Page 27

Mirabelle is not my favourite person. It’s clear I’m not hers either, and that the last thing she’d like to be doing right now is combing through my tangled hair and trying to make me look presentable. It’s quite the challenge after I’ve spent two days fighting for my life in a war that they pretend doesn’t exist.

I fought with her for nearly an hour over what she insisted I wear. I pleaded for pants, for a belt, for boots, for something I can fight in. The best she could do was a long red silk gown with a slit that reaches the top of my thigh. She said if I was desperate for a fight, the slit would at least allow for more movement, though I’d argue that the strapless design counteracts that. It’s tight around my chest, with a curved neckline that points up at the corners. The dress flares out from my waist, flowing behind me in a cascade of red silk.

It’s ridiculous, all of this.

In any other circumstance, I’d admire the beauty of the gown. I’d admire the fact that it somehow makes me feel more like a princess than a soldier. I haven’t worn a dress like this… Well, ever. I’ve never had a need, nor have I been able to afford one. In another life, I’d love to live the kind of lavish lifestyle where this attire is mundane. When feeling this beautiful isn’t part of a situation I’ve been forced into, but rather because it’s who I am.

In this life, I itch for a blade to tuck into my waistband or strap to my thigh. I wish for a weapon to hold against the throat of the person responsible for violating my privacy.

Human or not.

“Sit still.”

Mirabelle has grunted these words to me more times than I can count in the past thirty minutes as she pokes and prods at my hair.

I flinch when she tugs at a stubborn strand. “Is this really necessary?”

“Vince insists that his guests are dressed appropriately for dinner.”

It’s the only response I’ve managed to get out of her, carefully worded, perfectly rehearsed.

“Who is he?”

Nothing.

“What is this place?”

Nothing.

“Are you here willingly?”

Nothing.

Mirabelle lets out a sigh of relief when she pins the last strand of hair into place and gestures to the mirror. I gape at my reflection.

My natural waves have been drawn into an elegant up-do that sits on the nape of my neck. A few loose curls hang here and there, framing my face perfectly, the gold strands perfectly woven within them. She’s painted my lips a deep red that matches the dress, making them appear more plump and healthy than they ever have. My skin has a light layer of foundation, enough to cover the scratches but not so much that it hides my freckles. My eyes are shadowed with natural colours, emphasising the black lines on the lids that flick out at the sides. The golden flecks in my eyes sparkle under the room’s chandelier.

I look like a stranger.

“You look beautiful.”

Mirabelle’s compliment pulls me from my admiration, and I swivel around in the chair to face her.

“Thank you. I feel ridiculous. There’s a war going on and Vince is forcing us to play dress-up.”

She offers me a soft smile, opening her mouth to speak and closing it just as quickly. Veins pop in her forehead, every inch of her face straining. Then she lets out a sharp breath and her features relax, but she doesn’t speak.

I ignore the oddness of it, the small voice in me that says she had something to say. That she wanted to speak but couldn’t. I change the topic, shaking off the feeling and looking at the pile of heeled shoes in the corner. “Please tell me you at least have boots for me to wear.”

“I can offer you flat sandals. That’s the best I can do.”

I pace for so long that I feel as if I’m going to leave marks on the floorboards. Mirabelle left at least thirty minutes ago. The sun has set now, and I can’t think of anything other than the fact that Jeremy might be somewhere in this building, fighting for his life.

Two casual knocks on the door have me racing to it so quickly that you’d think I’ve been locked in here for days.

The door swings open and my eyes meet a familiar sea of blue and silver. My gaze sweeps over the archangel. His hair is slicked back with a single curl hanging loose over his forehead. Black linen drapes over his shoulders, paired with a white buttoned shirt underneath. The blazer sits snugly, hugging every sharp line of his body. Black pants are paired with a belt and dress shoes that look as foreign on him as the suit itself.

A giggle bubbles from me before I can stop it, and I bring a hand to my mouth to try to mask my amusement.

The archangel raises a brow. “Are you laughing at me, Slayer?”

I shake my head, but it only makes me laugh again. “No. Well, yes, I am.”

I draw a deep breath and take in the sight of him in a suit again. My laugh fades, replaced by a teasing smirk. “It’s just, you look so…”

“Handsome?”

he cuts me off, amusement in his tone. “Dashing? Devastatingly beautiful?”

“Human. You look human.”

His expression falls flat. “Ouch.”

My eyes nearly roll out of my head. “It was a compliment.”

The archangel’s brow furrows, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “To a human, perhaps.”

He is objectively handsome, I suppose. If you’re into Hollywood beauty and sociopaths. You know what they say about serial killers: it’s always the charming ones.

His eyes leave mine for the first time since I opened the door, sweeping over me in a slow and calculating assessment. He studies each curl of my hair and the way it falls around my face. Each freckle that dances across my skin. His gaze hovers over the deep red of my lips for a moment too long before trailing down my body. For a moment, I think I see him take in a sharp breath. For a moment, I think I see him flustered.

He looks over every curve, every thread, as if he’s memorising every detail. Then his eyes meet mine again. The blue is hard to see amongst the flames of silver.

“You look…”

The archangel’s voice is low, the deep sound jarring in the quiet of the hallway.

I look away, patting down the fabric of my dress and picking at something that isn’t there. “You can save me the clever comeback. As much as I’m sure it would have been wildly offensive, there’s no need —”

“Breathtaking.”

The single word makes my heart skip a beat. My breath hitches, and a sound escapes me that sounds an awful lot like “Oh.”

My eyes snap back up to his, and the silver flames don’t play the game that I’ve grown accustomed to. They don’t dare me to stoop to his level, to engage with his playfulness. There’s nothing playful about them. No, they burn with something akin to hunger.

I force myself to say the words, but they only come out as a whisper. “Thank you.”