Page 72 of Broken Honor

He shrugs, folding his arms. “People don’t look at themselves in the mirror, do they?” he mutters, more to himself than me.

I manage a small laugh—dry and soft. “I’m not offended. I’ve heard worse,” I say quietly. “I know my body isn’t perfect.”

He turns to look at me fully, his eyes warm, serious. “Who told you that?”

I shrug again, unsure what to say. Who hadn’t?

“The world would be boring if everything looked the same,” Enzo says. “Then nothing would be magical. That’s why our faces are all different. It’s what brings the magic.”

His words are gentle, like warm honey poured over a bruise.

The woman returns, holding up two dresses like they’re prizes at a fair. One is a deep emerald green, made of satin with thin straps and a plunging neckline. The other is red—bright, almost scarlet—with lace detailing that creeps up from the waist and trails along the collarbone. It’s strapless.

“Try them both,” she says, voice clipped.

I step into the fitting room, and Enzo waits outside. The green one goes on first. The fabric slides cool against my skin, but it clings too much, pulling tight across my chest and hips. The neckline dips lower than I’d like. I tug it up, but it slips again.

The red one’s worse. It feels like wearing nothing. My arms cross tightly over my chest as I stare at my reflection. My thighs look huge. My arms are too soft. The lace itches.

I walk out slowly, and Enzo looks up. His smile is careful.

“You don’t like them,” he says.

I shake my head, embarrassed. “They’re just… a lot.”

He’s already pulling out his phone. “We’ll find another place.”

The seamstress opens her mouth to object, but he lifts a hand and shuts her up with a look. I change back quickly and follow him out into the street.

This time, as I climb into the car beside him, I glance at his profile—the patience in the way he scrolls through his contacts, the calm in his jaw. I wonder again if he’s some kind of saint among wolves. Or maybe he’s just another wolf who’s learned how to hide his teeth better.

The door chimes faintly behind us as we step out of the next boutique we went to. I still didn’t find anything I was comfortable in. I’m clutching the fabric swatch Enzo asked them to give me—a sample of the dress they’ll now custom-make, thanks to his insistence.

But Enzo suddenly slows to a halt, and I nearly bump into him.

His whole body goes still.

Ahead of us, a couple is walking hand-in-hand. The woman is beautiful—tall, elegant, skin like honeyed cream, long curls framing her cheekbones. She laughs softly at something the man says. But when her eyes lift and land on Enzo, the color drains from her face.

“Tiana?” he says, voice cracked open.

Her fingers twitch around her partner’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice clipped, already retreating. “Do I know you?”

Enzo stares at her, stunned. “What?”

The man shifts protectively in front of her. “Please. Excuse us.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, guiding her away.

Enzo doesn’t move. His jaw is set, knuckles white at his sides. I look up at him, and even with the sunlight painting gold over everything, I can see the pain etched across his face like a bruise that never healed.

They get into a car, the man shielding her, and Enzo watches them disappear like he’s been left behind in the middle of a storm.

Back in the car, he grips the steering wheel tighter than necessary. I don’t say anything for a long time.

Then softly, I say, “Can we get ice cream?”

His head jerks slightly, eyes narrowing like he doesn’t understand me. Irritation flashes behind his expression—then fades. He nods, turning the wheel.

The car eases into a quiet street lined with awnings and quaint shops. We stop at a small gelateria, the scent of cream and sugar thick in the air. He orders for both of us without asking, and I take the cone silently, following him to sit beneath the ivy-draped terrace.

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