Page 81 of Guarded from Treachery

My chest fizzes with happiness. “I think he will, too. And he loves it when I wear purple.”

“Well, it does set off your eyes,” she agrees. “You know, I’ve never met anyone with violet eyes before. My mother used to rave about Liz Taylor’s eye color, saying how she wished she had the same shade.”

“They’re not really violet.” I spin in front of the mirror, watching the skirt flare around my legs. “It’s really a dark blue. Only people with albinism can have truly violet eyes. But mine pick up the light in a way that makes them look purple most of the time.”

“Hmm. How did I not know that?” Rhiannon laughs, her face lighting up with it. “I only trained as a medic and took a bunch of biology and science classes.”

“They don’t really talk about violet, though. Just blue and brown. Remember the Punnet square?”

“Oh, yeah.” She glances over her shoulder towards the hallway. The soft rumble of men’s voices filters down the hall, punctuated by a short burst of laughter that I recognize as coming from Matt. “I remember. And I was so mad when I learned how it was both my parents’ faults that I wasn’t a blonde.”

“You wanted to be a blonde?” I can’t imagine her with anything but glossy chestnut hair.

“Back then I did. But I lived in L.A. So—” She shrugs. “It kind of went with the territory. Now I’m happy with what I have.”

“Me too.” I pause in front of the mirror a final time, assessing. “I think I’m going to get this one.”

“Definitely. And try the black one next. It’s simple, but so?—”

Rhiannon stops. Her body tenses. Her relaxed expression shifts to alarm.

In a low tone, she starts to say, “Isla?—”

But before she can finish, there’s a distinctive click.

A click I wish I didn’t recognize.

Rhiannon reaches under her shirt for the gun I know is tucked into a holster at her waist.

But even as she’s about to pull it out, a man steps into the dressing room, the barrel of his gun pointed directly at her.

I can see her posture go rigid. Her jaw goes hard. Intensity flares in her eyes.

I press against the wall, as if somehow, in my purple dress, I’ll magically turn into a chameleon and blend into the background.

“Don’t move,” the man hisses. His face is covered with a knit mask, so only his eyes and unruly brows are visible. A scar cuts through one of them, leaving a white line behind. There’s a coldness to his gaze, and it sends a shiver through me.

Despite his instructions, Rhiannon takes a slow step to the side, moving closer to me.

My heart slams hard against my chest.

My throat constricts.

Instinctively, my hands come to cover my belly.

Oh, God.

He’s here for me. There’s no other answer.

“Don’t,” Rhiannon says quietly. “This isn’t a good idea.”

She could take him down. I’ve seen her practicing self-defense with the guys, and she’s just as good as any of them.

For a second, I think she’s going to try.

Then.

A second man joins the first.

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