Mr. Whiskers had daggers, a strange bone-white color and intricately carved. The blades were serrated and vicious-looking, and they were casually tucked into his belt. Not exactly safe practice, especially being at a dance. He was breaking so many Health and Safety Regulations, it'd take a day to fill in the paperwork. My mouth was beginning to part to tell him that—that for safety reasons he'd better sheath them, or put them back in the barracks where no doubt he was billeted for the weekend—when he got to me first.

His head whipped my way. His voice was deep and rough, like a sheet of falling gravel, and filled the space between us. "What the fuck are you doing lurking in the kitchen cool room?"

Lurking?

I frowned, my hackles rising.

I stamped deeper into the room, moving closer to the feral man. "What are you doing here?" I flung straight back at him, attempting to fold my arms across my chest, and then giving up because the arm sleeves were too tight to allow the movement.

His anger had melted away and was now replaced with cocky self-assuredness as he fully turned to face me, his taut muscles relaxing as he widened his stance. "Waiting for someone, are you? Toolface perhaps?"

"Toolface?" I repeated slowly, tilting my head and wondering who in hells he was referring to.

"Mr. Boy-Band. Mr. Frost-Tipped boy." He enunciated the word boy in a challenging way, cocking an eyebrow and daring me to say otherwise. "And what was all that back there at the dance?" he asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "That hand thing you were doing with Toolface."

At first, I wasn't sure what he was talking about. I also wanted to slap the scruffy beard right off his face for continually calling Tomas 'Toolface.'

"You need to leave. I am, indeed, waiting for someone," I said frostily, jabbing my forefinger at the door to the room. "Obviously, not you," I tacked on for spiteful good measure.

"Someone..." he said, ignoring my request and chewing the word as if he'd been forced to eat something disgusting like soggy brussels sprouts swimming in burnt, bitter gravy. He moved away to the crates Tomas had brought from his estate. He half-bent over, snatched a glossy red apple up, and before crunching down on it, asked, "Who the fuck are you waiting for?"

For some bizarre reason, perhaps simply to mess with him, I tipped my chin up and said airily, "I'm waiting for my...my...boyfriend?" Then cursed myself for the way my voice rose up like a question.

"Boyfriend?" I heard the amusement in his voice. "Don't believe you."

"It's true," I shot back, stamping my foot and huffing like I was seven years old again.

The hand holding the apple lowered to his lean waist. A delicious smirk curved his lips. His eyes gleamed brightly like a lion raising its head over the savanna sensing prey. "Then why are you blushing?"

Oh my gods I was. I nervously fiddled with the cuff of my sleeve, looking everywhere but at him, feeling the heat stinging my cheeks.

"How long have you had this boyfriend?"

I half-twisted away to squint at the mops and buckets before settling on the step ladder in the corner of the room. "Um...well...hmmm...three wee-mon-years?"

I heard his footfall, slow measured steps, as he crossed the room to stand before me. "Are you perhaps...not so sure that he is your boyfriend?"

Yes...No, maybe...I have no idea.

"He's really nice," I said lamely, twisting back and glancing up to find Mr. Whiskers' eyes silently laughing at me.

I was lying, and he knew it. And I hated how small and petty and defensive it made me feel.

"Nice," Mr. Whiskers bit out. His mouth curled downward as if the word itself was filthy. He tossed the apple back into the crate. "And what does your nice boyfriend do for a job?" He stroked one flattened palm down his shirt, smoothing the shirt so tight his abs were practically on display beneath the fabric, drawing my attention all the way down to his belt buckle, a taunting gesture I couldn't break away from, and there was nothing boyish about Mr. Whiskers. Nothing at all.

"He...he..." I said, barely a whisper, my eyes still on his large hand spread across his lower abs, the little finger tapping the edge of the buckle, willing my gaze not to go any lower even though my mind had already wandered down there...

Freaking hells, Tabitha!

