Chapter 16 Bree
Bree
I can’t stop staring at the dress.
It’s been—I don’t know how long. Time doesn’t work here. But since he left, since he smiled like he’d already won, I haven’t been able to look away from the dark fabric pooled on the table.
It’s just clothes.
Just fabric.
Nothing more.
I tell myself this over and over, but it doesn’t help.
Because I’m freezing. My torn clothes are filthy, stiff with dirt and sweat and whatever else I’ve dragged through. My skin feels grimy. Wrong.
And that dress—
That dress looks soft. Clean. Beautiful.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper to the empty chamber. “Putting on clean clothes doesn’t mean I’m giving in.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie.
Everything here means something.
I push to my feet, legs unsteady, and move toward the table.
My hand hovers over the silk.
Just touch it. See if it’s as soft as it looks.
My fingers brush the fabric, and it slides like water.
Softer than anything I’ve ever felt.
I lift the dress slowly, fabric spilling over my hands, catching the silver firelight.
It’s beautiful.
And I hate how much I want to put it on.
I glance toward the mirror—still there, watching—and deliberately turn my back to it.
As if that makes a difference.
As if he isn’t watching anyway.
I strip off my torn clothes, piece by piece, and the cold air bites my skin. I move fast, not letting myself think, not letting myself stop.
The dress slides over my head.
The silk caresses every inch of skin it touches—shoulders, arms, waist, hips. It clings and flows at once, like it was made for me.
Like it knows me.
I smooth the fabric down with shaking hands and stand there for a moment, facing away from the mirror.
My heart pounds.
I don’t want to look.
Don’t want to see what I’ve become.
But I can’t help it.
I turn slowly, and my breath catches.
That’s—
That’s me.
But also not me.
The neckline sits just off my shoulders, framing my collarbones. The dark fabric makes my skin look luminous, my eyes brighter. My hair falls in tangled waves, but somehow it looks intentional. Wild in a way that feels powerful instead of broken.
I look… beautiful.
Dangerous.
Desired.
Like Riley.
The thought twists like a knife.
“This isn’t me,” I whisper to my reflection.
But she almost looks like she disagrees.
Movement in the mirror makes me freeze.
Behind me.
A figure stepping out of shadow.
Him.
My heart stops.
He moves slowly, silently, until he’s directly behind my reflection. Close enough that I can see every detail of his face in the glass. Close enough that I feel the heat of him at my back.
I don’t turn around.
Can’t.
I’m caught between him and the mirror, and all I can do is stare at our reflections together.
His forest green eyes meet mine in the glass.
“Perfect,” he says softly.
The word shivers down my spine.
He doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Just stands there, both of us framed in black iron, looking at what we’ve become together.
His gaze travels over my reflection—slow, reverent, burning.
“Do you see?” His voice is low, intimate. “Do you see what I see?”
I can’t answer.
Can’t breathe.
His hand lifts slowly, and I watch in the mirror as it hovers near my shoulder.
Then settles.
Light. Careful. Like I might break.
I flinch but don’t pull away.
Can’t move.
His fingers trail down my arm, barely touching, grazing the silk.
“I knew it would suit you,” he murmurs.
In the mirror, we look like a pair.
King and queen.
Predator and prey.
I don’t know which is worse.
He tilts his head slightly, dark hair brushing near my temple as he studies our reflection.
“Look at you,” he says softly. “Radiant. A queen in her own right.”
His hand drifts lower, fingertips brushing one of the scars visible at my collarbone.
I tense, but he doesn’t pull away.
Just traces it gently, like it’s something precious.
“Even your scars adorn you,” he whispers. “Proof of strength. Proof you were always meant to be more than they allowed you to be.”
I feel seen.
Completely, terrifyingly seen.
And I hate that part of me wants this. Wants to be looked at like I’m beautiful instead of broken.
Then his hand moves.
To my shoulder. The strap of the dress has slipped slightly—barely—but he notices.
His fingers hook under the silk, adjusting it with agonizing slowness. The backs of his knuckles brush my bare skin, and I shiver.
He sees it in the mirror. His lips curve.
“Cold?” he asks, though we both know that’s not why I’m shaking.
His other hand lifts, gathering my hair gently and drawing it over one shoulder. His fingertips graze the back of my neck as he moves the strands, deliberately slow, and I feel the touch like a brand.
My breath comes faster.
In the mirror, his hands hover at my waist. Not touching. Just… there. Close enough that I can feel the heat of them through the silk.
“May I?” he asks softly.
I should say no.
Should pull away, run, fight.
But I don’t.
I nod.
Just barely.
His hands settle on my waist, and the contact sends heat through my entire body. Not rough. Not possessive.
Reverent.
Like I’m something sacred.
His thumbs brush the curve of my hips through the fabric, and I watch in the mirror as he leans closer, his breath warm against my ear.
“You were never meant to be less,” he breathes. “You were always meant to be mine.”
His eyes lock with mine in the mirror, and for one dizzying, horrible second, I can’t tell if I’m terrified—
Or thrilled.
My hands rest at my sides, trembling.
Part of me wants to tear the dress off. Throw it back in his face. Scream that I’m not his, will never be his.
But another part—
Another part leans back into his touch.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
And we both see it happen in the mirror.
His smile is slow. Satisfied.
“Tomorrow,” he whispers against my temple.
Then he’s gone.
Vanished into shadow like he was never there.
I stand alone in front of the mirror, wearing his dress, feeling the ghost of his hands on my waist.
And I know—with a certainty that makes me want to scream—that when tomorrow comes, I won’t tell him no.