o_18vdqvms01tdp1ck54q91frg17mg2d.pdf

SEVENTEEN
WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE doing?" she demanded. Her voice was still too loud as far
as I was concerned.
"Nothing, I—"
"Excuse us, Lord Ivashkov," she growled. Then, like I was five years old, she grabbed me by
my arm and jerked me out of the room. Champagne sloshed out of my glass and splashed onto
the skirt of my dress.
"What do you think you're doing?" I exclaimed, once we were out in the hall. Mournfully, I
looked down at my dress. "This is silk. You could have ruined it."
She grabbed the champagne flute and set it down on a nearby table. "Good. Maybe it'll stop you
from dressing up like a cheap whore."
"Whoa," I said, shocked. "That's kind of harsh. And where do you get off turning motherly all
of a sudden?" I gestured to the dress. "This isn't exactly cheap. You thought it was nice of
Tasha to give it to me."
"That's because I didn't expect you to wear it out with Moroi and make a spectacle of yourself."
"I'm not making a spectacle of myself. And anyway, it covers everything up."
"A dress that tight might as well be showing everything," she retorted. She, of course, was
dressed in guardian black: tailored black linen pants and a matching blazer. She had a few
curves of her own, but the clothing hid them.
"Especially when you're with a group like that. Your body's…conspicuous. And flirting with
Moroi doesn't really help."
"I wasn't flirting with him."