Page 28

A fter a day of sleeping through classes and catching naps during free periods, I find myself back in Dayn’s quarters, staring into a mirror.

I barely recognize the woman staring back.

Gone is Clara Winters, the timid scholarship student.

Gone is Esme Salem, the darkblood operative.

In their place stands a stranger with smoky eyes, tousled hair, and lips painted the exact shade of spilled blood.

I’ve transformed myself into every woman’s envy—or so I hope.

The slinky black dress Dayn procured from who-knows-where hugs curves I usually keep hidden under practical clothing. I barely recognize myself.

“You look like you’re attending a funeral, not seducing a man,” Dayn comments from his position by the bookshelf, where he’s been watching me prepare with unsettling intensity.

I shoot him a glare through the mirror. “Perhaps I’m planning both. ”

“Your natural cynicism is showing. Try for something more... inviting.”

“Would you prefer I giggle and bat my eyelashes?” I ask, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Perhaps throw in a hair toss every few seconds?”

Dayn approaches, his reflection appearing behind mine in the mirror. “I would prefer you succeed.”

Our eyes meet in the reflection. I take a step forward, breaking the connection.

“This dress is ridiculous,” I say, tugging at the hemline that sits inches higher than anything I’d voluntarily wear. “I can barely move in it.”

“That’s rather the point,” Dayn replies, leaning against the wall with studied casualness. “The restriction forces a certain kind of movement. More... deliberate.”

I roll my eyes, but try an experimental walk across the room, adapting my usual stride to the constraints of the fabric.

The result is a slow, swaying gait that emphasizes my hips.

I feel ridiculous, but when I glance back at Dayn, the shimmer of gold in his eyes tells me it’s having the intended effect.

“Better,” he says, his voice slightly rougher than before. “But your face is still announcing that you’d rather be anywhere else.” He straightens, coming closer. “You need to look at him like he’s the answer to a question you’ve been afraid to ask.”

“Poetic,” I mutter, trying to arrange my features into something less murderous. “Any other acting tips from the dragon’s guide to seduction?”

Dayn circles me slowly, his gaze clinical and uncomfortably thorough. “Lower your chin slightly when you look up at him. It creates vulnerability.” He demonstrates, tilting his head to show me the angle. “And when you speak, let your voice drop. Like a secret only he deserves to hear.”

I practice the chin tilt, feeling utterly ridiculous. “This is absurd.”

“It’s tactical,” he corrects. “No different than adopting a fighting stance. You’re weaponizing perception.”

“If you say ‘men are simple creatures,’ I might actually stab you.”

His mouth quirks in that almost-smile. “I was going to say Mazrov is a simple creature. The clearbloods designed him for function, not complexity.”

I turn back to the mirror. My hands are steady despite the knot of tension in my stomach. This is far from my first undercover operation, but something about tonight feels different. More personal, perhaps because Dayn will be watching, evaluating.

Also, I have, in fact, never used seduction as a strategic tactic, but I’m not about to inform him of that.

“When he approaches you, don’t respond immediately,” Dayn continues, stepping closer to adjust the strap of my dress with clinical precision. “Let him wait. Count to three before you even look at him.”

“I know how to flirt,” I snap, pulling away from his touch. “I didn’t spend my entire life in combat training.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.” His eyes travel from my face to my hands, which I realize I’ve balled into fists. “Relax your fingers. No man approaches a woman who looks ready to punch him.”

I force my hands to unclench. “Unless that’s what he’s into.”

“Mazrov was designed for duty and obedience, not pain and pleasure.” Dayn circles me again, his gaze critical. “When you walk, imagine drawing a line with your hips. Your usual gait suggests you’re marching into battle.”

“Maybe because that’s exactly what this is,” I mutter, but I try again, softening my stride.

“Better.” He nods approvingly. “But your smile.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “It doesn’t reach your eyes.”

I attempt to correct this, forcing my lips to curve upward, but his expression tells me I’ve failed miserably.

“That’s not a smile,” he says drily. “That’s a threat display.”

“Maybe if you stopped critiquing every move I make?—”

“Don’t you want help?” he asks. “Would you prefer to improvise when you’re face to face with a magically enhanced killing machine, while you’re operating at about thirty percent of your usual capacity?”