I jolted and shot my gaze back to him, wondering what the hells he'd been asking me.

"Your boyfriend's job," he reminded me, crossing his powerful arms over his chest and shifting his weight to one leg.

I took several steps back from him, trying to keep distance between us and clear my head. But the damn man advanced, matching me step for step. "He works on an orchard." Safe and simple work. Even if he has difficulty telling the difference between an orange and a grapefruit. "He plays the guitar." Badly. "And he's really talented, he writes his own songs." Using only one-syllable lyrics.

I don't know why I kept answering his questions with these blatant lies. Tomas wasn't officially my boyfriend, not yet, and probably not ever from the way he kept asking about Dolcie. If he wanted her back, all he had to do was ask her.

Tomas wasn't here either, and I started to become painfully aware of what last weekend had been. I had been some sort of rebound. I was the untouched, unwanted Uptight Spinster after all.

"DO YOU, OR DO YOU NOT HAVE A BOYFRIEND?!" Mr. Whiskers boomed.

"NO!" I shrieked, startled and taken by surprise.

Godsdammit!

"Ugh...no," I confessed, my shoulders slumping. It was a big, fat no. I didn't have a boyfriend. And I didn't know why I had felt the need to lie about my supposed boyfriend to this man. "I needed to talk to him about what happened at my birthday party last weekend, that's why I'm waiting for him." I had no idea why I was even sharing this much to Mr. Whiskers either. But lies and confessions were spilling from my lips this evening like confetti.

"Birthday party?" he asked, tucking a lock of midnight-black hair behind his ear.

I lifted a hand and shrugged. "Just a small one, in the Servants' Hall with dancing and—"

"Drinking, I expect," he ended for me, his eyes and voice much softer. "What is so important that you need to talk to him about? Here, in the kitchen cool room?"

"I just want to find out if he'd kissed me, or not," I said, twisting my hands together. As well as convincing him to give me a real proper kiss with his tongue and everything. Except I didn't say that part to Mr. Whiskers.

He blinked. "You don't know?"

I knew it was stupid not knowing.

I heaved a sigh and stepped back to fall against the wall, sagging. I offered him the ridiculous and humiliating truth. "I don't know. It was incredibly brief, and then he kind of..." and I drew my fingers toward my mouth, before sliding my hand sideways and away.

"What is that?" he asked, closing in once more. His violet gaze zeroed in on my hand.

"You know," and I repeated the gesture, "that."

"No. I don't fucking know." Icy disdain threaded his tone. He mirrored what I had done with my hand—drawing his large flattened palm to his mouth and then sliding it sideways. "What the fuck is that?"

I would have chastised him for the inordinate amount of swearing, but in my brief experience with this man, it was just a waste of breath.

"He pressed his lips to mine, and then he fainted." I held my breath, staring unblinkingly, praying to Skalki he wouldn't push for further explanation.

"What?" He cocked his head, squinting as if he hadn't heard it.

"Fainted."

"Fainted?" he repeated.

"Yes, he kind of kissed me, and then he fainted." How hard was it to understand those words? Anger heated my blood and—godsdammit—I could feel a new blush creeping up my neck and curving over my jawline.

Mr. Whiskers remained dead still, staring blankly at me as he mentally processed it. Then he blinked and straightened his shoulders.

He started pacing the small room, shooting me swift, curious sidelong glances. He crossed one arm over his chest while the other hand tapped two fingers on his mouth.

I had this horrible sinking feeling he knew, or had worked out exactly what had happened with Tomas, and found it hilarious.

He swiveled around, a fast, graceful movement for someone so large and domineering. His gaze was hard like granite, yet alive with amusement. He was laughing at me, I was sure of it. I bristled. Anger sizzled beneath my skin to be the object of his entertainment.

"Let's play this through shall we—the great maybe-kiss mystery and this faint."

Hells-freaking-gate!

I shot him a furious look full of daggers when I realized that he was going to make me say it!

