Chapter 10
KNOX
The boutique is called La Maison éternelle, and it occupies the entire third floor of a building so old and prestigious that I suspect it has witnessed more financial conquests than most trading floors.
The elevator doors slide open to reveal a space of gleaming white marble, towering mirrors, and racks of garments that seem to shimmer with their own internal light, and I feel a deep satisfaction settle into my bones as I survey this new battlefield.
"Knox. This place has a chandelier that probably costs more than my apartment building. We cannot be here."
"We are already here." I place my hand on the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her practical blouse, and guide her forward into the space. "And we are not leaving until you are properly equipped for the battle ahead."
A woman emerges from somewhere in the back, all sharp angles and sharper cheekbones, her silver hair pulled back in a severe chignon that speaks of discipline and excellent taste.
She takes one look at me—all six feet and eight inches of green-skinned, tusk-bearing, suit-straining Orc—and her expression shifts from practiced welcome to genuine intrigue.
"Monsieur Bloodaxe," she purrs, extending a hand that glitters with understated diamonds. "We received your call. I am Madame Fontaine, and I have been eagerly anticipating your arrival. It is not often we receive a request quite so... specific."
I take her hand and bow over it in the manner of the old clans, a gesture of respect between equals who recognize each other's power.
"Madame, I require your finest armor for my First Mate." I turn to indicate Cypress, who is currently trying to hide behind a potted plant that is far too small for the task. "She rides into battle at the Meridian Foundation gala in three days, and she must be equipped to devastate our enemies."
Madame Fontaine's eyes light up with the particular gleam of a merchant who has just scented an opportunity for profit, and she glides toward Cypress with the predatory grace of a lioness approaching a particularly interesting piece of prey.
"Mademoiselle." She circles Cypress slowly, her gaze assessing every angle and curve with professional detachment. "You have excellent bone structure. Strong shoulders. A waist that will take to corseting beautifully, though I suspect you prefer mobility to restriction."
"I need to be able to breathe," Cypress confirms weakly, her glasses sliding down her nose as she cranes her neck to track Madame Fontaine's circling movements. "And move. And possibly run, if things go badly."
"Things will not go badly. But yes, she must have full range of motion. This is a woman who conquers with her mind and her voice—she cannot be constrained."
Madame Fontaine nods slowly, her fingers already reaching for a measuring tape materialized from thin air.
"I have just the thing," she murmurs, more to herself than to either of us. "A piece that arrived last month from a designer in Milan, part of his 'Warrior Queen' collection. It was made for a woman who commands armies, but the original client proved... insufficiently worthy of its power."
She disappears into the back of the boutique, leaving Cypress and me standing alone amid the gleaming mirrors and silent racks of silk and velvet.
Cypress turns to me, her expression caught somewhere between panic and exasperation, her hair escaping from its messy bun in wisps that frame her face like a halo of chaos.
"Knox, I saw a price tag on one of these dresses when we walked in. It had five figures. Five. That is more than I used to make in an entire year."
"Your salary has tripled since I arrived," I remind her, settling into one of the delicate chairs that line the waiting area.
The chair groans alarmingly under my weight, but it holds, which I take as a sign of quality craftsmanship.
"And this is not merely a dress. It is tactical equipment.
A weapon in our arsenal. Would you deny a warrior her sword because the blade was expensive? "
"That is not the same thing and you know it."
"It is precisely the same thing." I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and fixing her with my most serious gaze.
"You will walk into that gala surrounded by humans who measure power in appearances.
They will look at you and they will judge you, and if they see a woman in a dress that does not match the stakes of the battlefield, they will dismiss you before you ever open your mouth. "
Cypress's expression shifts, something complicated moving behind her eyes.
"But if they see a warrior queen?" She speaks the words slowly, testing them.
"They will know to fear you." I feel the smile spread across my face, the one that shows too many teeth and makes human accountants scramble for the exits. "As they should."
Before she can argue further, Madame Fontaine returns, and draped across her arms is a garment that steals the breath from my lungs and replaces it with something hotter and more primal.
The gown is the deep blue-black of a midnight sky, scattered with tiny crystals that catch the light like stars emerging from darkness.
The neckline plunges in a sharp V that speaks of confidence rather than exposure, and the fabric clings to the mannequin form it's displayed on in a way that suggests it will follow every curve and line of its wearer's body like water flowing over stone.
The back is open, a dramatic sweep of bare skin balanced by the structured strength of the front, and the skirt splits high on one thigh in a detail that promises both elegance and mobility.
"The designer calls it Empress of the Evening It is constructed from a silk-elastane blend that moves like liquid but holds its shape under pressure.
The crystals are hand-sewn Swarovski, positioned according to the actual constellation patterns of the Northern Hemisphere's summer sky.
And the color..." She pauses, running her fingers along the fabric with obvious affection. "The color is called 'Conquest.'"
"Try it on," I command.
"I cannot—"
"Try it on." I rise from the chair, crossing to stand behind her so that she faces herself in the nearest mirror, my hands settling on her shoulders with a gentleness that takes effort to maintain. "See yourself as I see you. As our enemies will learn to see you."
She takes a shaky breath, and then she nods, reaching out to accept the gown from Madame Fontaine's waiting arms.
I pace the length of the waiting area like a caged beast, my footsteps leaving faint impressions in the plush carpet, my hands clasped behind my back to keep them from doing something inadvisable like tearing the doors off their hinges to see her immediately.
"Monsieur Bloodaxe." Madame Fontaine appears at my elbow with a crystal glass of something amber and expensive, which she presses into my palm with a knowing smile. "You must have patience. Transformation takes time."
"I am not a patient creature by nature."
"No," she agrees, her eyes twinkling with amusement that borders on impertinence. "I can see that. But some things are worth waiting for, yes?"
The fitting room door opens before I can respond.
Cypress steps out, and the world narrows to a single point of focus, everything else falling away until there is nothing in my universe but her.
The gown fits her like it was constructed specifically for her body, hugging the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips before falling in a dramatic sweep to the floor.
The crystals scattered across the fabric catch the boutique's lighting and throw tiny rainbows across her skin, and the deep V of the neckline frames the delicate architecture of her collarbones in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
She has removed her glasses, and without them her eyes seem larger, darker, filled with a vulnerability that she usually hides behind practical frames and pointed spreadsheets.
"Well? Is it too much? I feel like it is too much. Madame Fontaine insisted on doing something with my hair and I think she put some kind of product in it because it will not stay in the bun anymore and—"
"Cypress." I cross the space between us in three long strides, stopping only when I am close enough to see the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, close enough to smell the warm vanilla scent of her skin beneath the subtle perfume that Madame Fontaine must have applied. "You are magnificent."
She blinks up at me, her lips parting on a breath that catches in her throat.
"I look different."
"You look like yourself." I reach out, unable to stop myself, and brush a strand of hair back from her face, my fingers lingering against the silk of her temple for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
"You look like the woman who corrected my math on her first day working for me.
The woman who cited an obscure corporate bylaw and bought us thirty days to fight.
The woman who commanded a vendor to abandon our enemies and he obeyed because he had no choice. "
"Knox—"
"This gown does not make you powerful." I drop my hand, curling my fingers into a fist at my side to keep from touching her again. "It merely makes your power visible to those too blind to see it otherwise."
She stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in the depths of her dark eyes, and then she straightens her spine and lifts her chin and the transformation is complete.
"We will take it," I announce to Madame Fontaine without looking away from Cypress. "Along with whatever accessories are required. Shoes, jewelry, whatever weapons a warrior queen needs for this particular battlefield."