We set a trap for a predator, only to find ourselves caught in the jaws of a different beast.
The gown was a weapon, and I was its sheath.
Standing before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in Lysander’s penthouse, I barely recognized the woman reflected back. The dress was a cascade of liquid midnight, a constellation of tiny onyx beads hand-stitched onto a fabric that felt like cool water against my skin. It was backless, plunging deep, held up by a whisper of silk at the nape of my neck, and it hugged every curve before flaring out slightly at my ankles. It was elegance and seduction, a masterpiece of design that screamed of his taste, his money, his control.
Lysander stood behind me, a dark shadow in the dimly lit room. His eyes met mine in the glass, a storm of possession and cold intent.
