Page 20 of Stolen
Only, I’m pretty sure this isn’t a boardroom or a palace.
And also? I’m probably either dead or unconscious.
Because none of this feels real.
The glowing walls. The dress made of starlight. The man—no, not a man—who saved me from creeps in an alley and then somehow teleported me to this place that feels more dream than dimension.
So yeah. I’m definitely making this up.
A coma fantasy. Brain misfire. Final hallucination.
Before I can spiral, though, his voice slices through my panic.
“I assure you, you are very much alive, Jules Strano. Now,” he says, giving the dress a little shake. “The dress?”
I blink. “You know my name?”
“I know a lot of things about you,Myrrin,” he says, and it should sound arrogant, but somehow doesn’t. “Now. Will you put it on?”
I hesitate. “Could I maybe get some privacy?”
He frowns like I just asked him to explain cryptocurrency. “Privacy?”
“I’m not exactly an exhibitionist,” I mutter, tugging the blanket tighter around me. “I’m a big girl. Fat, okay? Not everyone’s seven feet tall and built like a professional athlete, for Pete's sake.”
His head tilts. Slowly. Like he’s genuinely trying to solve a puzzle.
“You think you’re big?”
“Yes,” I say, defensive now. “I know I don’t look like one of your ethereal elf women or whatever the standard is here in Nightfall, and I’m not trying to be all that. I just don’t want to, I don’t know. Make a scene or something.”
He stares at me another beat, then says, perfectly serious, “I assure you,Myrrin, you look exactly how a female should. And as for big? I am enormous. You are exactly my scale.”
I blink. “What?”
“You match me,” he adds, voice quieter. “Perfectly.”
Oh.
Oh no.
He turns, giving me his back with a quiet murmur. “If modesty calms you, I will not watch.”
But I catch him in the mirror.
A flicker.
A slight narrowing of his dark brows.
His eyes, a strange mix of silver and obsidian, glowing faintly, tracking me through the reflection like he forgot mirrors exist.
And still, despite everything, in spite of the surreal setting and the intensity of him and the creeping certainty that I’m in way over my head—I do feel calm.
Just like he said I would.
I slip the dress over my head.
It glides down, weighing nothing at all.
