Off Limits
It was an armor—a gown with a high, razor-sharp neckline, long sleeves that tapered into points at the wrist, and a skirt that split just enough to hint at the danger beneath.
I pulled it on, the material fitting like a second skin. I walked to the full-length mirror and gasped. The reflection was not a girl, not a socialite, and not a victim. It was a weapon.
I felt a surge of adrenaline, a cold, focused rush of energy. I knew what I had to do. I grabbed my brushes, my pigments, my tools of the trade, and walked toward the vanity.
The simulation drill was about to begin.
Peter appeared in the hallway, dressed in a sharp, tailored black suit that looked more like a uniform than evening wear.