Chapter 7: The Waltz of Wolves

The dress was a scandal stitched in midnight blue silk.

It lay on the bed in the North Tower, shimmering in the gloom like a slice of the night sky. It was not a servant’s dress. It was cut low in the back, fitted through the bodice, and slit high up the leg—a garment designed for a mistress, for a woman kept and displayed.

Saoirse stared at it, her stomach churning with a mix of shame and nausea. The belladonna drops were already working; the edges of the dress blurred and swam in her vision.

"Put it on," Tristan said from the washbasin. He was shaving, the razor scraping against his jaw with a rhythmic shuck-shuck.

"It’s indecent," Saoirse whispered, clutching her rough wool tunic.

"It’s a costume," Tristan corrected, wiping soap from his face. He turned to look at her. He was dressed for war disguised as a party—black breeches, high polished boots, and a coat of deep charcoal velvet with silver buttons. He looked devastatingly handsome and entirely dangerous.

"The Iron Lords are he