Page 63 of A House of Gold
“Yeah.” Nat leans against the table. “Seraph rarely calls for meetings. He prefers setting examples. That he’s asking for a conversation instead of immediate retribution is very good or very bad.”
“Which one do you think it is?”
“I think–“ He stops as the library doors burst open.
Croesus strides in, and I can tell immediately he already knows. His expression is thunderous, gold eyes blazing brighter than usual.
“We’re leaving in an hour,” he says without preamble. “Wear something suitable. Seraph is particular about presentation.”
“I’m not dressing up like a doll for another angel,” I start to say, but Croesus cuts me off.
“You’ll wear what I provide, or you’ll wear nothing. Those are your options.” His voice is sharp and clipped. “Seraph will use any excuse to assert dominance. Don’t give him ammunition.”
He’s jealous.The realization hits me with surprising clarity. Not just angry about the summons, but jealous that another angel is demanding my presence.
“Fine,” I say. “What should I wear to meet the angel of pride?”
“Something that shows you belong to me.” The possessiveness in his voice should bother me more than it does. “I’ll have it sent to your room.”
He turns and leaves without another word. Nat watches him go, then looks at me with something like sympathy.
“For what it’s worth? Seraph is...different from Croesus. Not better or worse. Just different.” He hesitates. “Try not to let him get under your skin. That’s what he does best—finds the cracks and wedges them open.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“He’s been alone for a very long time. Longer than most. Pride isolates.” Nat’s voice goes soft. “Just remember that underneath the perfection and the cruelty, he’s as trapped as the rest of us. Maybe more so.”
The dress Croesus sends is black silk again, form-fitting, with a high neck and straps across my shoulders and back again. But these are complicated and twisting. Binding. It’s elegant, expensive, and definitely a statement of ownership. Gold jewelry to match: delicate chains at my throat and wrists, small enough to be tasteful but present enough to mark me as his.
I hate that it fits perfectly.
I hate more that I look good in it.
Croesus is waiting for me in the entrance hall, dressed in a black suit matching my dress perfectly. He studies me in his way, with those gold eyes, and some of the anger in his expression eases.
“Better,” he says.
“I feel like a trophy.”
“Good. That’s the point.” He offers his arm. “Seraph respects ownership. As long as he believes you’re mine, he’ll be...manageable.”
“And if he doesn’t believe it?”
“Then things will become complicated quickly.” He leads me toward a mirror on the far wall —massive, ornate, something that belongs in a palace. “The House of Ruin exists in reflection. To enter, you must acknowledge what you could have been.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll see.” He places his palm against the mirror’s surface, and the glass ripples like water. “Stay close to me. Don’t speak unless spoken to. And whatever Seraph offers you, whatever he says, whatever he promises, the answer is no.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“No. But you are human. And Seraph has had three thousand years to perfect the art of temptation.” His grip on my arm tightens slightly. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Good answer.” He pulls me through the mirror.
The transition is disorienting, like falling up and sideways at the same time. The world inverts, reality bends, and then we’re standing in a hall of white marble and silver light.
