The new clothes were all stunning. Florence couldn't help running a hand over a blue-gold lamé gown that glittered at the slightest movement. The neck was modestly draped, yet the back plunged down so daringly that nothing could be worn beneath. For a moment, she imagined fingers flexing against her bare skin during a dance.

Unwrapping the other packages revealed blouses, skirts, light jackets and coats for the chill of early spring weather, and even hats, shoes, and purses. A closet's worth of outfits. Louise must have spent a fortune. From the brief note and list of events written on the back of the letter, she had also pulled a lot of strings to give Florence a chance to experience life as an elite socialite. Party invitations, exclusive salons, boating clubs, and so on.

When the options began swimming before her eyes, Florence dropped the letter and returned to the clothing. She held up a silk blouse against herself and studied the results in the mirror. The fabric looked immaculately tailored and felt soft as a sigh. Before doubt could overwhelm temptation, she changed into it and a navy skirt that had pleats and muted stripes to avoid a stuffy silhouette. The fabric barely reached her knees—very daring for her—but she had to admit it transformed her figure from lanky to elegant.

Her hair, though. She always kept it in a simple bun at the back of her neck since it fell past her elbows when left loose. Practical, but another old-fashioned aspect of her appearance. Would she look better with it cut short? For that matter, was she bold enough to visit a salon? Not at this moment, of course, but if the silver controlled her body as Tobias suspected...

Money wasn't an issue; she had an inheritance from her parents that no one else could touch. Yet that would mean going out. Being around people alone. Did she remember how to act around them? And even if she did, did she dare?

Then she scoffed at her reflection. There was much to do before any of these things became a possibility. Firstly, she needed to find the keys to the burned wing of the mansion and look through her father's papers to learn more about the artifacts from the Ulflands expedition.

Yet she did linger long enough to unwrap the new spectacles. Their jaunty gold rims brightened her blue eyes and were wonderfully light in weight. She barely felt them on her nose.

"Librarian, indeed," she murmured to her reflection, but smiled as she left the bedroom, intent on finding Hilda.

"You want what, Miss Flossie?" said the woman, her expression stiff.

"The keys to Father's study. And I suppose the rest of the west wing as well."

"If you wish, but the keys won't open anything. No one has been in that part of the house since the fire. It's unsafe, Miss Flossie, to the point where the doors were boarded up back when we still had John."

John, the groundskeeper. Why, he had drunk himself to death within a year of Florence developing her affliction. And Luther never came inside for all that many rooms badly needed repairs; the man was terrified of Florence and further terrified of her victims possibly haunting the mansion.

The length of time those rooms had languished in neglect didn't bode well for finding anything useful. "I see. Well, I'll figure something out."

Hilda made no move to hand over the keys. "I don't see any need to explore in there. The flames took everything."

Florence bit her lip, strangely reluctant to explain her plans. Hilda wasn't bad, just strict and suspicious of anything new. Her stark dresses were years out of date because she didn't believe in the modern fashions, and she wore her greying hair in the same pompadour that Florence remembered as a child.

In the silence that followed, Hilda clasped her hands and frowned, just as she had whenever Florence had given an incorrect answer during school lessons. "Does this have something to do with that wolf?"

It was hard not to feel eight again. "I think he can help me."

"If anything, he'll help himself. You're too sheltered, a child in a woman's body. Already willing to trust him despite the fact he followed you from the cemetery and broke into your home."

"You're making it sound much worse than it is. He was trying to return my purse, which I had stupidly left behind, and grew concerned after hearing my screams. He probably thought I was being murdered."

The gleam of skepticism remained in Hilda's eyes. "So. He wants you to believe he already cares for you. As though any fellow could after meeting someone only once."

"It isn't like that," said Florence, feeling her temper crack through her usual deference to her old governess. "And I'm keeping a cool head about him."

"Are you? I couldn't believe your shocking behavior this morning. Revealing whatever he wished to know. Going off with him alone. All because you believe his claim that he wishes to help. What will he convince you to do once he says his feelings have deepened into something more?"

"I know no one could ever love me." Her voice sounded ragged and overloud. Pain stabbed with each heartbeat at admitting it. "I know anyone aware of my affliction would only be lying if they claimed they did. Yet Mr. Rosewood hasn't said that, and he never will. If anything, he's been very honest about..."

