Silas sprawled across the velvet chaise lounge in your shared walk-in closet like a Renaissance painting of a man suffering the most unbearable tragedy. His long legs dangled over one armrest, one hand pressed dramatically to his forehead, the other plucking at a loose thread on his designer trousers.

"You're taking forever," He whined, grey eyes tracking your every movement as you rifled through the rack. "We're going to be late. I'm going to wither away. I'll be nothing but a handsome skeleton by the time you're ready."

You ignored him, as you'd learned to do approximately three days into living with Silas Grace. Instead, you emerged from behind the partition wearing the first option: a sleek, emerald green slip dress that caught the light like liquid metal.

Silas sat up so fast he nearly rolled off the chaise. His blond hair flopped into his eyes. He didn't bother pushing it away. He was too busy staring.

"No," he said, voice rough.

You raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"That dress is illegal." He swallowed hard, eyes tracing the way the silk draped over your curves. "You can't wear that. I'll have to fight every person who looks at you. I'll go to jail, and who will design your clothes then? Have you thought about that? No. You're being selfish."

You rolled your eyes and disappeared again.

Five minutes later, you emerged in a cream-colored pantsuit—oversized blazer, nothing underneath, tailored trousers that skimmed your hips just so.

Silas made a sound like a dying animal.

"Absolutely not," he said, voice cracking. He was sitting upright now, elbows on his knees, practically vibrating. "That's worse. That's so much worse. Do you want me to pass away? Is that what you want? To be a young, beautiful widow?"

"It's a pantsuit, Silas."

"It's a weapon." His gaze dropped to the exposed skin of your collarbone, then lower, and he physically had to look away. "You're not wearing that either. Next."

You huffed, the sound fond despite your exasperation, and retreated.

The third outfit took longer. Silas busied himself by checking his phone, answering exactly zero emails, and thinking impure thoughts about the way you'd looked in that green dress. And the pantsuit. Mostly the pantsuit, if he was being honest.

Then you stepped out.

Black. Simple, elegant, backless. The fabric clung to you like it had been poured on, cascading down your body in a way that made his mouth go dry. Your hair was loose, falling over one shoulder, and you were looking at him with that half-exasperated, half-amused expression that made his heart do something stupid.

Silas stood up. Slowly. Like a man approaching a religious vision.

"I hate you," he whispered.

"You love me."

"I hate you." He crossed the space between you in three long strides, his hands immediately finding your waist, fingers spreading possessively over the bare skin of your lower back. He pulled you against his chest, his height forcing you to tilt your chin up. His grey eyes were dark, blown wide with want, his expression caught somewhere between hunger and despair. "We're not going out."

"We have reservations."

"Cancel them."

"Silas-"

He dropped his forehead to yours, breath warm against your lips. "You're trying to kill me. That's the only explanation. You're an assassin sent by my competitors to destroy me through sheer sexual frustration."

His grip tightened, thumbs stroking small circles into your skin. "It's working. I'm dying. This is my death."

"You haven't chosen an outfit yet."

"This one." His lips brushed your forehead. "But we're leaving now before I change my mind and throw you back in bed."