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A shiver runs down my spine.

I set the thong down, my hands shaking as I pick up the dress.

It’s pristine, untouched. I hold it up to my body, looking at my reflection in the mirror. The girl staring back at me is a stranger, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and longing.

“It’s just fabric,” I mutter, dropping the dress back onto the counter and grabbing the thong instead. I step into it and pull the straps up my hips. The dress follows, a breeze of cool cotton against my heated skin. It settles over my frame, pure and chaste, but there’s a secret underneath it and part of me likes that.

I avoid the mirror, fearing the stranger who might stare out at me. Instead, I focus on the small pouch sitting on the other side of the sink. Its sky blue, covered in butterflies. It’s my makeup bag.

I grab it and pull it open, pulling out my eyeliner, my blush, my lip gloss.

Why am I doing this?

The question claws at me, but I shove it aside, concentrating on the steps inside.

I draw on a line of eyeliner and wing it out just a tad.

I swipe on the mascara, one coat, and then two.

I finish up with a single layer of shining pink gloss. It’s got glitter in it, but just a little bit.

I tell myself it’s because he told me to, but deep down, I know it’s more. I want him to look at me, to see me.

I want him to really see me.

I want him to sit beside me in the church pew and stare at me.

“Stop it, Mercy,” I hiss at my reflection, finally looking up at myself. The eyes staring back are wide, the pupils dilated to pinpoints. Frightened, yes, but also… alive.

Excited.

I lean closer to the mirror, checking my eyeliner one last time.

My breath fogs up the glass, hiding my reflection. I step back and watch as it fades away, and I can see my eyes float into view. The girl in the mirror looks alive in a way I haven’t felt in years. She looks like a woman who is determined to get what she wants.

Or maybe she’s just a fool playing with fire.

Maybe she will burn for it.

“What are you doing, Mercy?” I ask myself.

No answer.

Not even the voices in my head want to take a stab at it.

Turning, I step out of the bathroom and flick the light off.

I hurry down the hallway, step into the living room, and there he is. Draco is standing by the fireplace in the corner, one hand casually tucked into his pocket, the other resting on the polished marble.

His eyes meet mine, and I feel the floor tilt beneath me.

He’s dressed in a black suit that fits him like a glove, the fabric hugging his shoulders, tapering down to a shining silver belt buckle, adorned with a chain that leads into one pocket. His tie is red, silky, and it’s not lost on me that it matches the thong he laid out for me. He has combed his usually wild hair back, making it slick and shiny in the early morning light.

It’s mesmerizing—the devil dressed as a saint. My heart stutters, caught in the crossfire.

“You look… different,” I blurt out.

Different is an understatement.