Mr. Whiskers stormed up, so we were flush and practically touching. My hair slid up my chest with the movement as I tipped my head back to scowl up at him. Gods he was tall, so freakishly tall.

He bowed his head and got right in my face. "You say this Toolface—"

"Tomas," I hissed, my eyes slitting.

"Tomas," he snarled back, slapping a large hand against the wall beside my head as if the very name offended him. "Attended your birthday celebration—drinking and dancing." I nodded once. My mouth thinned to a grim, tight line. "I'm guessing he walked on up, calling you beautiful or pretty."

Something like that—I thought to myself, and maybe not quite walking straight either. He was somewhat wobbly in his movements. You'resoooooopuridyTab-hiccup-eeethapuridy.

He stabbed a finger upward beside his head. "I put to you, that this Toolface—"

"Tomas!" I barked, stamping a foot, and very nearly clomping my heel on his expensive dress shoes. I didn't even know why I was defending Tomas, but it was like fire meeting fire with this man.

"Stumbled up, mumbling something like you're pretty, and then he went to kiss you," he snarled, glee shining bright in his eyes. "But he didn't faint as you so claim. He passed the fuck out because he was OFF-HIS-FACE-DRUNK!"

"YES!" I roared, half-lifting my fists to shake them toward his brutally handsome face.

Yes, Tomas had passed the freaking hells out. He'd pressed his lips to mine, slid sideways, and collapsed on the floor—drunk and out like a light. It took an hour for Oswin and myself to wake Tomas up with several cups of black coffee and get him into a car so my friend could drive him home back to his estate.

My fire fizzled out like a match dipped in water. I slumped against the wall. "But his mouth pressed to mine for at least two seconds," I said, pathetically. "Isn't that a kiss?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Evidently you've never been kissed before because you'd know that was more like a drunken pass, then a pass-the-fuck-out." He slashed his hand in an arc. "No, that's more like something your grandmother would give you on your cheek."

Inwardly I groaned—gross.

I was back at square one. Kissless.

It was a long moment before I realized that Mr. Whiskers was still standing right in front of me, his arms braced on either side of my body, boxing me in. He was so massive and tall that it was like standing in the shadow of a mountain. He was so close that his body heat radiated to warm mine. And despite the warmth, a wash of goosebumps burst all over my skin.

His rich purple eyes were fixed on mine, unblinking and dangerous. It was like staring at a starved Bengal tiger, hoping it wouldn't notice you. His breath skated over my lips like a kiss, and I wanted to dart my tongue out to taste it. A line of delicious fire ran down my spine and went to a place that throbbed with exquisite, torturous pain. My eyes fluttered shut briefly. Nothing in those romance books had prepared me for the real thing, and I thought I might burst out of my skin with the intense awareness of his close proximity.

His scent, masculine and virile, with a note of anise, was glorious, and with every inhale my thoughts became more and more muddled. I mentally shook my head, blinking, and reminded myself this man referred to me as Miss Uptight, practically calling me Uptight Spinster like the rest of my colleagues did, snickering it behind my back. He didn't want me—he was here to humiliate me.

Mr. Whiskers jerked his head back. His hair swayed with the motion as he peeled his body away from mine, taking a half-step back. He pulled a face like he wasn't sure what he was looking at, but whatever it was, it wasn't pleasant at all. "What in Nine Hells is that hideous thing you're wearing?" His appalled gaze took in the dress's neckline, which was choking my throat, and the baggy bodice, skimming down to the hem of the skirt that was wonky and too high on one side compared to the other. His deep voice growled, "Was the seamstress jacked up on fucking coke when they made it?"

My mouth fell open. Seriously, what in hells could I even say to that? The man had no filter. He was so freaking rude. I pressed a hand against his rock-hard shoulder and shoved him. There was no way I could have physically moved him, but he took several steps back.