I exhale slowly through my nose. He’s right that my magical abilities will be smothered even more, since I will have to take two suppression tablets to reduce my darkblood signature, thanks to Mazrov’s improving detection skills. “Fine,” I say. “Show me.”

He approaches, standing behind me as we both face the mirror. “A genuine smile starts here,” he says, lightly touching the corner of my eye. His finger traces a path down to the edge of my mouth. “Then travels here. Think of something that actually pleases you.”

“Like succeeding in this mission and being rid of you?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “If that works.”

I try again, visualizing completing the ritual, returning to Darkbirch victorious, and seeing my brother healthy. My reflection shows a subtle but decidedly more authentic smile. Not radiant, but at least no longer threatening bodily harm.

“That’s more convincing,” Dayn says. “Now let’s see you walk again.”

I shoot him a withering glance. “Is this a seduction lesson or a runway class?”

“The two aren’t as different as you might think.” He steps back, gesturing for me to proceed. “Movement is language. Yours currently says ‘I will kill you if you approach.’”

I make another attempt, consciously softening my stride, letting my hips sway more naturally.

Dayn watches with his analytical gaze. “Better. Now add a slight hesitation when you turn—like this.” He demonstrates, the movement oddly graceful despite his masculine frame. “It creates a moment of vulnerability, an opening he’ll instinctively want to protect.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about manipulating men for someone who isn’t human,” I observe, mimicking the turn he showed me.

His lips curve. “Dragons have studied human behavior for millennia. Your species is remarkably consistent in its weaknesses.”

“And what are dragon weaknesses?” I ask, seizing the opportunity. “For academic purposes, of course.”

“Nice try.” He adjusts the fall of my hair, his fingers briefly brushing my neck. “Also, it’s survival instinct,” he continues. “Dragons who couldn’t charm humans rarely survived long enough to reproduce.”

Dragons… reproduced with humans? That is news to me. Then again, everything about dragons is news to me .

“Charming isn’t the first word I’d associate with you,” I say, recovering my equilibrium.

“I save it for special occasions.” He returns to his normal stance, the intensity returning to his eyes.

“When you speak to him, maintain eye contact for three seconds, then look away—preferably at his mouth. It suggests interest without desperation. And as for the voice: lower, slower. Each word should feel like honey.”

I clear my throat. “Like this?” I attempt, lowering my pitch.

“Gods above, no. Softer. Combat requires adaptation to your opponent’s weaknesses. Mazrov responds to vulnerability, not strength.”

“So I should act helpless?” The very thought makes my skin crawl.

“Not helpless,” he corrects, his voice dropping lower. “Available. There’s power in apparent surrender. Sometimes the most effective way to control someone is to let them believe they’re in control.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Is that how you’ve survived so long among clearbloods? Letting them think they control you?”

“We’re discussing your performance, not mine,” he replies coolly.

“Then perhaps you should demonstrate properly,” I challenge, crossing my arms. “Show me exactly how I should approach Mazrov.” I’m getting fed up with all his complicated advice.

Dayn’s expression shifts subtly, calculation replacing irritation. “Very well.”

Without warning, he transforms. Not physically—there’s no scale or claw in sight—but something fundamental changes in his presence. His shoulders soften, his stance opens, and his eyes... his eyes take on a warmth that seems to reach directly for something primitive in my brain.

He approaches me slowly, each step deliberate yet seemingly casual. “Imagine I’m Mazrov,” he says, his voice pitched lower than usual. “I’ve noticed you across the tavern, sitting alone.”

Despite knowing this is just demonstration, I feel my pulse quicken as he stops before me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him but not so close as to invade my space.

“You glance up,” he instructs softly. “Not immediately. Let him wait.”

I count to three in my head, then raise my eyes to his, trying to mimic an inviting look.

“Better,” he murmurs. “Now look away—not quickly, but as if something else momentarily caught your interest.”

I follow his direction, turning my gaze toward the window before looking back at him through my lashes.

“Good.” His approval shouldn’t please me, but it does. “When he speaks to you, tilt your head slightly. It exposes your neck—a subconscious signal of trust.”

I do as instructed, feeling increasingly ridiculous yet strangely powerful as I see his pupils dilate slightly in response.

“May I join you?” he asks, the question deceptively casual. Without waiting for my answer, he takes the seat next to me at the imaginary bar. “When he makes this move, don’t shift away immediately. Let him believe his presence is welcome. ”