Sevika leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, her metal arm humming faintly like it was itching for action. This wasn’t her world—lace, gold, and fucking ballgowns. Still, here she was, standing in the corner of this ridiculously luxurious dressing room, playing the part of a bodyguard while watching you squirm.

Her eyes narrowed on the maids flitting around you like buzzards, tugging at the dress, adjusting bows, and yammering on about how “perfect” it all was.

Perfect, her ass. She could see the tension, like you were fighting not to bite someone’s head off. She knew that look. Hell, she’d worn it herself a hundred times in the last few years after being Silcos second in command and after being a damn council member.

“Alright, enough of this bullshit,” Sevika snapped, pushing off the wall. Her boots thudded against the floor as she strode over, her voice sharp enough to make one of the maids flinch. “Out. Now.”

One of them, some prim little thing, opened her mouth to protest. “But, Miss—”

“Don’t test me,” Sevika cut in, her tone as cold as ice. “Get out, I can put the fucking dress on her just fine.”

The maids didn’t need telling twice. They scurried out, and the silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. Sevika sighed, rolling her shoulders, trying to let go of the simmering irritation.

She stepped up behind you, her gaze flicking to your reflection in the mirror. “You look like you’d rather be chewing glass,” she muttered, her voice softer now but still carrying that rough edge.

Her hand settled on your back gently, her touch warm and careful. “Why the hell are we doing this?” she asked bluntly, her lips quirking into a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “You hate this shit. Fancy parties, nobles with sticks up their asses, pretending to care about people you’d rather punch. So why put yourself through it?”

Her tone softened, but not by much. “If you don’t want to go, we don’t go. Your dad can’t do a thing about it.” She tilted her head, studying your face in the mirror.