Henry's POV...
The snow had stopped by the time I finished dressing.
Amelia stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, her back to me, her coat pooled at her feet like a puddle of silk. She was still in her pale grey silk pajamas, the fabric clinging to her hips, her spine a long, elegant curve as she leaned slightly against the glass. The city spread beneath us, waking up, lights flickering on in the grey afternoon haze.
The gala was in hours—five, to be exact—but instead of preparing, I found myself standing behind her, my hands on the knot of her belt, and she was… letting me.
"You said you'd dress me," she said, her voice steady enough, but there was a tremor underneath. A crack in the ice queen facade.
"I did," I replied, my voice low, teasing. I tugged the belt loose, and the silk whispered apart. She didn't move. Didn't turn. Just stood there, her breathing shallow, her shoulders tense.
