The dress is made of heavy, midnight-blue silk, woven with threads of actual silver. It is a masterpiece of human craftsmanship, designed by a UN fashion house as a diplomatic gift to the Luna of the Blackthorn Pack. It is beautiful. It is elegant.
And it is currently stuck halfway up my torso.
"I can't reach the laces," I say, my voice muffled by the thick silk. "My left arm is entirely useless, and my right arm isn't long enough to reach the small of my back. This is a tactical failure."
Behind me, Kade chuckles. The sound is a deep, warm rumble that vibrates through the floorboards of the dressing room. I hear the soft scuff of his boots as he steps closer. His right hand, large and calloused, gently brushes my hair aside, exposing the nape of my neck.
"It's not a tactical failure,
