I turned around, gave her my back. “Zipper?”
“Ah,” she said with a nod, and strode forward, apparently nonplussed at the sight of the bare most of me.
“I like your hair like this,” she said, pulling the sides of the dress together and raising the zipper with a satisfying zwip. “There’s a hook at the top,” she added, fastening it, then plucking at tulle and taffeta until she was satisfied.
“Very nice. Turn around.”
I followed her directions, mostly relieved I wasn’t hanging loose anymore, watched her nod.
“Very nice, indeed.”
Apparently not content with playing at the dress, she fluffed parts of my hair, tucked in others. “This is fun. It’s like you’re my own vampire Barbie.”
She stepped back, hands on her hips, nodding as she looked me over. “Shoes?”
“Box on the bed.” Since there was little chance I was bending over to lace up the ribbons, I lifted the flare of the dress and let her tuck me into the shoes like Cinderella.
The heels were high, but the fit was good, snug. “I think I could run in these,” I said, taking a few in-place steps.
“I doubt you’ll need to sprint at Adrien Reed’s house, but it’s probably best to be prepared.” She pointed to the closet, which held a floor-length mirror. “You want a look-see?”
“Yeah, I think I do.”
She stepped aside while I carefully traversed the bedroom, trying not to snag the dress’s flare on the heels or the spindly legs of Ethan’s antiques.
The sound I made when I saw myself wasn’t far off from the sound I’d made when I’d first seen the dress. I still looked like me, but sheathed in a gown that might have been worn by an actress on the red carpet, my hair softer than its usual knife-edge bangs and ponytail, I seemed softer. Not just a girl with immaculate comic timing and fine katana skills, but a woman who could hold her own with the city’s elite.
That reminded me—I’d need something to hold my phone, so I grabbed a simple black clutch from the closet.
I’d just stepped into the bedroom again when the doors opened, and Ethan strode in like a man who owned the world.
He wore a superbly tailored black tuxedo—pants, two-button jacket, and bow tie—that accentuated his lean frame. He’d slicked back his thick golden hair, tying it at the nape of his neck, which enhanced his already striking features—cheekbones cut from marble, sculpted lips, piercing eyes.
He didn’t catch our appreciative looks, because his gaze was on his watch. “I hope you’re ready, because we’re already behind.”
“Ahem,” Lindsey said. “Sire?”
At the sound of her voice, he looked up, his gaze shifting from Lindsey to me, his eyes going enormous. “Sentinel.”
Lindsey lifted a finger, pointed it at the door. “And I’m just going to take that as my cue to leave. You know, before the panting and heavy petting.”
Neither of us said a word as she slipped out.
Ethan took a step forward, then another. “I am . . . speechless. You look absolutely beautiful. Statuesque. Exotic. Poetic. Not that you aren’t usually beautiful, but this is . . .”
“Different,” I finished with a smile.
“Yes. Different.” He touched a lock of hair, spun the curl around his finger. “Another side of you, of my dedicated Sentinel.”
He lifted my hand, turned my palm, pressed his lips to the pulse in my wrist. The kiss—the connection, the love, the magic—sent sensation up my arm, down my spine again.
“You look very handsome, too.”
He arched an eyebrow with obviously wicked intent. “Do I?”
“You know you do, so don’t pretend otherwise. You look like a prince.”
He laughed heartily. “I am very much not—was not ever—a prince. I was, and remain, a soldier.” He squeezed my hand. “Your soldier, as you are mine.”