Page 184 of The Next Lie

Wear the green. Trust me.

I do trust him, which is either growth or further proof that I have lost the plot.

Sonny unzips the bag.

The dress slides into view in a fall of deep emerald satin.

For once, I say nothing.

It is beautiful in the kind of way that makes me nervous. Not soft. Not sweet. The bodice is structured and close-fitting, with thin straps and a low neckline that manages to look elegant instead of desperate. The waist is clean. The skirt skims over the hips and falls to the floor with a slit up one side high enough to cause problems if I forget how to sit.

The color is the thing, though.

Rich. Verdant. Alive. Sharp against all the black I have been hiding inside since I got here.

Sonny’s voice softens. “Oh, honey.”

“Too much?”

“No.” She touches the fabric with two fingers. “Exactly enough.”

I laugh under my breath, but my eyes sting. That’s inconvenient.

“It’s just a dress,” I say.

“You know better.”

I look away.

The room is too quiet for a second. Outside, men move around the house in low voices. Cars come and go on the drive. Somewhere below us, Nash is probably turning a gala invitation into a battle plan. Ever is checking feeds. Shiloh is pretending not to worry. Deacon is doing whatever assassins do before formal events, which I assume involves brooding near weapons.

And me?

I am standing in a bedroom while a girl I met what feels like mere weeks ago tries to make me beautiful enough to walk into a room full of people who want me dead.

Sonny takes my hand and squeezes once. “Sit.”

“So bossy.”

“Someone in your life has to be bossy.”

That provokes a snort. I sit at the vanity.

She starts with my hair. The curling iron heats while she brushes through my tangles with surprising gentleness. Homer sits on the vanity beside us, paws tucked beneath him, supervising the process like a furry dictator.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sonny tells him. “She needs volume.”

He blinks.

“Thank you for your input.”

Sonny works in sections, curling and pinning, then unpinning, then pulling the curls loose with her fingers until my hair falls over my shoulders in dark waves. She does my makeup next, quieter than usual. Foundation light enough that my skin still looks like skin. Gold at the lids. A sharper line at the eyes. A dark rose on my mouth.

“No red?” I ask.

“The room will be full of red tonight. Roses. Blood. Whatever theatrical nonsense cartel people like. We’re not giving them their color.”

That earns a real smile.