The rest of her words faded. She couldn't tell Hilda what he was, not while trying to convince her of his trustworthiness. The other woman viewed anything related to sexuality as highly improper to talk about. She frowned at skirts that revealed calves and had refused to explain reproduction in biology lessons. Why, she hadn't even warned Florence and her sister about a woman's menses when they turned the proper age. Poor Francine had thought she was bleeding to death for two days before their mother found out.

No, to explain the circumstances behind meeting Tobias would be as good as condemning him in Hilda's eyes. Instead, Florence sighed and said, "Whether you agree or not, I'm going into Father's study. Also, I won't want any supper this evening. I'm quite full from breakfast. Thank you, Hilda."

She left without giving the woman a chance to further argue. If keys couldn't open the rooms in the ruined wing, then perhaps a hammer would.

The walk out to the garden shed gave her an increasing awareness of the sorry state of the mansion. The luxury of Tobias' apartment had opened her eyes to the grim nature of her own home. He had sounded disturbed by the idea of her continuing to live there, and now she realized why.

The huge scars left by the fire were still apparent in the form of boarded-up windows and collapsed walls. The surviving parts of the mansion remained elegant, but the paint had flaked off many spandrels and corbels. A few of the gable ends had broken off from weather and time. The porch boards creaked and sank beneath her weight as she hurried back inside with gardening gloves and a hammer.

The only access to the western wing was through a small parlor room that was never used. Dusty drapes covered all of the room's furniture, even the old grandfather clock positioned against the doorway through to the wing. With effort, Florence managed to push the clock enough to wedge herself behind it and try the door. Rusted hinges squealed as she opened it and peered through. Stale air and silence greeted her.

She had thought to take a lamp with her and was glad of it; no light came through the boarded windows. The small circle of illumination around her shone on tattered curtains and moldy carpet. Smoke from the fire had blistered the paintings on the walls, and a chill ran through her while she passed by the ruined faces of her ancestors.

Several parts of the wing had been so thoroughly gutted by the fire that old John had been unable to repair them. Sheets of plywood had been erected as new walls, now grey with age and warped by years of rain. The stairway up to her parents' bedroom and most of that entire floor was gone. Charred, collapsed support beams hinted at their existence like the fragments of a skeleton.

Miraculously, the second staircase that led to her father's study had survived. Her heart pounded as she tested each groaning step, half-afraid of falling through to her death. When she glanced out over the carved handrail, the ground floor looked like a firepit that had never been scraped out, full of ash, splintered wood, and things burned beyond recognition.

The door to her father's study still bore the gold-leaf phoenix she had loved to trace with curious fingers, but now the intricate illustration could only be glimpsed from behind two ugly boards nailed across the doorframe. John must have felt it was too dangerous inside to visit. Well, she refused to leave without even a glimpse.

The nails had rusted, and she worked at them carefully to avoid breaking their heads off. The faint smell of soot stung her nose as the first board fell near her feet. She ducked low to squeeze beneath the other, uncertain of what she would find.

The study wasn't as burned as she'd feared. It seemed only the ceiling and upper walls had been smoke stained. She tested the spongy floorboards with each step, but most of her attention remained on the bookshelves on the back wall, on the massive globe still turned toward the ice-covered slab of continent that was the Ulflands, and then on the large desk where her father had spent most of his time. Piles of books and papers still waited there. So did a photo.

The lamplight gleamed off the gold frame, and she found herself reaching for it instead of the nearest opened letters. It was the family portrait he had always kept on his desk, still intact except for some marring across the glass surface. For the first time in years, she saw her father's face.

He looked lean and strong and tanned from his years on expeditions, eyes glinting behind his spectacles with a repressed smile. Her stomach twisted at the realization that he had been thirty-six at the time of this photograph; only a handful of years older than she now was. He'd had so much more to give to the world, decades more.

So had her mother. Flossie turned her attention to the slight figure resting a hand on her father's shoulder. Her mother had been very beautiful, and that was most of what Florence could remember: an elegant woman who smelled like the finest perfumes while giving kisses goodnight before a nanny led her and Francine back to the nursery. As they'd grown older, Francine had developed a close bond with their mother through the socialite lifestyle. They had both brightened whatever room they were in.

