The dress arrives at my dorm two hours before the party.
Silver fabric, crimson accents, hem that stops mid-thigh—Rhys's colors wrapped around my body like a brand. The note attached says only: Wear this. —R
Dressed like a doll. His doll. My fingers trace the fabric, and a shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the temperature.
I slide the dress over my skin and study myself in the mirror, watching the way the silver catches the light. The dress fits perfectly—he must have guessed my measurements, which is either flattering or creepy, and I haven't decided which.
The party is at Aaron's family estate, some sprawling mansion on the outskirts of town that screams old money and older blood. The combined team won their first match by fourteen points, and apparently vampires celebrate victories by throwing parties that would make Roman emperors jealous.
Rhys meets me at the entrance, and his eyes travel down my body slowly enough to make my skin heat.
"It fits." His voice is low, satisfied.
"Did you doubt your own taste?"
"Never." His hand finds my lower back, guiding me inside. "Stay close tonight."
The mansion is packed with bodies—players, students, people I don't recognize who all seem to know Rhys. Music pulses through the walls, bass vibrating in my chest. Someone presses a drink into my hand, and I take a long swallow before I can think better of it.
Rhys keeps me at his side the entire night. His hand migrates from my lower back to my hip to my thigh when we sit, fingers tracing patterns on my bare skin that make it hard to follow conversations. He introduces me to vampires whose names I immediately forget, his arm wrapped around my waist, his lips brushing my temple between sentences.
"You're doing well." He murmurs it against my ear during a lull, and his breath raises goosebumps down my neck. "Very convincing."
"Maybe I'm not acting."
His fingers tighten on my thigh. "Careful. Statements like that have consequences."
Two drinks in, and my head feels pleasantly fuzzy. Three drinks, and I'm leaning into him without meaning to, drawn by the cold heat of his body and the way his hand keeps sliding higher on my leg.
"I need air." The words come out breathier than intended. "Too many people."
"I know a place." He takes my hand and pulls me through the crowd, navigating the mansion like he's been here a hundred times. We pass through a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and suddenly we're in an empty sitting room, the door clicking shut behind us.
The silence is deafening after the noise of the party. My ears ring in the sudden quiet.
"Better?" He's watching me with an expression I can't read.
"Better." I lean against the door, letting the cool wood press against my bare shoulders. "Thanks for getting me out of there."
"You looked like you were about to crawl out of your skin." He moves closer, and my pulse kicks up. "Can't have my girlfriend falling apart in public."
"Your girlfriend." The word feels strange on my tongue. "Is that what I am?"
"That's what we agreed." He stops inches away, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Unless you're having second thoughts."
"No second thoughts." The words come out breathier than intended. "Just... it's different. Being here with you. Everyone watching."
"Is it pretending?" His voice drops. "Because your body doesn't seem to think so."
"We should practice." The words slip out before I can stop them. "In case someone walks in—we should look convincing."
His mouth curves into something dangerous. "Practice."
"For the act."
"Of course." He braces one hand against the door beside my head, caging me in. "Just practice."
His lips brush mine—testing, questioning. I answer by fisting my hand in his shirt and pulling him closer.
The kiss ignites.
His mouth is cold and tastes like expensive whiskey, and I open for him without hesitation. His tongue slides against mine, and I make a sound I'll be embarrassed about later—something between a gasp and a moan that vibrates through both of us.
"Sloane." My name comes out rough, wrecked. His hands find my waist, lifting me until my back presses flat against the door and my legs wrap around his hips. The position puts us eye to eye, mouth to mouth, his body pinning me in place.
"This doesn't feel like practice," I manage between kisses.
"No." He drags his lips down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point. "It doesn't."
His hand slides under my dress, palm hot against my thigh, fingers tracing higher. I arch into him, my own hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer even though there's no space left between us.
"We should stop." He says it against my neck, but his hand keeps moving, fingertips brushing the edge of my underwear. "Someone could—"
"Don't stop."
He groans—a sound that vibrates through my entire body—and his fingers slip beneath the fabric. My head falls back against the door, eyes closing, every nerve ending focused on the point where his hand meets my skin.
"Look at me." His voice is command and plea wrapped together. "I want to see you."
I force my eyes open. His face is inches from mine, gray eyes almost black with want, jaw tight with restraint that's visibly crumbling.
"Lie to me." His fingers move, and my breath shatters. "Tell me you're still pretending."
I can't—I can't say anything because his touch is doing things that white out my thoughts, and all I can do is grip his shoulders and hold on.
Footsteps in the hallway. We both freeze. His hand stills between my thighs, and we stare at each other, breathing hard.
The footsteps get closer. Stop outside the door.
The handle rattles. Rhys pulls his hand free and sets me on my feet in one fluid motion, and I straighten my dress with shaking fingers—trying to make myself look like someone who wasn't just pinned against a door with a vampire's hand between her legs.
"Occupied!" Rhys calls out, his voice remarkably steady.
A pause, then the footsteps retreat.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we almost did. My lips are swollen, my dress is rumpled, and I can still feel the ghost of his fingers on my skin.
"We should go back." His voice is rough, strained. "Before anyone notices we're gone."
"Yeah." I don't move, and neither does he.
"Sloane."
"I know." I take a breath, then another. "Just give me a minute."
He nods, running a hand through his hair—the hair I was gripping thirty seconds ago. We stand there in the dim room, not touching, not speaking, until my heart rate returns to something approaching normal.
We slip back into the party separately. I find a bathroom to fix my makeup, splash cold water on my face, remind myself that this is fake—an arrangement, a business deal with benefits I didn't anticipate.
When I emerge, I scan the crowd for Rhys. He's not in the main room, not by the bar, not in any of the places I expect him to be.
I find him in a side hallway, half-hidden by a marble column, and he's not alone.
An older vampire stands in front of him—silver-haired, impeccably dressed, radiating the kind of power that makes the air feel heavy. I don't recognize him, but everything about his posture screams authority. Elder. Someone important. And Rhys's body language is all wrong.
His shoulders are curved inward, his head slightly bowed—submissive, afraid. The arrogant vampire prince who threw a man into a wall for touching me now looks like a child being scolded.
The elder says something I can't hear, and Rhys flinches—actually flinches—before nodding once. Then the elder turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
Rhys stays frozen for a long moment, staring at nothing. When he finally moves, his hands are shaking.
I pull back behind the column before he can see me, heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. What power does that man hold over Rhys? What could make the vampire prince—the same one who promised to deliver heads in gift boxes—look so utterly terrified?
I thought I was starting to understand him. Starting to see beneath the mask. Now I realize I don't know him at all.