Chapter 20
The penthouse wardrobe suite looks like a fashion magazine exploded.
That's my first thought when I walk through the double doors and see the racks of gowns lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. Black silk. Midnight velvet. Charcoal satin with crystalline beading that catches the light like scattered stars.
There are at least twenty dresses.
Maybe thirty.
I stopped counting after the first rack because my brain short-circuited somewhere around "four thousand dollars per linear yard of fabric."
A woman stands in the center of the room, her posture so perfect it makes my spine hurt just looking at her.
She's tall—maybe six feet in heels—with silver-white hair pulled into a sleek chignon and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
She's wearing a tailored black suit that probably costs more than my old car.
She turns when I enter, her pale eyes sweeping over me with the kind of clinical assessment that makes me feel like I'm being appraised for auction.
"Ms. Beck," she says. Her voice is smooth, cultured, and completely devoid of warmth. "I am Isolde Vane. Mr. Thorne has retained my services to ensure you are appropriately attired for the Obsidian Crescent Gala."
I blink.
"Appropriately attired," I repeat.
"Yes."
"As in... one of these dresses."
"Correct."
I look at the racks again.
At the silk and velvet and satin.
At the price tags I'm deliberately not reading because I'm pretty sure seeing a five-figure number attached to a single garment will trigger some kind of psychological break.
"Right," I say. "Cool. Totally normal. This is fine."
Isolde's expression doesn't change.
"If you would step onto the platform, please."
She gestures to a circular pedestal in the center of the room, positioned in front of a three-way mirror that's probably taller than Cyprian.
I walk over.
Climb onto the platform.
And immediately feel like an imposter.
Seventy-two hours ago, I was sitting in my drafty apartment eating ramen and staring at eviction notices.
I owned one pair of work-appropriate slacks, three massage therapy polos, and a single dress from Target that had a coffee stain on the hem because I spilled my travel mug on the way to a wedding two years ago.
Now I'm standing on a pedestal in a penthouse wardrobe suite while a woman who looks like she personally dresses European royalty circles me with a tape measure.
The cognitive dissonance is staggering.
"Arms out, please," Isolde says.
I comply.
She measures my shoulders. My bust. My waist. My hips.
She doesn't speak.
Doesn't make small talk.
Just measures with mechanical precision, her pale eyes flicking over my body like I'm a mannequin.
"You have an athletic build," she says finally. "Compact. Well-proportioned. The gown will need to emphasize your natural strength while maintaining elegance."
"Uh. Thanks?"
"It is an observation, not a compliment."
"Right. Obviously."
She moves to the first rack and pulls out a gown.
It's black.
Not regular black.
Obsidian black.
The kind of black that seems to absorb light, that shifts and shimmers with every movement like liquid stone.
The fabric is silk—impossibly smooth, impossibly soft—and it's cut in a sleek, form-fitting silhouette that looks like it was designed by someone who understands exactly how fabric moves against skin.
"This is the primary option," Isolde says. "Custom-designed to complement Mr. Thorne's natural coloring. The silk has been treated with a specialized dye that mimics the texture and sheen of gargoyle wing membrane."
I stare at her.
"I'm sorry. Did you just say this dress is designed to match his wings?"
"Correct."
"That's... incredibly extra."
"Mr. Thorne was very specific in his requirements."
Of course he was.
Because Cyprian doesn't do anything halfway.
If he's going to dress me up for a high-society supernatural gala, he's going to make absolutely certain that every single person in that room knows I'm his.
The possessiveness should probably bother me.
It doesn't.
Not even a little bit.
Isolde holds the gown up against my body, assessing.
"Remove your clothing, please."
I hesitate.
"All of it?"
"Undergarments may remain. The gown requires a strapless foundation."
Right.
I strip down to my bra and underwear—both of which are from Target's clearance section and look absolutely ridiculous in this hyper-luxury setting—and stand there feeling extremely exposed while Isolde helps me step into the gown.
The silk slides over my skin like water.
Cool.
Smooth.
Impossibly soft.
She pulls the dress up, adjusting the bodice, and then moves behind me to zip it closed.
The fit is perfect.
Not tight.
Not loose.
Just... perfect.
The bodice hugs my ribs and waist, the fabric molding to my body like it was made specifically for me. The skirt falls in a sleek column to the floor, with a high slit up one thigh that's just revealing enough to be dangerous.