It was equally startling to look at Francine in the photo and remember her former openness of expression. At sixteen, she had just started styling her hair up, but a softness had remained in her face even while perfectly following the photographer's command not to move.

And then finally, the image of herself. Florence Wheeler. Eleven years old and slightly blurred from being too excited to keep still. Unaware of what would happen within a few brief years.

Uninterested in studying herself, she instead stared at her parents a few minutes longer and then set aside the photograph. Her chest ached, but she was determined to ignore the feeling and search through the papers.

Quite a few were letters of correspondence with colleagues. There were also studies written by fellow archeologists, a few historical accounts of the Ulflands, and several newspapers. The desk drawers were swollen, resistant to the pressure of being pulled open, but eventually gave in to her persistence. The top drawer had a spare pair of spectacles and a few unfinished letters. The larger drawers on either side, however, held some of the journals he always kept while on expeditions.

Her hands shook when she took a few out to better study them. The leather bindings were as rich in color as chestnuts and still felt supple to the touch, but she opened the top one with great care, fearing it might disappear like an illusion. The entry's date made her wince; she had already experienced her first transformation. Victor was already dead. Her father must have decided to document her curse, and from the looks of it, had started in the second month of her new, shattered life.

She flipped through pages with growing dread, skimming descriptions of her written in a manner that tried to be factual instead of heartbroken.

She says she doesn't remember anything of the past night. I believe her. This blackout state seems to follow the onset of a fever in the evening hours before dusk. When asked to describe how she feels, she says that her blood is boiling.

Once the full moon has risen and she has transformed, she remains unresponsive to any words, and instead paces the room as though searching for a way out. The naturally fine hair of a human thickens on areas of her skin: back, forearms, and between the eyebrows. Her teeth sharpen into fangs, and her nails lengthen into claws. There is even a short tail that grows out through her clothing, thick as a finger. It seems obvious her body is twisted by the shapeshifting magic of wolves, yet she does not fully change into a different form. Instead, she seems mangled by whatever this spell is, left to crawl around her room without being able to speak like a human or howl like a wolf.

God help me, what has happened to my child?

Her throat had closed up. Her fingers traced over the black ink forming each word. It had become difficult to recall her father's voice, and reading his thoughts in this faded entry only sharpened her grief. How could this be the only trace of him left? By the time she and Francine died, no one else would be alive who remembered him. His deeds would survive as historical footnotes, but what of his kindness? What of the tune he had liked to whistle while waiting? Books told of his discoveries, not of the sleight of hand tricks he had learned as a boy. All of it would be lost.

There wouldn't even be a grandson or granddaughter to carry on his traits and turn them toward his or her own adventures. Francine would never step away from the memory of Victor, and she certainly couldn't marry and raise a family with her dangerous secret.

Her father wasn't off on a long expedition, as she sometimes childishly imagined to make her situation a little more tolerable. He was dead, and the world was emptier for it.

Her face continued to throb with repressed tears as she went through the other journals. They were all blank, ready to be used for travels that would never happen. A search through the other drawer proved fruitless as well. There was no information related to their trip to the Ulflands, or an address book that would help her find the widow of Mr. Julsrud, the patron who had helped fund that dig. She did find another framed photo, this time of her and her father alone, but refused to look at it, aware that her composure had frayed to the point of snapping.

Wanting to be thorough, she examined the stacks of books on the desk, hoping to find something relevant slipped between them. Instead, she soon realized these books were hers, the same ones taken away when it had been decided that reading was too dangerous a hobby. So, this was where Francine had hidden them. In a moldering room left to collapse.

Her fingers brushed along the spines until reaching two fat books bound in green fabric. Her next breath felt thin and shallow as she plucked one free and held it within the lamplight.

A Treasury of Botany, Vol. 1.

Then she opened the cover and read the inscription written in her father's sharp, clear hand.

To our young scholar, Flora, on her tenth birthday. May your curiosity continue to bloom and one day bring great things to the world.

Tears scalded her cheeks, and she sank to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Her chest ached while she turned the pages, but her mouth softened into a smile at the first delicate ink illustration, a pinecone of abies douglasii, the douglas fir tree.

