Chapter 57
Chapter 57:
Dallas turned slowly. His hair was messy, falling over his forehead, and his golden eyes were heavy with a lazy, satisfied heat that made my knees weak despite my fury. His gaze dropped immediately to my neck. A slow, dark smirk curled the corner of his mouth.
“Good morning to you too, Adella p>
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me, Dallas!” I pointed a shaking finger at my throat. “Look at this! How am I supposed to cover this? I have to see Braydon tonight. I have to face the entire Hyde Pack p>
He took a step toward me, the predator awakening in his stance. “Let them look p>
“I am not a billboard for your ego!” I shouted, backing up as he advanced. “You left your marks on me like I’m some piece of territory you just conquered. You knew I needed to be professional tonight. You knew I needed to be taken seriously p>
“Taken seriously?” He stopped inches from me, his hand reaching out to trace the darkest mark right over my pulse point. His touch was electric, sending a shiver racing down my spine that betrayed my anger. “You were never going to be invisible, Adella. And yes, I made sure no one would forget whose bed you left p>
“Why?” I breathed, my voice cracking.
“Because I got carried away,” he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating through my chest. “And because I wanted to make sure that when you walk into that room, there is no question about where you came from p>
“You’re impossible,” I hissed, slapping his hand away. “I can’t wear the dress Azalea picked out. It’s strapless. I’ll look ridiculous p>
𝘚𝗁𝖺𝗿𝖾 𝘆о𝘶𝗿 𝘁h𝗼𝘂𝘨𝗁t𝘀 𝘰𝗻
“Then wear something else,” he said dismissively, turning back to the dresser to grab a fresh shirt. “Or wear nothing. I prefer that option p>
I let out a frustrated sound and stormed into the walk-in closet.
The emerald green gown hung there, mocking me. It was beautiful — and it exposed the shoulders and neck entirely, which was exactly what I couldn’t afford right now. I shoved it aside, my fingers frantically flipping through the hangers.
Too low. Too sheer. Too open.
My hand landed on cold, heavy silk. I pulled it out. It was a black, Victorian-inspired gown I had bought on a whim and never worn — long sleeves, a high lace collar that buttoned right up to the chin. It was severe. It was mourning clothes.
It was armor.
Twenty minutes later, I walked into the living room. My hair was pulled back into a tight, severe bun. The black silk swallowed my figure, the high collar hiding every inch of Dallas’s handiwork.
Dallas was pouring a glass of water at the bar. He paused mid-pour, his eyes raking over me. His brow furrowed.
“Hiding my work?” he asked, his tone flat.
“Hiding your vandalism,” I corrected icily, pulling on my black gloves. “If you think I’m going to give Braydon the satisfaction of seeing me bruised by you, you’re wrong. I’m going there with my dignity intact p>
Dallas set the glass down and walked toward me, his movements fluid and lethal. He didn’t look annoyed anymore. He looked amused.