Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires, #12)(48)

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested naming me Sentinel was a mistake. But it was the first time I really believed he meant it.

“Your skills, your brains, your heart. The fact that you always want to do more and better—”

“Are because you named me Sentinel,” I finished for him. “Because you gave me a position that let those parts of me grow and flourish.”

“I don’t disagree,” Ethan said, stepping forward. “But none of that matters if Reed puts a target on you. I won’t let that happen, Merit. Not when he’s already proven he knows how to get to me.” His eyes clouded with fury. He was thinking about the Imposter, about what he’d done to me and tried to do to Ethan.

“I can’t be less than what I am,” I said. “Not now. Not after all this time.” Because, after all that time, after feeling for so long that I’d only been playing Sentinel, putting on a costume that wasn’t entirely mine, I’d become her. I’d become the guardian and warrior he’d wanted me to be. It was too late for me to step back, to let others fight the battles I’d been trained for, that I was now eager to fight.

Maybe he should have been more careful in what he’d wished for.

“I know. And I can’t, either. I’m going to the event,” he said into the silence that followed his declaration, “and I’m going to talk to Adrien Reed because that’s what needs to be done. Reed expects us to play his game—to react to the stimuli that he throws at us.”

“You think he didn’t anticipate this? That you’d see the note and call him out?”

“Maybe,” Ethan said. “Probably. But I doubt he thinks we’ll do it in a public place.”

I didn’t think that was true, not at all. But there wasn’t a point in arguing with him. He’d go, even if he went without me. And I’d be damned if he did it without me.

“I want it on record that I don’t think this is the right course.”

His eyebrows lifted. I argued with him, sure, but that was ego and banter. It wasn’t often that I told him his strategy was flat-out wrong.

“But that doesn’t matter,” I said. “Because I’m going with you regardless.” And that was almost not the worst part. “What do I have to wear?”

“It’s black tie. I’ll find you something.”

That was just what I was afraid of.

? ? ?

I guess it could have been called a gown, although that might have been generous. Couture, definitely. Edgy, certainly. But “gown” just didn’t quite fit.

There were two pieces two it, both in the deep, rich black that Ethan preferred. The first was a stiff black romper—a heart-shaped sleeveless bodice that fit as snugly as a corset and ended in a pair of hot-pant-style shorts. They covered what they needed to cover, but just barely.

And that was where the second piece came in. It was a skirt made of layers of inky black silk, one of Ethan’s favorite fabrics. It connected to the romper at the waist but was open in the front. When I stood still, it looked like I was wearing a sleeveless black ball gown. But when I moved, the silk split, revealing the shorts, my legs, and the black, strappy stiletto sandals Ethan had also provided.

I walked to the other end of the apartment, did the full catwalk toward the floor-length mirror on the way back, watched the skirt flare around and behind me as I moved. It was going to be hard to stay pissed at him in a “dress” that looked this good. It fit like a glove, made my legs look a million miles long, and even managed to pump up my slender curves.

I pulled my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck, added delicate pearl earrings that were part of my own family’s legacy, and looked, as I often did when Ethan selected my ensemble, pretty fabulous.

He was an imperious ass, but he knew how to make an impact.

There were whoops of excitement coming from the open doors of the Ops Room.

When I looked in, Luc, tousled hair falling over his brow, was bent over the conference table. In front of him was a small bundle of paper folded into a triangle. Lindsey sat at the other end, elbows on the table, her fingers and index fingers arranged in a set of mock uprights. He balanced the tip of the triangle beneath one finger, then flicked.

While half a dozen guards looked on, waiting with bated breath, the paper football flew through the air, toward the uprights. The paper hit her right index finger, bounced, and hit the table, three inches short of the goal.

“It’s no good! It’s no good!” yelled Brody, a recent guard inductee, waving his long arms back and forth like an NFL ref. Lindsey stood up and high-fived Kelley and Juliet.

Luc raised his fists to the sky. “No!” he yelled dramatically. “I could have been a contender!”

On the Waterfront, I guessed silently. Luc was one for movie quotes.

Lindsey strutted up to him, chin jutted out with pride. “I believe you just got schooled,” she said, poking a finger into his chest.

“Best two out of three?” he asked, wincing.

“Not on your life.” She took his shoulders, turned him toward me. “You have other things to deal with.”

Luc glanced at me, and what would have been a smile faded when he took in the dress and the shoes. And then he looked downright pissed . . . and maybe a little bit sympathetic.

“Damn,” Kelley said, interrupting whatever tirade he’d been about to make.