LET ME DRESS YOU
1798 Words
**THE PACT OF FIVE**
CHAPTER 10: LET ME DRESS YOU
My walk-in closet is the size of most people’s bedrooms. Rows of designer dresses, shelves of shoes that have never been worn, drawers filled with silk and lace and things that cost more than most cars. The space smells like jasmine and vanilla—my signature scents—and the soft lighting from the crystal chandelier makes everything look like it belongs in a fairy tale. But right now, it feels like a *stage.*
I run my fingers along the hangers, the fabric smooth under my touch. Tonight’s the pack’s monthly gala, and Daniel’s insisting I attend. Normally, I’d be excited—dressing up, dancing, the way the alphas watch me from across the room. But after the last few days? After *Knox’s* kiss, *Cole’s* confession, *Jax’s* hunger, *Zane’s* vow? I’m not sure I can handle their eyes on me for an entire night.
I pull out a black gown, the fabric shimmering under the lights. It’s elegant, demure. Safe. But as I hold it up, I already know it’s not *me.* Not tonight.
That’s when I hear it—the *creak* of the closet door.
I spin around, my heart leaping into my throat. And there he is—**Micah**, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place, his dirty-blond hair messy, his brown eyes *sparkling* with mischief. He’s wearing a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the tattoos snaking up his forearms, and dark jeans that hug his hips in all the right ways. The scent of bergamot and bourbon fills the air, and I *know* I’m in trouble.
I clutch the gown to my chest. "What are you doing here?"
His smirk is *wicked.* "Admiring the view."
I roll my eyes, but my pulse *spikes.* "Micah—"
He pushes off the doorframe, sauntering into the closet like he’s been invited. His gaze rakes over me, lingering on the black lace bra and panties I’m wearing. His eyes *darken.* "Nice *choice,* Lena. But I think we can do *better.*"
I pull the gown tighter against me. "I wasn’t aware this was a *group* decision."
His laugh is low, rough. "Oh, *sweetheart.*" He steps closer, his fingers brushing the gown in my hands. "It’s *always* a group decision when it comes to you."
I swallow hard. The air between us is *thick*, charged with something electric. Something *playful.* Something *dangerous.*
He takes the gown from my hands, hanging it back on the rack. "This?" He shakes his head. "This is what you wear when you want to *disappear.*"
I lift my chin. "And what do I wear when I *don’t?*"
His smirk deepens. "Let me *dress* you."
My breath catches. The way he says it—like it’s a *promise*, a *challenge*, a *dare*—makes my skin *tingle.*
I *should* tell him to leave. Should *scream.* But I don’t. I just stand there, my heart *hammering,* my body *aching* for his touch.
He moves past me, his shoulder brushing mine, sending a *shiver* down my spine. He runs his fingers along the hangers, his movements fluid, graceful. Like he’s *dancing.*
Finally, he pulls out a dress—deep red, the color of sin and blood and *desire.* The fabric is silk, clinging to the hanger like it’s already *hugging* a body. It’s backless, with thin straps and a hem that stops mid-thigh. *Daring.* *Dangerous.*
He holds it up, his eyes *dark* with promise. "This one."
I bite my lip. "That’s... a lot."
His laugh is *dark.* "Exactly."
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You want to *hide?* Wear the black. But if you want to *own* that room tonight... if you want *them* to *ache* for you..." His fingers trail down my arm, sending a *jolt* through me. "Then wear the red."
I should argue. Should *fight.* But the truth is, I *do* want to own that room. I *do* want them to ache for me.
I take the dress from his hands, the fabric smooth against my fingers. "Fine. But *you* have to help me with the zipper."
His smirk is *wicked.* "Oh, *sweetheart.*" He steps behind me, his hands sliding around my waist, his breath hot against my ear. "I was *hoping* you’d say that."
His fingers trail up my spine, sending a *shiver* down my back. The zipper of the dress is cool against my skin, but his touch is *fire.* He pulls me back against him, his body *hard* and *hot* against my back. I can *feel* him—*hard* and *ready*—and my core *aches* with the need to have him *inside* me.
But he doesn’t *kiss* me. Doesn’t *touch* me beyond that. He just *holds* me, his voice a dark caress. "You’re gonna *break* them tonight, Lena. Every single one."
I close my eyes, his words sending a *thrill* through me. "And what about *you?*"
His lips brush my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "Oh, *sweetheart.*" His hands slide up to my ribs, his thumbs *teasing* the undersides of my breasts. "I’ll be the first to *beg.*"
And then he *stills*, his body tensing behind me. For a second, I think he’s heard something—Knox, maybe, or one of the others. But then he *sighs*, his voice suddenly *raw*, the humor gone. "You know, I *pretend* I don’t care, Lena." His fingers *tighten* on my ribs, just for a second. "But the truth is, I *do.* More than any of them."
I turn my head, my lips brushing his cheek. "Micah—"
He pulls away, his smirk back in place, but his eyes are *serious.* "Wear the red, *sweetheart.* And tonight... tonight, let me be the one who *makes* you smile."
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing there, the red dress clutched in my hands, and the realization that Micah—the *joker*, the *flirt*—might be the most *vulnerable* of them all.
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