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The room pulses with something heavier than magic. The kind of weight that settles in the chest, not on the shoulders. I glance at Luna again, and she’s already standing taller.
I press a hand to my chest. “Time to find my good eyeliner.”
“Silas,” Riven warns.
But Luna touches my hand, fingers lacing with mine as she pulls me toward the door.
“Let him have this,” she says. “He’s about to outshine the entire Council.”
Damn right I am.
I’m mid-sentence about the sinful versatility of brocade lapels when we turn the corner, and Luna casts me a sidelong look that says she’s humoring me—and enjoying every minute of it.
“I’m just saying,” I continue, voice full of mock-seriousness as we near her door, “the world isn't ready for me in a black velvet coat with gold threading. There will be riots. Parades. Applause.”
“I don’t think that’s how riots work,” she says dryly, but her mouth is tilted at the corners, like she’s fighting a smile and losing.
I let the silence stretch for half a beat as I reach for her door handle, then swing it open like a stage entrance. “After you, your sinfully gorgeousness.”
She steps inside, rolling her eyes, and I follow her in, shutting the door behind us.
My hand lingers on the knob.
She doesn’t notice right away. She’s distracted, probably expecting me to flop on the bed and start monologuing about boot height again.
Instead, I clear my throat. “So, here’s the thing…”
She turns toward me, one brow arched in suspicion. “Silas.”
“If you tell a soul what you’re about to see,” I say solemnly, stepping closer, “I’ll be forced to do unspeakable things. Crimes, Luna. Fashion crimes.”
She blinks. “What are you—?”
I press a finger to my lips before she can say another word. Her lips part slightly, but she obeys—because she always does when I look at her like this. A little chaos behind the eyes, a promise curled beneath the surface.
Then I reach behind the bookshelf in the corner—one I strategically never let her touch—and press it.
The button.
The hum is quiet at first. Mechanical, magical, ancient. A whir beneath the floorboards and a click in the stone.
The wall opposite the bed splits down the center with a soft hiss and peels back like a secret finally unfolding.
Behind it—my closet.
Not just a closet.
A walk-in cathedral of aesthetic sin.
Velvets in shades that would make royalty weep. Leather tailored like second skin. Boots lined like weapons. Racks and racks of black, wine, midnight blue. Gold accents. Gloves I’ll never wear. Coats I’ve forgotten I owned. Rows of accessories so dazzling they could start wars.
Luna steps forward like she’s entering a temple.
“Silas,” she breathes, stunned. “What the hell.”
I step up beside her, chin lifted, voice smug. “Darling, did you really think all my drama was stored in a drawer?”
She walks deeper into the closet, fingertips grazing a silver-threaded coat that cost me a favor from a demon tailor in the underground.