling softly to myself, I stripped, then stepped into the softest thong I’d ever slotted between my ass cheeks.
It felt barely there, accentuating my waist and giving the illusion that my legs were a mile long.
Excited at the prospect of an actual matching set—and not the man behind the curtain, waiting patiently on the couch, who might see me in it—and definitely not his brothers who might catch me in it as well—I did up the clasps, then spun the bra around my torso to loop my arms through the straps.
So I’d never learned to do up a bra the proper way. Sue me.
Objectively, I had to admit that Stanley knew exactly what he was doing. It fit perfectly. My peaked nipples pressed against the fabric in the most enticing of ways, and even I had to admit that they looked good enough to nibble on.
My gaze flicked over to the silhouette of Beck through the curtain again, and I couldn’t help but wonder how much he could see.
“I’m done,” I told Stanley, who wasted no time in flicking them open, exposing me to the entire dressing room.
He flitted in like a sparrow, inspecting every inch of how the set fit.
But I paid him no heed because my eyes were glued to the handler on the sofa, shifting forward, stark hunger written plainly across his features.
“Try these on, please.” Stanley snapped his fingers before my face, breaking the spell.
“This one”—he raised a knee-length, black cashmere, turtle-neck dress—“underneath this”—he held up a grey tailored overcoat—“paired with those,” he finished, pointing one sassy finger to a pair of knee-high leather boots tucked away in the corner.
Exhaustion and frustration placed their heavy palms on my shoulders, and I eventually buckled under the weight. I did as Stanley asked, then exited the changeroom on tired feet, stumbling in the two-inch heels the boots possessed.
“Yes, that will do nicely. Pop those items in the bags by the door, then try on the red gown next, please, Miss Sinclair.”
I trudged back to the dressing room, unable to think of anything but the simmering burn of a certain pair of jade-green eyes. I didn’t bother to close the curtains behind me, letting him catch another eyeful.
I made it all the way through undressing, packing, and stepping into the ankle-length, split-hemmed gown, before realising I wasn’t capable of doing it up on my own.
Before I could so much as think about asking for help, the now-familiar scent of citrus and sandalwood drifted into the changeroom, cocooning me in their oddly comforting notes.
Warm fingers lingered against the bare skin at the base of my spine. Despite their heat, a chill raced down it, spurred on by those very same fingertips sliding tortuously slowly upwards as Beckett dragged the zipper closed.
My breath came in short, staccato bursts, and my freshly smooth thighs snapped together when he dared brush my hair over one shoulder, exposing the base of my neck and the goosebumps beneath.
His soft chuckle danced across my skin, and it took every ounce of my resolve not to turn around right then and there. Instead, I speared him with my gaze in the mirror—my hardy resolve vanishing when he whispered, “Red is most definitely your colour, Ice.”
I whirled so fast the satin fabric tangled around my ankles. But I didn’t give a flying fuck as I stared up into the luminous gaze of my newly assigned handler—hoping he’d handle me in entirely inappropriate ways.
Beck brushed the back of his fingers lightly over my cheek, letting them wind beneath the waves to rest at the base of my skull. He unwittingly tested every iota of self-control I still possessed—of which there weren’t many.
War played out across his features; compelling in a way that no man had any right to be.
His eyes darkened to glistening gems, his irises flitting between both of mine and down to my cherry-red lips.
With his mask temporarily removed, everything from indecision to anxiety to hunger flickered over his face, and I held my breath, wondering which would settle in.
I was lost in a sea of emerald and ruby, of downlights and sheer curtains, and I didn’t know which way was up.
I didn’t care to find out.
As far as my body was concerned, I was drowning, and if Beckett didn’t choose—to either give in or withdraw—I feared I would perish.
In the end, I couldn’t bear the weight of either decision—or of what either would mean. Instead of placing the trajectory of my life in his hands—in the Academy’s hands—I decided to choose for myself. If my body was doomed to become Blackwing’s pawn, I wasn’t about to let them have my soul, too.
With Beckett still hovering on the threshold of indecision, I stretched up onto my toes and made the decision for him. Gripping the front of his shirt, I tugged him down towards me. He moved instinctively—like his body was water, malleable by my touch.
And then I kissed him.
When our lips met, fear exploded outwards like every single one of my veins turned to ice water. Like the ice bucket alarm clock had been sent via infusion.
Beckett froze too—like my kiss paralysed him.
What the fuck did I just do?
I pulled back, only managing to withdraw an inch before his fingers—still twined in my hair at the base of my skull—reeled me back in.
And when he kissed me, I realised I’d been wrong.
I wouldn’t have perished without his touch… No. I would burn with it.
His kiss was the symphony my heart hadn’t known it’d been missing—and now that it knew, it would never be the same. His kiss contained notes to a song my body yearned to play; his desire, a sonata calling to my soul.
I lost myself to it. Fully. Completely. Hours could have passed, and it would not have been long enough in his arms. Our bodies could have fused together, and still, it would not have been close enough.
Is this what it feels like? To surrender? To lose?
Because if so, then consider me a fallen soldier.
Hunter Beckett had reduced me to ash.
And I was all the better for it.