CHAPTER 10: THE FIVE MINUTE DARE

EMBER’S POV

The stylist team moves like a precision strike squad. In less than five seconds, my plate is cleared, a measuring tape is around my waist, and I'm in the grip of Simone, who radiates such withering beta energy I think even Knox would hesitate to cross her.

"Don't slouch," Simone snaps, fingers already in my hair. "Posture makes the woman."

I stand at rigid attention while another woman circles me, jotting numbers. Two men focus on the rolling racks, pulling out garment bags with reverence.

Knox fires off emails on his phone, then heads to the balcony with his coffee, leaving me to the professionals.

"Can we acknowledge how tragic this is?" Simone gestures at me still wearing Knox's oversized shirt. "You literally fled your marriage with nothing but the clothes on your back. Which means we're building your entire wardrobe from scratch."

She pulls out her phone, typing rapidly. "Emergency shopping list. Basics, statement pieces, enough options to get you through the next week without repeating a single look."

"Is that really necessary?" I ask.

Simone looks at me like I've grown a second head. "You're the Lycan King's girlfriend now. Yes, it's necessary. Your old life dressed you in invisible beige. Your new life? You're going to burn retinas."

She steers me toward a ring light. "Let's talk colors."

She studies my face, turning my chin. "Brown eyes with amber flecks. Olive undertones. And this hair—" She lifts a strand. "Long and unlayered. Let me guess, your miserable ex-husband loved them this way?"

I nod.

"Thought so." Simone's nostrils flare. "We're doing blunt ends, micro-layers to frame your face. Dangerous librarian meets heiress in hiding. We’re creating the sexiest doe-eyed. woman ever."

Next comes measuring. I'm stripped down to nothing while three sets of hands wrap, pinch, and jot notes. It should be mortifying but somehow it's clinical, professional.

"She's a 32D," the male assistant says reverently.

"Obviously. Size two waist but hips for days." Simone doesn't look up. "Everything needs tailoring."

The tan woman checks my legs. "God, these legs are fucking sexy. Do you ever show them off?"

"Not really," I say quietly. "Gale preferred longer skirts."

Another snorts. "Well, fuck that. Tonight everyone's going to see exactly how stunning they are in killer heels."

"First event is the Welcome Dinner tonight at seven," Simone announces. "Theme is Arctic Royalty. You need to look like a queen who eats ex-girlfriends for breakfast."

She opens a garment bag. Inside is the most intimidating black dress I've ever seen—something between velvet and liquid sin, deep V-neck, thigh-high slit.

"Isn't that a little much?" I squeak.

"Not for you." Simone's tone softens. "The goal is to make you impossible to ignore."

The next hour blurs—hair trim, citrus face mask, subtle spray tan. Then Simone sets three boxes in front of me.

"Lingerie. Pick one. Or I'll pick for you."

White and innocent. Red and dangerous. Black and unforgettable.

"Which would Gale have picked?" Simone asks, eyes sharp.

"The white."

She slides it aside. "Then not that."

She holds up the black set—delicate lace bra with embroidered petals, panties that are more air than fabric, garter belt that looks like the sexiest weapon of mass destruction.

"This. It's not just for him. It's for you. If you feel powerful underneath, you'll carry it outside."

I take the box with shaking hands and disappear into the bathroom.

The garter belt is an ordeal—I've never worn one—and the stockings are so fine I'm terrified of ripping them. But when I finally look in the mirror, I freeze.

I don't look like a scared omega anymore.

I look dangerous.

The dress slides over the lingerie like a secret. The neckline plunges but flatters. The slit shows just enough thigh to promise without revealing. My hair, blown out and slightly messy, looks intentionally wild.

I forget about Gale. Even Knox.

I just see myself.

Stunning.

When I open the bathroom door, the team collectively gasps.

Even Simone whistles low. "Now that is a fucking entrance."

She makes me spin. "You're going to cause a riot in this."

The tan woman beams. "You look lethal. In the best way."

Simone touches my cheek. "Walk with confidence tonight. You're untouchable."

There's movement behind them.

Knox stands in the doorway, phone forgotten in his hand. He goes completely still.

His eyes drag over every inch of me—slowly, possessively, hungrily. The gold in his irises flares brighter, almost molten. His jaw tightens visibly.

The air in the room changes. Gets heavier. Hotter.

Nobody moves. Even I forget how to breathe.

"Well?" My voice comes out breathier than intended. "Is it too much?"

Knox doesn't answer immediately. He just stares at me like I'm something he wants to devour. When he finally moves, it's with that predatory grace that makes my stomach flip.

He doesn't stop until he's right in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"Not enough," he says, voice rough and low.

Then he turns to the team without breaking eye contact with me.

"Everyone out. Five minutes."

Simone's lips curve knowingly. "Five minutes. Got it."

The team vanishes, the door clicking shut behind them.

Knox locks it.

The sound makes my pulse spike.

He circles me slowly, and I feel his gaze like the sweetest caress—burning across my shoulders, down my spine, over the curve of my ass. When he's behind me, his fingers find the zipper and drag it down in one smooth motion.

The dress pools at my feet.

His sharp inhale is audible.

"Turn around."

I do, and his eyes go dark when he sees the black lace, the garter belt, the sheer stockings framing my thighs.

"You know what this does to me?" His voice is rough, strained. "Seeing you like this?"

"I thought you preferred me in oversized shirts," I tease, mostly to cover the fact that I can't breathe.

"I prefer you naked," he growls, pulling me against him, his mouth finding my ear. "But this is a close second."

His hands settle on my waist, thumbs stroking the delicate lace at my hips. He backs me against the wall, one hand braced beside my head, body crowding mine.

His other hand traces the edge of the lace bra, then lower, over my stomach, my hip, before gripping my ass through the delicate fabric.

"This body. Fuck." His hand slides back up, fingertips tracing where the stocking meets bare skin. "You know what kills me? That pathetic bastard had access to all of this and never once made you feel like the goddess you are."

Heat floods through me. "The team will be back in—"

"Four minutes now." He drops to his knees, hands sliding up my thighs, stopping at the lace edge of the stockings. His breath is hot against the barely-there fabric between my legs. "More than enough time."

"Knox, we can't—"

He hooks one finger in the lace and pulls it aside. "Can't? Or won't?"

My head falls back against the wall.

"That's not—you can't just—"

His tongue finds me and I lose all capacity for coherent thought.

"Still think I can't?" He pulls back just enough to look up at me, eyes wicked and hungry. His hands grip my hips possessively. "I'm going to make you come before they knock on that door."

"That's impossible," I gasp.

His smile is dirty with pure wicked intent. He hooks my leg over his shoulder, opening me wider, and the new angle makes me whimper.

"Let's make this interesting." His breath ghosts over my wet skin. "Count down from sixty. If you make it to zero, I'll stop. If you come before that, I win."