It had been so exciting to have this book and its mate, to read through the pair and learn all about plants and flowers. She'd felt very important to own something so full of knowledge, and had insisted on taking the two volumes everywhere so that any spare moment might be spent on them. Even now, as an adult, the book felt bulky in her hands. The comforting smell of old paper filled her nose as she began reading through the descriptions, careful not to let any of her tears wet the pages. The flickering of the lamp was the only indication that time passed.

A creak near the doorway shocked her. She lunged upright with a gasp, absurdly sure that Francine was about to step into the pool of light and gesture for the book.

"Florence?" Tobias appeared in view, soon spotting her despite the dim room. "Are you all right?"

Her hands cradled the book to her chest. Her heart hammered against the cover as she stammered, "Yes. Yes, of course."

Then she tried to laugh. It sounded thin and nervous. "I was simply startled at someone else being in here. I didn't know it was you."

When he stepped closer, she instinctively clutched the book tighter. He stopped again, movements smooth with the natural grace and confidence all wolves had. His voice sounded as gentle as a caress. "It's all right. There's nothing wrong with reading a book."

"N-no. I suppose there isn't." Quickly, she wiped at her cheeks, hoping the tear tracks weren't visible in the faint lamplight.

Once he approached the desk, she circled around it to be closer to him. He had changed his clothing from earlier, now wearing an exquisitely tailored black tuxedo. Goodness, was it already evening? How much time had she spent in this room?

As she set the book back with the others, she added, "I don't have very much to share with you, I'm afraid. I found my father's journal for the first few months of my curse, but nothing from the trip to the Ulflands, not even a list of findings or auctions for the artifacts."

"To tell you the truth, I'm impressed you got in here at all. It must've taken a while." When he glanced at the two volumes, she drew in a breath, ready to face any questions about them. Instead, he looked over the rest of the desk, focusing on the framed photograph. "It seems like you found a few things. Is that your family?"

"Yes." After a moment's hesitation, she offered it to him.

She gave her cheeks another surreptitious wipe before he said, "You have a different beauty from your mother, but I see a lot of your father in you. He has a kind face."

"Yes, he was very kind, and not at all stuffy like he appears in that photo. Mother made him dress very properly for it. This is how I better remember him." Then she handed over the other photograph.

With Tobias beside her, it felt a little easier to study the picture. Both she and her father were dressed in the sturdy clothing needed while on a dig. She had even been allowed to wear trousers and boys' boots. Unlike in the family photo, she had given the camera a bright, mischievous smile while posing in pride over her dirtied outfit. Her father's smile was more relaxed as he sat on a slab of granite, covered in dust and with a handkerchief around his neck instead of a tie.

Tobias looked at her with a grin. "You're adorable in this one. When was it taken?"

"I would have been ten there. This was the expedition in Charnak. My first real dig," she said, smiling despite a voice still thick with tears. Sharing these memories somehow made them less painful.

After a moment's hesitation, she pushed the books of botany toward him. "I didn't mean to act suspicious. I'm afraid I was a bit overwhelmed from finding these. My father gave them to me on my birthday. I cherished them."

She felt strangely nervous about what he might say while he picked up the first volume and thumbed through it. He seemed interested in what he saw—or at least put on a good show of it. "Is this how you learned about the symbolism behind flowers?"

"No, that was another book. The Language of Flowers, which belonged in one of the guest rooms in the east wing. My mother often set a handful of novels on bedside tables for visitors who wished to read before sleeping. I believe they were taken away at the same time as my books, so they might also be stored here somewhere..."

Tobias raised his eyebrows. "Taken away?"

She missed the trace of disbelief in his voice, too intent on the rest of the books on the desk. There were stacks left on the windowsills as well. When she walked over to check, he followed and also began looking through them.

"I don't see it," said Florence, after a moment. "I remember it was bound in purple cloth. I'm sure you can find a copy at any bookshop if you're interested. It isn't as well-known now but was very popular fifty years ago."

He nodded, but absently, and was smiling again while pulling free a thin novel bound in dark red cloth. The unmistakable gold stamp on the spine gleamed in the lamplight as he asked, "Is this what I think it is?"

She stared at the Arrowpoint logo and then laughed. Embarrassment tinged her answer. "I'm shocked those weren't thrown out. Yes, I read many Arrowpoints when I was young, including their full line of wolf romances."