I pushed off the wall and glared at him. "It's a designer piece." By my aunt. Made with love. "Haute-couture." I snapped, deciding to just own it. I braced a hand on my hip—the hand with the shirt sleeve that almost reached the tip of my fingers. "It's a nod to avant-garde," I said haughtily, and tossed my hair over my shoulder.

And then he did something that flipped the mood once more, like a coin spinning in the air to fall right side up.

He smiled.

He really smiled.

He beamed, so brief and swift and glorious, like a flash of blinding white light across a gloomy sky that I wanted to bottle and wear like a necklace. I wanted to bathe in that smile. Lick it from his lips. Swallow it down with kisses.

He threw his head back, and his entire body shuddered as a laugh burst from his throat. Except it was more like a cackle, rusty from disuse. I didn't know why I knew that he hadn't laughed in a long time, I just did. The sound was like a scratchy record, well played and much loved, a song you've heard a thousand times, but you knew you'd still be listening to it in a decade.

"Avant-garde," he huffed, dragging a hand through his hair as he shook his head. Though the smile was wiped from his mouth, it was still alight in his eyes.

And then it dawned on me, slowly like the sun rising, where heat and wonder and light took a long time to crawl across the earth to reach you.

I blinked, stiffening my spine.

He'd earlier asked about the hand gesture...he had to have been watching me speak to Tomas to know about it.

I should have felt worried that he'd been covertly watching me earlier at the dance. It could so easily be considered stalkerish to have followed me in here, but I'd been doing the same thing too, searching for him at the dance. My heart beat louder and faster in my ears, and delight spread through my veins and filled my chest with heat. And something undefinable happened. Everything around me came into sharp relief. Almost like I could see and feel and sense every single atom charging the air. The atmosphere changed in the room. It became hot and intense and it hummed with static electricity.

Mr. Whiskers, I was sure, felt it too. I watched his throat bob as he stared at my lips like he hated that he wanted me, yet was desperate to kiss me. And I wasn't sure which one he was going to go with. Something in his dark gaze said that if he did kiss me, he was going to savage my mouth brutally, and I wasn't sure if I wanted my first kiss to be that kind of kiss.

And strangely, even wearing this dress, hideous, according to him, I felt him undressing me as his eyes lowered further, feathering down my throat. As if he imagined the feel of the zipper between his fingers, and the whirr of metal as it slid down the track, the backs of his curled fingers brushing against my soft skin, skimming down my spine, the navy fabric slowly revealing my naked body, inch by inch. His violet eyes were intense and hungry and alluring. I watched his jaw flex, his nostrils flare, as his gaze languidly slid down my body with the dress he imagined peeling from me and letting pool at my feet.

I swallowed thickly.

My inner sex clenched and my nipples pinched hard.

The only place it'll look good is on my fucking bedroom floor!—I don't know why that suddenly burst into my mind, but that's what I read in his heated gaze as they snapped to mine.

It would look good—I thought—Really good.

And a delightful smirk curled the corner of his mouth as if he'd had the same thought. And because he smiled, so did I. Except mine was broad and unrestrained, wide and toothy.

His eyes sharpened, not on my mouth but on my left cheek. He bit down on his lower lip, his knees buckling slightly as he groaned deeply, almost combusting into flames of lust that licked my skin and set all my nerve endings on fire.

"What do you want?" I asked him, wide-eyed.

He practically devoured me with his gaze as he stepped closer and crowded me up against the wall. One large hand, calloused and rough, found its way to my neck, his fingers winding beneath the weight of my hair around the nape of my neck. I sucked in a breath, but his touch was gentle as his thumb stroked up my delicate throat. His eyelids shuttered half-mast. "You." A voice, raw and gruff, rumbled the next words out. They crossed the sliver of space between us and reverberated inside my body. "I want to fuck you."

My breath tightened in my throat. No one had ever spoken to me like that before. I didn't even know how to deal with his directness, let alone form the words of a response.

I. Want. To. Fuck. You.