The black dress was a masterpiece of implied threat. It was sleek, floor-length, with a high neck but a back that plunged to the base of my spine, held together by nothing but a whisper of delicate chain links. It was armor and vulnerability in one. Elena fastened the final link, her fingers cold.
"The chain is titanium," she said blandly. "It will not break."
Cassian was waiting in the foyer. When I descended the stairs, his eyes traveled over me with a slow, burning intensity that stripped away any pretense of this being just business. For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence was a roar.
"You look," he finally said, his voice husky, "like exactly what you are. Mine."
He didn't offer his arm. He closed the distance, his hand coming to rest on the bare skin of my back, his palm searing against the space between the chains. The contact was a jolt, a claim staked in my very nerves. "Stay close," he ordered, his breath warm against my ear. "And remember, every eye in that room will be on you, wondering how you tamed the beast. Let them wonder."
The gallery was a symphony of polished concrete and whispered money. Cassian's entrance caused a ripple, a sudden pocket of strained silence that gave way to louder chatter. He guided me through the crowd, his hand never leaving my back, a constant, possessive brand.
And then I saw him. Silas Vitalli. He was smaller than I imagined, with slicked-back hair and a smile that didn't reach his reptilian eyes. He was watching us from across the room, a champagne flute dangling from his fingers.
Cassian felt my slight stiffening. His fingers pressed imperceptibly into my spine. "Steady," he murmured, his lips barely moving. He led me directly toward a massive, violent splatter of red paint on canvas. "Our investment," he said loud enough for nearby patrons to hear, his tone dripping with false admiration. "Such… potent chaos."
As we admired the painting, Silas materialized beside us. "Cassian. I didn't know you had an interest in the abstract."
"I have an interest in many things, Silas. This is my partner." Cassian's hand slid possessively to my waist, pulling me tighter against his side. "You've heard, I'm sure, about the unfortunate pests that tried to invade my home recently. She was remarkably… undisturbed by it."
Silas's eyes flicked to me, and I gave him the smile Elena had drilled into me—polite, empty, and utterly cold. "Some noises in the night are hardly worth noting," I said, my voice steady.
A muscle in Silas's jaw twitched. Cassian had just told him, in no uncertain terms, that his attack had failed even to frighten his new prize. The air between the three of us crackled with unmasked hostility.
"How… resilient," Silas managed.
"She is," Cassian agreed, his tone conversational. "It's a quality I value. Well, we must circulate. Do enjoy the art, Silas. I understand you have a great deal invested here."
As we turned, Cassian's lips brushed my temple. A show of affection for the room. A message for Silas. But his whisper in my ear was pure ice: "He just confirmed it. The man who held the syringe that night is his nephew. He's here. Watching us right now."
My blood ran cold. Cassian had known. He'd brought me here not just to unnerve Silas, but to draw the snake out into the open. Every admiring glance, every whispered comment, now felt like a sniper's laser dot on my skin. I was on display in a room full of enemies, and the man whose hand was splayed on my back had just declared open war using me as the standard.