Page 39 of A House of Gold
I look...expensive. Like something Croesus would collect.Ugh.Another beautiful thing in his hoard.
I grab my own practical beat up leather boots, not the dreamy ones, and pull them on. They look ridiculous with the dress, but I don’t care. If he wants me in this impractical outfit, I’m at least wearing shoes I can run in. Sometimes clients fight back, as if they are compelled by the sin chaining them, and I like to be prepared.
There’s another knock. I yank open the door, ready to tell the servant exactly what I think of this dress, but it’s Croesus himself.
He’s wearing a different suit than this morning, still charcoal, still perfectly tailored, but this one has gold cufflinks that catch the light. His hair is swept back, the gold veins in it shimmering faintly. Those molten gold eyes are fixed somewhere near my face.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.” I gesture at the dress. “This is completely impractical. If the purge goes badly, this thing will be ruined. And silk doesn’t handle blood well, in case you weren’t aware.”
“I’m aware.” He doesn’t seem bothered by my complaint. “May I come in?”
It’s not really a question. He’s already stepping into my room, forcing me to back up or get run over.
I back up.
He closes the door behind him, and suddenly, the room feels much smaller. He takes up so much space, not just physically, but energetically. Like reality bends around him, making everything else smaller in comparison.
“Turn around,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Turn around. I want to see the dress.”
I should refuse. Should tell him to go to hell. But there’s something about the way he’s standing there, patient, expectant,like he has all the time in the world to wait for me to comply, that makes me do it.
I turn slowly, feeling the silk swish around my legs.
“Stop.”
I stop, my back to him. Rigid. What the fuck is he doing?
I hear him move closer, one step, two, and then his hand is on my shoulder blade. Just his fingers, tracing the line of one of the thin straps.
My breath catches.
“Exquisite,” he murmurs. His fingers slide down my spine, just following the line of the dress, nothing inappropriate, but it feels intimate anyway. Invasive. “The silk is from Lyon. Eighteenth century looms, modern dyes. The cut is contemporary, but the craftsmanship is old-world.”
“I don’t care where it’s from.” My voice comes out rough and throaty. The anger. Definitely the anger. “It’s not practical.”
“It’s not meant to be practical.” His hand moves to my waist, spanning it. Measuring. Learning. “It’s meant to make you look like you belong at my side. Like you’re valuable. Expensive. Mine.”
There’s that word again. Mine.
“I’m not a possession.”
“For the next year, you are.” His other hand finds my hip, and now he’s touching me with both hands, mapping the shape of me through the silk. “Turn around again.”
I turn, and now we’re face to face. Close enough that I can smell him, metal and smoke. His otherworldly gaze is somewhere near my collarbone rather than my face.
His hands don’t leave my waist.
“You’re angry,” he observes.
“You put me in an impractical dress and summoned me like a doll you’re playing with. Yeah, I’m angry.”
“Noted.” His hands slide up my sides, still over the dress, still technically appropriate, but it doesn’t feel appropriate. It feels possessive. “But you wore it anyway.”
