Grey is waiting by the stairs when I step out of my room. He gives me one look and shakes his head. “It’s too modest.”
He’s talking about my clothes, and I swear he needs his eyes checked. Modest? The dress I’ve got on barely covers my ass, a one-shoulder gown with a chest cutout that cups my boobs like it’s trying to make a statement. What part of this screams modest?
“I’m not changing again,” I say, striding toward him, the ridiculous heels he made me wear clacking loudly against the tiles. “If Mama Kreeve doesn’t get a heart attack from this, then nothing else will.”
Before I can pass, he grabs my chin, his fingers cold and firm, and I stumble a little. But then his arms slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
“Don’t fall,” he says, like he’s not just using that as an