"You might be behind by now," said Tobias, finding a few more of the slim penny novels. "They're more popular than ever. I see them at every newsstand and tobacco shop. Can't say I've read any."

"I devoured them like candy." She couldn't keep the rueful note out of her voice. "I had always been fascinated by how this city is split among wolves and humans. When I first saw The Duchess and the Wolf at a drugstore, I thought it would teach me more about wolfkind, not introduce me to... well, torrid sex."

Tobias grinned at her, but the glint in his eyes looked playful instead of mocking. "How shocking."

"Laugh all you want, but they truly were explicit for their time. Mother was convinced I would give myself a brain fever by reading them. Instead, I just became further interested in wolves." Was that lighthearted voice really hers? She sounded comfortable, as carefree as when she was alone with Louise.

Now he looked outright wicked, erasing the few inches of space between them under the guise of setting the book back with the others. "Are you still interested?"

"It must be obvious that I am." In her new clothes, she felt much more exposed. Without the thick wool she usually wore, the slightest brush of his fingers would feel as intimate as if she stood before him in bare skin. It wasn't an unpleasant thought—just the opposite. Aware of her weakening resolve, she glanced down and found several more of the penny novels.

When Tobias picked up another one to read its title, she further admitted, "I suppose Louise knows me better than I know myself. Despite the wide range of romance stories Arrowpoint offers, I always returned to the ones about wolves finding their fated mates. Later, I realized how exaggerated those were."

He nodded. "Most of the city's packs don't believe in true mates. These days, it's an outdated concept left to the country wolves, and even most of those dismiss the idea as a folktale."

"The wolves in the Ulflands believe in it, but their rituals are rougher and wilder than what's in these novels." She ran a hand over the red fabric of the cover before adding, "It does seem lovely, doesn't it? Having a true mate and instinctively sensing who it is. I don't know if I ever believed in the idea, even as a girl, but I think I liked the reassurance of someone waiting for me. Of meeting him one day and feeling my heart open up like a rose."

Then she realized how those words could be taken as an implication, and quickly added, "Not that I'm suggesting anything about us, or that I misunderstand your intentions. I didn't intend..."

"It's all right. I understood what you meant." He sounded pleasant, unruffled by the subject she danced around. Before she could do more than nod, his gaze flickered up from the book, catching her with its golden warmth. "You don't have to feel embarrassed around me."

"Oh," she said, faintly. How could her heart pound so hard at his mere glance? She forced herself to look at the book in his hands in an attempt to regain her composure. Instead, she found herself studying his fingers. They were well-shaped and masculine, and she remembered their deft, warm touch against her cheek down in her cell, when she had barely come back into awareness.

A fierce ache appeared within, the same one that had formed during her time with the northern wolves and intensified after the appearance of her curse. That deep longing for someone who could know her soul at the most intimate level and still love her. A hope of sharing this terrible secret with someone who wouldn't recoil in fear.

Her focus returned to Tobias' face. He thumbed through the book, remaining unaware of her attention. Her heart throbbed once more. In a strange way, that wish had come true—just in the form of an illusion.

She continued the conversation out of determination, refusing to let her silly emotions hold sway. "The Arrowpoint novels are the reason why I ever visited the Ulflands. Mother caught me reading them when I was only twelve years old, and she considered their salacious and violent content most inappropriate. So did Father, but they had different ideas on what to do. She took them away from me, and he decided to take me on the expedition so I could see how wolves truly were. Mother didn't like the idea. She thought it would be much too dangerous compared to the other trips I'd gone on with him."

"How did he convince her?"

"He said it would cause me greater harm to ignore my curiosity. That it would be better to introduce me to the world with care than to let me build up illusions about it while living in a bubble."

Tobias raised his eyebrows. "So, your father had you live among wolves. Not many humans would have been comfortable with that."

"Perhaps not," she admitted. "Yet I'm glad he did. The language, food, and customs were all so different. And the weather! Even in the summer, I had to wear a coat most days. But the landscape was stunning. The sun never sets in the summer."

"And winter has four months of complete darkness," finished Tobias. He wore a distant expression, as though remembering the words themselves rather than the landscape. "During which the moon disappears on certain nights and refuses to set on certain days. An erratic mistress to those who hunt by her light."

