Waking up to my sin
The gala was less than six hours away, and the preparation felt less like getting ready for a party and more like a soldier calibrating a weapon.
I stood in the center of the dressing room, a space of mirrors and white marble that reflected my silhouette from a dozen different angles. On the bed lay the dress Malakai had promised. It was a masterpiece of dark intent—a floor-length gown of midnight-black silk, overlaid with intricate, hand-stitched lace that looked like creeping shadows. The neckline was a sharp V that stopped just above my ribs, and the back was completely open, a daring expanse of skin that would showcase every line of my resolve.