He said nothing as he handed her a bag, narrow and dark. It was wrinkled from being tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Arthie took it and waited for an explanation, but when he remained quiet, she glanced inside to see something in purple—no, gray. She tilted it to the storeroom light.
It was mauve, the color of her hair, in a fabric she recognized.
“A sari,” Arthie whispered.
“You’ve never once skimped on appearances. The woman at Hira House had your measurements from the last time you ordered and assured me this was the latest style.”
Arthie couldn’t contain her shock. “You went to Hira House.”
“Of course. We’re exposing the Ram, and I know you like your statements.”
Arthie gave him a look, becausehewas the one who cared about making a statement. It was stunning, the fabric lustrous and silky.
“Plusit’s your color,andit has pockets.”
“Pockets?” Arthie asked, unsure how such a thing could exist on a sari.
Matteo nodded, utterly pleased. It was almost endearing.
“Thank you.”
The words were foreign in her mouth, like she was attempting to talk through a mouthful of stones. She meant them though. Itwasher color. She had chosen red for her sari for the Athereum meeting to match the one her mother had worn to her death, and it had become Arthie’s death shroud in turn.
But this—Arthie opened the bag and pulled it out. This was hers and hers alone.
She had almost decided to never wear a sari again, but that was wrong of her. She was Ceylani. She would be Ceylani forever—asCeylani as she was Ettenian, which was a strange thought when she’d lived her years thinking she could be only one or the other.
And a sari was exactly what this Ettenian vicennial and tribute required.
Matteo turned away to give her privacy, and Arthie bit her cheek, wondering what would happen if she asked him to turn back around. If she were to ask him to help her undress. She couldn’t fathom saying anything of the sort, but it was quite the thought to have when one was cold.
Arthie made quick work of donning the sari, emptying what little she had in her pockets and transferring it to the far smaller ones. It felt even more luxurious on her body, the fabric a decadent weight as she gathered it around herself, adjusting it several times to align the pockets just right, the mauve turning iridescent in the light. It felt like petals brushing her skin, like kisses whispering against every inch of her.
Matteo inhaled sharply, and the sound shot straight to her core.
“You look—”
“Don’t say pretty,” Arthie said.
“Don’t insult my creative prowess,” Matteo said with a sniff. But she didn’t need to hear his words to know what he thought of her. It was written clearly in his green eyes. “I have not wished to paint for a long while now, but I would love nothing more in this moment.”
She smiled and couldn’t think of what to say, shocking herself with her own shyness.
“No response?” he asked. “Have I thwarted the great Arthie Casimir again?”
“What am I supposed to say? I would pull off a heist for you if it meant you were the prize?”
He laughed. A full-bodied laugh that Arthie had never once heard from him before. He threw back his head, fangs in full display, throatlike that of a sculpted statue. And the sound—goodness, the sound of his laugh was enough for a vampire to subsist upon for a century.
Arthie didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want reality to rush back into their lives, and it was a harrowing realization: She wanted to live. If only for a day, if only for a moment. She had spent so many years tied up in her need for vengeance, in her need to keep Spindrift running, in her need to keep her head held high in a country that wanted to squash her.
She hadn’t known how truly tired she had become.
Matteo stepped close to her, glancing from his outfit to hers. “We make a good pair, you and I.”
“Oh, do we?” she asked.
“Dashing and deadly,” Matteo said with a nod, the motion rubbing his arm against her bare skin. He noticed. “Oh, my apologies.” He pulled away. “Here, this would be better.”