"You've been there?" said Florence, unable to repress her curiosity.

"Not exactly. I'm descended from wolves who lived there." Then he seemed to realize how much he had let slip about his personal life, because he fell silent and set the penny novel back with the others.

Florence turned away to keep the moment from growing awkward. Her gaze drifted to the bookshelves on the back wall and then the tall rolling ladder meant for reaching the highest ones. A book had been left on a rung halfway up. Even in the dimness, it looked as though it might have a purple binding.

The floorboards sank slightly as she approached with quick, excited steps, but she ignored all caution, too intent on at last finding one thing she'd searched for. "I think that's it."

The words left her mouth just before she reached the middle of the room. Wood cracked beneath her. Then it snapped. A sickening sensation of weightlessness numbed her mind as the floor opened up.

Her hands shot out in pure instinct and caught splintered wood. Her nails bit in and held fast as dust billowed, robbing her sight and making her choke. As she hung there, feet dangling helplessly, the ladder swung down toward her, a faint silhouette all the more frightening in its silence. She cringed, sure that she was about to be crushed. A gasp strangled itself in her throat as it slammed beside her. Then gravity pulled the ladder through the hole with a final groan of tortured wood. Her fingers began to slip, slick with sweat.

"Florence!" Tobias appeared through the dust, voice thickened into a snarl. She remained too shocked to speak while he grabbed her arms and pulled her up to safety. Even once they were back on firm floorboards, he held her close, hands hard with urgency instead of effort.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders in fierce relief, but he didn't seem to mind, eyes feral as he caught her chin. "Are you all right?"

"I think so," she managed, and glanced back toward the ragged hole. The air had cleared enough to reveal the steep drop down into a ruined room where broken boards stuck up like spears. She could even see a crumpled suit of armor, blackened among the old ashes but with its nasty great axe visible. The blade was pointed up towards them.

"You're not hurt?" he insisted, words tense as he scanned her from head to toe. Then his arm tightened around her waist. "Christ, for a moment I thought you'd fallen through."

"I'm fine," she said, but knew she still sounded shaken. Her gaze drifted from the gaping floor to a book near their feet. Still in a daze, she read its stamped title. "The Language of Flowers. It's the same book that was on the ladder. It must have been thrown clear."

Tobias was too busy checking her hands for splinters to respond. His movements were still sharp with concern, but when she pulled away long enough to pick up the book, his expression cleared somewhat.

"Would you still like to take this?" she said. "You seemed interested before."

He looked at the purple cover as though just noticing it. Then he shook his head, wryness warming his gold irises while he pulled her close again. "Maybe I will. I've been wondering what that rose you picked for me means."

"A peach rose conveys gratitude to the recipient." Their faces were so close that it felt impossible to think straight. "I'll have to give you another one now."

He laughed quietly and finally relaxed, running a thumb over her mouth. "Let's get you out of here."

She nodded and began collecting her father's journal as well as the books on botany. Now that she'd found them, she couldn't imagine leaving them to rot with the rest of the study. The task left her unaware of Tobias carefully crouching beside the collapsed area of the floor to check its edges, even going so far as to run a hand along them. His expression grew grim at what he found.

"I suppose I'll have to try the other neglected rooms as well," she said, adding one of the Arrowpoint novels for good measure. "My parents' bedroom is also in this wing."

With a silent gesture, he offered to carry the stack. "After nearly breaking your neck in this one? Forget it. We'll figure out something else."

"Are you sure?"

"Very."

On their way out, it became apparent how much stronger he was than she. He simply ripped down the remaining wooden board so she could walk back into the parlor without ducking. The grandfather clock had already been muscled aside. The upkept rooms and hallways in the heart of the mansion seemed positively cheerful in comparison to the decayed wing, especially since one of the maids had already lit the lamps.

Aware that leading him to her bedroom would push her past all restraint, she instead went into the small study that Francine used to pay bills and keep the house accounts in order. "Thank you for carrying those. Set them wherever you like."

He put them on a side table near the door, glancing over the striped wallpaper and stained glass lamps. "Does this room belong to your sister?"

He sounded like he already knew the answer, but she still nodded. "How did you guess?"

"It's full of her scent but not yours."

