I glance at him through the mirror, trying to read his expression. There's something there—a flicker of something—before his mask slips back into place. He's proud of himself. Too proud, actually.
Oh, I would love to see you choke me bastard.
Only then do I notice his attire and my eyes catch. Midnight blue, embroidered with sapphires, his coat clinging to his broad shoulders like a second skin. The open silk shirt beneath reveals just enough of his collarbone to tease. Everything about him radiates darkness and decadence, as though he's stepped out of a story where villains are the ones you root for.
Forget the room, the dagger at my thigh, the fact that this man could kill me without blinking. Forget everything except the way he looks like someone else entirely—someone untouchable.
Then he catches me staring.
"I don't have shoes," Great, I find the most relatable thing to say in the least amount of time.
