Unwanted Corsets

“I can walk,” I snapped, brushing off the last of the chains and blood.

“Clearly,” Gwynne said, eyes drifting down and then snapping up again with exaggerated innocence. “Though it might be more believable if you weren’t swaying like a drunk deer on ice.”

I shot him a glare sharp enough to cut stone. He only grinned.

“Right then, fashion emergency first. Come along, Arabella... What does he call you?”

“Lucien thinks he's charming. I’m not putting on some vampire gown just so I can be paraded around like a dressed-up corpse.”

Gwynne wiggled his brows. “You say that now, but wait till you see the corset.”

“I will kill you.”

“Not before you try, apparently.” He whistled low under his breath as he guided me down a corridor lined with flickering sconces and crimson drapes, talking as though we were headed to afternoon tea instead of outfitting me for captivity. “Honestly, Lucien should thank me. This whole ‘chains and sulking’ aesthetic isn’t working. Time for some courtly charm and couture.”

The halls twisted and wound like veins, and I stayed a step behind him, resisting the urge to launch at his back. Without a weapon, my fists would barely make a dent.

We passed through a tall archway into a lavish dressing chamber draped in velvet and mirror-glass. It was ridiculous—like someone had let a vampire interior designer loose with a royalty fetish and no budget.

Gwynne clapped his hands. “Voilà. Welcome to fashion rehab.”

“I’m not putting any of this on.”

“You say that, but”—he strolled to a rack lined with garments in deep jewel tones and flourished a dress at me—“Lucien said no more bloodstained leather. Apparently, it clashes with the aesthetic.”

I lunged.

My fist aimed for his jaw with surgical precision. I’d knocked out men twice his size. But he moved like wind—grabbing my wrist mid-swing and spinning me with infuriating ease, my back pressing against his chest in a movement too graceful to be accidental.

“Ohhh,” he murmured, lips brushing close to my ear. “You’re quick.”

I elbowed him in the ribs.

He grunted but didn’t let go. “Fiery, too. Do you threaten everyone trying to improve your wardrobe, or am I special?”

I twisted again, this time to knee him, but he caught that too. Both wrists in one of his hands now, my leg hooked mid-air in the other. Trapped.

His voice lowered, a honeyed warmth laced with something older. Something seductive. “You know, if you try to kill me again, it won't just be your waist in my hands—I'll seize your heart.”

My heart stuttered as though he had squeezed it, testing me.

“I’m not joking,” he said, eyes gleaming, his charm pressing into me like a warm fog. “It’s a terrible curse. I bat my lashes, and people go stupid.”

“I’m immune.”

He laughed—a low, rich sound that made my stomach twist with unwelcome heat. “Oh, no. You’re just resistant. That’s so much more fun.”

And just like that, he released me. I stumbled back, glaring, breath uneven.

“Try again and I’ll dress you myself,” he warned, sauntering to a vanity like we hadn’t just wrestled. “And I guarantee I’ll lace the corset too tight just to spite you.”

“You are insufferable.”

“Yes, and devastatingly handsome. Now,” he held up the gown—a deep midnight blue with silver embroidery across the bodice and sweeping skirts that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. “Shall we put you in something that says ‘dangerous hostage’ instead of ‘escaped gladiator’?”

I scowled. Hard. “I hate it.”

“You haven’t even tried it on.”

“I hate it on principle.”

Ten minutes later, I was laced into the monstrosity. The corset was somehow both suffocating and spine-snapping. The fabric clung to my body in ways that felt suspiciously strategic, and the slit up the thigh did nothing to help my fighting stance.

Gwynne circled me slowly, arms crossed, expression positively delighted.

“You look positively murderous. It suits you.”

“If I die in this thing, it’s on your conscience.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said with a wink, “I lost that centuries ago.”

I twisted at the waist, glaring down at the corset like I might will it to disintegrate.

“Breathe in,” Gwynne said from his perch on a nearby velvet chaise, “and stop looking at me like that. I didn’t invent corsets. I’m merely their humble, cruel emissary.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Painfully,” he said, grinning. “And by the way, you’re welcome. You’ve never looked so dangerously elegant.”

I turned slowly, arms crossed. “Why the dress, Gwynne? Why the sudden royal treatment? What am I being dressed up for?”

He tilted his head, smile cooling into something more restrained. “Ah. There it is. The real question.”

He stood and took a few leisurely steps toward me, his hands sliding into his pockets, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. “Lucien isn’t planning to kill you, Arabella. He’s planning to keep you.”

A pause stretched between us.

“Keep me,” I repeated flatly.

“Yes. As in, in the castle. With us. Indefinitely.”

I stared at him. “Is that supposed to sound better than kill?”

“Well, depends on your definition of better.” His smile returned, softer now, a little more careful. “He’s… tired. Has been for a while. But you—”

“Don’t say I’m different.”

“Oh, gods, no. You’re not different. You’re infuriating, stabby, and so full of righteous rage it’s practically leaking out your ears.” He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Which is why he likes you.”

“I tried to kill him.”

“You try to kill everyone. You tried to kill me.”

“I try to kill vampires. I still might.”

Gwynne grinned. “That’s part of the appeal,” Gwynne said simply, and damn him, he meant it.

I swallowed, hating the unease curling under my ribs.

He took a slow breath. “He won’t chain you again. Not unless you make him. But he’s not letting you go, Arabella. Not now. He’ll woo you, if he has to. Or wear you down. Maybe both. Either way, you’re not just some prisoner anymore. You’re…” He hesitated. “Something else. Something he’s claimed.”

“I'm not a thing to be claimed,” I snapped.

“No,” Gwynne agreed, voice gentling, “you’re not. But you walked into the wolf’s den, and the wolf decided not to eat you. He decided to keep you warm.”

My breath caught. “You think I’ll fall for him?” I asked.

He smiled again, slower now, something speculative behind it. “I think… you’re already tangled in ways you haven’t admitted yet.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Good,” Gwynne said lightly. “Prove it.”

He turned, then hesitated at the door, glancing back at me. “Tonight, there’s a gathering. Formal. You’ll be presented.”

“Presented like what?” I asked, throat tightening.

“Like what you are now,” he said, his tone almost—almost—apologetic. “A guest of the court. A curiosity. A warning. Maybe even… a future queen, if Lucien gets his way.”

And with a wink and an infuriating little bow, he added, “Don’t worry. I’ll be nearby to stop you from murdering anyone. Or at least to make it look like an accident.”

Then he slipped out, leaving the door open behind him and my world a little smaller than before.