It was the first time he had mentioned the ability that gave all wolves an insight that humans simply couldn't have: their powerful sense of smell.

Florence appreciated that he had mentioned it so casually. That he expected her to have the knowledge and awareness that a wolf could catch scent better than the finest bloodhound. She glanced around herself and said, "Yes. I'm never allowed in here when she's home. I'm surprised the door was unlocked."

He studied her, considering his next words. Then he nodded, more to himself than at her. "It's because I picked it the night I found you in the cage."

"What?" She wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. "You picked the lock?"

"Sure. I was looking for you. It took a few tries to find which room led down. This one is directly above the room, so your screams were clearest here." He sounded completely unrepentant while eyeing the window in the floor that revealed her underground cell.

"But..." She stared at him, aghast. "You could have been caught. One of the servants might have called the police and had you arrested."

He gave a short laugh, one devoid of humor. "They were all hiding, and I wanted to know what was going on. It isn't normal to hear someone screaming in agony deep below a fine house."

Now that the shock was fading, curiosity took its place. "You really know how to pick locks?"

The question drew out his quick, playful smile. "I know how to act like a gentleman. That doesn't mean I am one."

"I see." Her cheeks felt hot, but not from anger or embarrassment. "Then who are you?"

A smolder appeared in his eyes as he all but purred, "I keep trying to convince you to find out."

She licked her lips, searching for an excuse not to, but the small movement caused his pupils to dilate. Was it possible that he was equally curious about her? The heat in his gaze looked too fierce to be feigned.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, soft yet still enough to break the spell of privacy in the room. Florence turned toward the doorway with a start of guilt as Hilda appeared. She held the usual bedtime tray, and Florence didn't miss how the woman's mouth twitched in disapproval at the sight of Tobias.

The sourness didn't reach her voice. "Should I light the lamps in here, Miss Flossie?"

"No, thank you," said Florence, trying to sound prim instead of flustered. "I've finished for the evening."

From the corner of her eye, she watched Tobias circle around to the desk, every movement elegant and confident, but his attention seemed sharper as he faced the woman.

"Very good." With a rustle of skirts, Hilda disappeared down the hall again.

Florence turned to him. "You truly dislike her, don't you?"

"The feeling seems mutual."

After a moment, she moved for the doorway, itching with sudden nerves. Hilda was likely to return and insist on her getting to bed, and she had no wish to be scolded like a child in front of Tobias.

He followed her out of the room. "Was that tray for you?"

The question surprised her. She was so used to her daily routine that it became easy to forget an outsider might be puzzled. "It's my bedtime regimen, I suppose you could say."

A breath of silence passed while they turned down the hallway to her current rooms. Then Tobias said, "There was nothing on it except a syringe and a bottle of morphine."

"Yes." Florence wondered at the sudden suspicion in his words. "I've mentioned taking morphine at night. When I'm sedated, no one has to watch over me."

"Every night? A normal human would be hopelessly addicted by now." The disbelief had slipped into his expression as well. Even his pupils had contracted, sharpening the color of his eyes while he added, "You're not defensive at all, are you? Just confused."

"By your reaction, yes. I don't think I'm addicted. At least, I never seem to suffer without it. And an injection is much better than sleeping in a cage." Then they reached the door to her bedroom, and she stopped in front of it to face him.

He still studied her. "Why is it necessary if you only change during a full moon?"

She swallowed hard, torn between the bitterness of the answer and the breathlessness of being beneath his full attention. "My parents placed too much trust in me, and I killed them. My sister has never repeated that mistake. You shouldn't, either."

He laughed, a brief sound that thrilled her blood. Then he stepped in close. "Never warn off a wolf. He'll just grow more interested."

"But I'm dangerous," she murmured.

His voice brushed her mouth. "So am I."

Her shiver had nothing to do with fear when his hand brushed her chin, guiding her face to his in a perfect angle for a kiss.

The bedroom door opened from the inside, revealing Hilda once more.

Florence jerked back as if shot, cheeks burning beneath the woman's glare.

"Miss Wheeler," said Hilda, severely. "Really."

The other woman turned her attention to Tobias but quickly faltered when he stared back with the remorseless intensity that only wolves had.

"Goodnight, Hilda," said Florence, trying to steady her voice. "I don't need anything else."

