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“May I?” Buric asks as he takes the measuring tape from his neck. I nod, and he pulls Emily aside, quickly and efficiently getting her size. Once he’s finished jotting down numbers, he hands them off to the seamstresses.
And true to his reputation, Buric has the new, combined dress ready to go in little under an hour.
It’s not complete—that would be impossible—but the two dresses have been combined in a way that shows a glimpse of how the finished version might look.
“There!” he declares, gesturing proudly at the garment. “What do you think?”
Emily cranes her neck to study the dress. She circles it, and as her frown dips, so does my own mood.
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t?” I blurt simultaneously with Buric.
“No.” Shaking her head, she turns her back on us and returns to eyeing the other dresses. “Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. That dress will be too hot and heavy for the weather. I need something more appropriate, like … this one.” She pulls a floor-length gown.
The one she picks is completely different from the ostentatious one that she had just been cooing over. Thin straps hold it at the shoulder, and its surface has no jewels or pearls.
Buric gazes despondently at the cut-up pair of dresses. He won’t say it out loud, but he’s mourning the loss of several hundreds of thousands of Euros.
Herharrumphmakes my hair stand on end. “Never mind, this one won’t work either. Unless …”
Gritting my teeth, I move quickly toward Emily.
She sees me coming and holds her ground. She doesn’t cower. If anything, I spot a sly smirk.
“Is everything okay,Kostya?I was about to ask if they can alter this gown.” Her fingers fly quickly to the neckline. “Ilovethe purple here, but I would prefer something …” She smiles sweetly.
I see what she’s about to do before she does it.
“More likethis.”
Before either Buric or I can stop her, she gives it a sharp yank.
The sound of ripping fabric is joined by Buric’s horrified cry as he watches Emily rip open the neckline of the dress.
My hands ball into fists. It takes every ounce of control I have to not lash out and say something and do something. It’s been years since I’ve had to work this hard to control my emotions. The last time I failed, my life was turned upside down. I refuse to have another repeat ofanythinglike that.
She’s a tool, I remind myself.Tools don’t dictate their use.
“Leave us.” I glare at Emily as I command everyone else. “Now!”
Buric and the seamstresses scuttle past us, and when the door clicks shut to indicate that we’re alone, that’s when Emily’s smile evaporates. Something shifts behind her sapphire-blue eyes. It’s not quite fear. But it’s also not defiance.
It’s something else. Something I’ve seen before.
Awildnesslurking just beneath the surface.
A wildness that demands to be tamed.
“Do you think this is a game?” I lean in and trap her between my arms.
“Isn’t it?” she whispers. “You’re the one that said I should be convincing, remember? What’s more convincing than a bride who is soexactingabout what she wants her dress to be that she’s constantly making unreasonable demands?”
Her scent is overwhelming, and I feel my control slowly slipping. The tightness in my pants grows ever tighter, and my cockachesfor release.
To remind her that she’s just a tool forme.
ThatI’mstill in control.
