Page 159 of Dance of Devils

“Exactly,” I say quietly. “Hence, the secrecy.” I shrug. “Like, we don’t go out. That sort of thing.”

He frowns. “Would youliketo go out?”

I frown. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“So whatareyou saying?”

“I’m not sure,” I groan, dropping my forehead to his chest. “But a gala? It seems…kind of public. Don’t these things have photographers taking shots of all the fancy rich people for the tabloids?”

“They do.”

“Well?”

Kir’s lips curl into a smile. “This ball is amaskedone.”

I arch a brow. “Seriously?”

He nods. “So, with that final excuse of yours moot, be ready to go at seven?—”

“I don’t have a dress.” I frown. “I mean, I havetonsof clothes, thanks to you. But I mean, aballsounds fancy to me?—”

“My stylist will dress you,” he says briskly, checking his watch. “If you could be home by five-thirty, that’ll be enough time for them to do your hair, too.”

I stare at him. “I’m sorry, who’s doing my hair?”

“The hair person I have coming to the house at five-thirty,” he says with amusement before he checks his watch again. “Try not to be late.”

I nod. “Yeah, okay…sorry, why do you keep looking at your watch? Are you late for something?”

“Not yet.”

I smile curiously. “So, what?—”

I gasp when he lifts me up and sits me on the edge of the kitchen counter. “What I was making sure of, babygirl,” he growls, lifting my ass and yanking down my pajama pants, “is that I had enough time forbreakfastbefore I left the house.”

I tremble as he shoves my thighs apart. “And what’s for—oh…”

A whimper erupts from my lips as he drops to his knees and curls his tongue around my clit.

Oh, THAT breakfast…

I stareat myself in the mirror.

Holy shit.

I look like a fuckingprincess. I look like how I imagine Evie dresses when she’s not at work and no one's around to tease her about her Disney princess vibe.

Okay, not quite. But, if I do say so myself, I lookhot.

I’m in a black strapless floor-length gown, with a gauzy black floral motif near my right shoulder, and a cascade of delicate, barely noticeable silver sparkles spilling down the side. From the hip down to my knees is fitted like a pencil skirt, then it flares out in a way I absolutely love.

Balenciaga, of course. I’m sure it cost a fucking fortune.

The hair stylist has also workedsorcery, turning my hair into a gorgeous creation held by about a thousand bobby pins in an elaborate but fun style. There was also a makeup artist who came and made me look…well…stunning.

Time to actually go do this thing.

I take a breath and leave my room, walking along the hall and down the curved stairs to where Kir is waiting in the front foyer. He turns, and I grin when his eyes widen just a little—such a change from his usual stoic expression. His gaze runs over me, his mouth opening and then closing as he swallows.