Hilda stiffened her posture, disapproval radiating off her in waves.

A blush still stung Florence's face, but to her surprise, her breath felt shallow with disappointment instead of shame. She straightened her shoulders and added in a clearer tone, "I'll show Mr. Rosewood out myself once we've finished our business."

Resignation flickered in Hilda's eyes, and she allowed herself a sigh before responding with, "Very well. Goodnight, Miss Flossie."

Florence watched the other woman leave, looking back at Tobias only once they were alone again. He smiled, gold irises still deep and warm. "You did what you wanted. How'd it feel?"

It was as if that tiny act of rebellion had woken pieces of herself she'd long thought were lost. Despite the mild shock of her own wanton behavior, she answered with equal brevity. "The kiss or refusing to apologize for it?"

His grin widened. "Technically, the kiss never happened. We were interrupted."

"You're teasing me."

"A little. It's nice to see something in your eyes besides fear."

"I suppose I've grown so used to living this way that it surprises me to remember most people aren't constantly afraid," she admitted. Then she smiled at him. "And it felt exciting, if you really want to know. But it was very brash."

He sounded unrepentant. "For you or for me?"

"Me, of course." She stepped back, determined to keep her head on straight this time. "I didn't even think to ask why you came back this evening."

"I have something for you." He pulled a thin jewelry box out of his pocket. The red leather was embossed with gold.

Anticipation shortened her breath while she opened it. A gold bangle gleamed back at her, nestled in white velvet. Delicate roses had been etched into its surface. "It's beautiful."

"It's your new peace of mind," he said. When she glanced up in a silent question, he nodded. "Silver plated with gold. I wouldn't try wearing it when the full moon forces you to change, but it'll stop you from transforming out of rage or frustration."

"Thank you." Her fingers felt clumsy while she took the bangle out of the box. The metal quickly warmed against her skin. It was easy to see it as a present instead of an act of caution. "I've never worn anything so gorgeous."

He waited until she fumbled with the hinged clasp to ask, "Do you want help?"

She nodded, trying to keep her expression calm when his fingers brushed her skin. It was hard to resist imagining them skimming beneath her blouse... or even her skirt.

"I suppose the next thing is to test out how well it works when I'm among others," she managed, trying to hide how lightheaded she felt.

"How about tonight?" he said, voice smooth.

"What?" She glanced over his tuxedo. "I'd assumed you already had plans."

"I do. It's asking you out to dinner at Le Demi-Monde. I made reservations for eight o'clock in case you accepted."

The idea shocked her as much as the near kiss. Out among other people? And for such a shallow reason? "I'm usually in bed at seven-thirty."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you tired?"

"Well..." No, not at all. She could list all the ways she felt, but tired wasn't among them. In his presence, her very blood shimmered with excitement. "No. But Luther is the only one who knows how to drive the car, and he's terrified of me. I don't think he'd be willing to take us anywhere."

"It's not a problem. I planned to take you in mine."

When she hesitated, searching for another excuse, Tobias added, "If you don't want to, it's all right to say so."

The sympathy in the words spurred her to be honest. "I do want to. Very much so. It's just... this is a lot of bad behavior for one evening."

He laughed. "It isn't bad behavior to enjoy yourself."

She ran uncertain fingers over the bracelet. The full moon had passed and this bangle would keep her affliction under control. Was it so very dangerous to go out and have a pleasant experience?

"Are you hungry?" he murmured, with just enough roughness to his voice to suggest that the question referred to far more than an elegant meal.

"Yes." Admitting to that one desire seemed to chase away the rest of her fear. Boldness replaced the space left in her heart, and she stood on her toes to give him a full kiss on the mouth. Clumsy, inexperienced, but with all her passion behind it.

She expected a moment of surprise from him. Instead, he caught her chin and tipped her into a deeper angle, tongue slipping in when she gasped for breath. Gentle yet ravenous, guiding her into a rhythm that left her clinging to his shoulders. Each flick of his tongue felt as sweet as the taste of chocolate. The barest hint of teeth teased her, a promise of wildness should she show her own feral nature.

When they broke off, she panted against him for a few moments. Her smile felt as hot as his gaze. "I'm starving, in fact. I'll only need a few minutes to change."