I turn to look at myself in the mirror.
And freeze.
Because the woman staring back at me doesn't look like Tamsin Beck, broke massage therapist with a coffee-stained Target dress.
She looks like someone who belongs in Cyprian's world.
Someone powerful.
Someone dangerous.
Someone who could walk into a room full of predators and make them all sit up and pay attention.
The dress is stunning.
The obsidian silk catches the light, shifting and shimmering with every breath I take.
The bodice is structured but not restrictive, emphasizing the compact strength of my frame.
The high slit shows off my thighs—muscular from years of climbing onto massage tables and using my body weight for leverage.
I look like a weapon wrapped in silk.
"It suits you," Isolde says.
It's the closest thing to a compliment I'm going to get.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "It does."
She moves around me, pinning the hem, adjusting the fit at the shoulders.
And that's when the door opens.
I don't have to turn around to know it's Cyprian.
I can feel him.
The shift in the air.
The sudden weight of his presence.
The way my entire body goes hyper-aware, every nerve ending lighting up like I've been plugged into a live current.
I meet his eyes in the mirror.
And my breath catches.
Because he's not just looking at me.
He's devouring me.
His amber eyes are molten gold, glowing so bright they cast shadows across his slate-gray skin. His frame fills the doorway, wings folded tight against his back, every line of his body radiating coiled, predatory focus.
He doesn't speak.
Doesn't move.
He just stares.
And I feel it everywhere.
The weight of his gaze tracking over the curve of my hips, the line of my throat, the exposed skin of my thigh where the slit falls open.
His amber veins flare.
Bright.
Incandescent.
The color of molten gold on the edge of combustion.
Isolde clears her throat.
"Mr. Thorne. I was not expecting you for another twenty minutes."
"I finished early," he says.
His voice is low.
Rough.
Absolutely devoid of anything resembling casual politeness.
He steps into the room, moving with that effortless, predatory grace that makes my stomach flip.
He circles me slowly.
Not touching.
Just looking.
His eyes track every detail—the way the silk molds to my waist, the way the bodice emphasizes my shoulders, the way the slit reveals the compact muscle of my thigh.
"Turn," he says.
It's not a request.
I turn slowly, letting him see the full effect.
The dress has a low back—not scandalously low, but low enough to show the curve of my spine, the line of my shoulder blades.
I hear his breath catch.
It's a small sound.
Barely audible.
But I hear it.
And it makes my entire body flush with heat.
"This is the one," he says.
Isolde nods.
"I will make the final adjustments and have it delivered to the penthouse by tomorrow evening."
"Good."
He's still staring at me.
Still circling.
Still radiating that intense, possessive focus that makes me feel like I'm the only thing in the entire world that matters.
"Cyprian," I say quietly.
His eyes snap to mine.
"You are perfect," he says.
Not the dress is perfect.
Not you look perfect.
Just: You are perfect.
Like it's a fact.
Like it's undeniable.
Like there's no other possible interpretation of what he's seeing.
My throat tightens.
"You're doing the intense thing again," I say.
"I am aware."
"It's a little overwhelming."
"Good."
Isolde clears her throat again.
"If you are satisfied with the selection, Mr. Thorne, I will proceed with the alterations."
"Proceed," he says, without taking his eyes off me.
She nods and steps back, giving us space.
Cyprian moves closer.
Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"We have a tactical briefing in one hour," he says quietly. "You will need to demonstrate the pressure-point strikes to my team. They need to see exactly how the technique is executed."
I blink.
"You want me to... demonstrate? On who?"
"On me."
"Cyprian—"
"My operatives need to understand the mechanics. The angle of approach. The amount of force required. You are the expert. You will teach them."
I stare at him.
At this towering, ancient, terrifying creature who is asking me to physically demonstrate combat techniques on his own body in front of his entire tactical team.
"That's going to be extremely hands-on," I say.
"I am aware."
"And probably kind of intense."
"I am counting on it."
Heat floods my face.
Because I know exactly what he's doing.
He's not just asking me to teach his team.
He's asking me to claim him.
In front of everyone.
To put my hands on his body, to demonstrate my expertise, to show every single person in that room that I am not just his mate—I am his equal.
"Okay," I say. "Let's do it."
His amber eyes flare.
And then he's leaning down, his forehead resting against mine, his hands settling on my waist with feather-light gentleness.