Was the ring simply an imitation of it? A jeweler's rendition of moonlight? Originally I'd thought of the gem adorning Laurena's finger as starlight...but moonlight. My heart began pounding for a new reason altogether. Moonlight was one of the last two things I needed, now that I had the Crown of a Princess.

"It's pure moonlight, trapped into an impression of a gem," Mr. Whiskers answered huskily, kissing tiny kisses across my cheekbone, not realizing I'd stilled and stiffened in his arms.

Moonlight...

And he had it, somewhere on him.

Where?

His pocket. He'd slipped the gem inside his pocket.

Should I steal it now or later? If I left it until later I might not get this chance again. I needed to be opportunistic. I had to be. I had to think like a thief.

"This is so fucking weird," he grouched as he pushed at the footballer's shoulder pads that also shielded my breasts. He loosened a wholly irritated growl. "This is driving me fucking insane," he barked, tugging at it.

I frowned at him, jostled about by his temper tantrum. "It's my chastity belt. No second base."

His dark eyebrows slashed up and he looked so desperate and disappointed I wanted to laugh. "I want...I want second base...let me...fuck it, I'll be your second base."

And the idea of how to steal from him while he was distracted slunk into my mind.

I wriggled myself, letting him know I wanted free. He released me and I slid to the floor, my legs a little wobbly beneath me.

He braced his hands on the wall to either side of me, breathing hard and staring at me warily, wondering what I was going to do. If I was going to go through with it. I sucked in a deep breath, looking up at him beneath my eyelashes.

I daren't lie. Even I knew I wanted to do this. Though guilt nibbled at me, most of me was intrigued and excited to touch him.

Tentatively, I reached up to coast the flat of my hands down his crisp shirt, feeling his powerful physique beneath my palms. Magnificent. I ran the tips of my fingers up and down his chest, and with each downward glide, I went lower and lower and lower but never going as far as he wanted.

His pupils flared wildly. "Lower," he rasped, desperate. "Fuck. Go lower...Gods..." The words rolled together as he jittered on the spot. "Lower, lower, lower, fuuuck, lowerlowerlowerloowwweeeerrrrr..."

A small wicked smile tugged at one corner of my mouth to think that I held this kind of power over him.

So desperate.

Utterly desperate to have someone touch him. Me.

I'd never touched anyone.

In the space of a few hours, I'd orgasmed merely from someone breathing and nipping and sucking on my ear. Kissed him. Kissed a lot. Pressed against his body and felt him, a hard length between my thighs.

And now...now, I could touch him—touch it.

He was practically begging me.

My fingers drifted down, down, down over the valleys and rises of his abs, his muscles rippling at my touch. Back up again.

His moan floated through the air—raw and needy.

He bowed his head. Silky hair tickled the side of my face, and his warm breath washed down my neck. "Touch me...fuuuck..."

It was the first time that word he liked to bandy about affected me in a primal way. The way it rolled slowly from his lips, gruff and obscenely carnal, caused a chain reaction. My body replied before I'd even understood. I was helpless against the ache in my core that thrummed through me like a cello's bass note, spinning through the air, spiraling outward to strum the bundle of nerves at my thighs like a wicked quaver. I was hot and cold all at once. My breath caught in my throat, resting dangerously on the cusp of a low throaty moan. My thighs clenched together and I steeled myself not to lean in, seeking friction against his body.

In the pitch-black passageway, even with my keen sight, we were shadowed with darkness. I let myself be guided by the feel of him. I roamed his barrelled chest, tauntingly slowly, over the curve of his pecs, gliding down the side of his ribs to his narrow hips, sliding along smooth leather and belt loops. The belt buckle metal was cool and sharp-edged beneath my fingertips—hard, just as hard as I imagined he was.

His arms, braced on either side of my body and boxing me in, trembled with restraint. Dominance and craving vibrated from him and whispered against my skin. The darkness around us shimmered with aether, charging the air in a tangible way. Heat whorled in streams like heat waves gently blown by desert winds, caressing the nape of my neck and winding around my throat as gently as a lover's kiss.

The bloodhound stirred, curious, intrigued.

Not everyone was blatantly other, nor noticed. Perhaps because of what I was, what harbored inside me, I was attuned to him. Storm-weaver, definitely.

My lashes parted wider as I contemplated what I was going to do.

I'd gone from sweet and innocent 1950s Mills and Boons books my Aunt gave me to read—which had one kiss at the very end and only when they'd agreed to marry—to Jackie Collins and her brilliant dirty mind. I loved Jackie Collins. Bless that woman. Because if not for her, what I was doing right now would have freaked me to Nine Hells and I would have frozen with nerves...or maybe spun around and ran.

I sucked in a deep, fortifying breath. The back of my curled fingers lightly skimmed his rigid length, making him flex and me gasp.

"That's it, tabby cat," he urged, his voice rough and uneven.

I traced the top, the crown, burning hot even through the fabric that separated us from one another. I spread my fingers wide—

It throbbed—

Punched against my palm—

And it startled me. "Oh my gods..." My gaze snapped to his. He could read me in the dark, the surprise in the O shape of my mouth. Before I even thought about what I was saying, I asked, "Does it do that often?"

A chuckle that turned into something that sounded like pain when I grew bolder and curved my fingers around his thick girth. "Only when he likes someone...a lot."

"He likes me?" I asked, unable to resist.

"Yes," he whisper-hissed. "Right now he fucking loves you."

I knew he was only speaking about how I was touching him, but I couldn't stop the glow warming my heart, nor the tentative fluttering in my chest, and I had to bite back a smile.

He grunted and pressed closer into my touch. "Stroke me."

I steeled myself. Now. I had to do it now.

While all his focus was narrowed on my hand stroking gently up and down, up and down his hot throbbing length, I slid my hand into his pants pocket—careful, careful, careful. My touch as insubstantial as mist, as light as a thief.

The tip of my middle finger touched the cold gem, not even warmed by his body heat. I slipped my finger through the gold band, hooked it, and fished it out. Careful, careful, careful...

Curling my fingers around the ring, I slunk it away from him, while my other hand moved up and down, molding to his shape beneath the fabric. He felt dangerous, powerful, and I was pretty sure the size of him was something that was never ever going to fit.

Holy Zrenyth.

He sucked in a sharp breath at the same time I did.

Tense, every muscle in his body was locked taut. His head hung low, hair falling forward like draped lace. "Fuck yes, like that," he gritted out.

I ran my hand down even lower, following the ridgeline, and cupped him. Hard, he was so hard. Every glorious inch of him.

He bucked his hips. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuck."

A thrill swept through me at the sway I held over him. Just by touching him, and not actually touching him either. There were threads between us, woven and stitched together, that kept us apart. Yet it was me, what I was doing, that made him vulnerable. There was power in my touch, making him shift his hips and chase me, quicken his breath, and draw out raw sounds of desire and desperate need. Would he sound like that if I let him inside my body? When he reached his own peak of pleasure?

I covertly slipped the ring into my sweatpants pocket.

Abruptly he slapped his huge palm over mine, pressing my hand to his erection, stopping my motion.

My stomach lurched and my heart skipped erratically. My wide-eyed gaze whiplashed to his and met dark eyes. At first, I thought he'd caught me stealing from him, until he groaned, biting his lip. "Fuck. I can't take this any longer. I'm going to jizz in my fucking pants like a middle-aged virgin getting his first peek at a pair of pretty tits."

His calloused fingers laced with mine and he removed my hand from him.

Untangling myself from his domineering body, I drew in an unsteady breath and took a step back.

Strands of hair had come free from my bun. As I fussed with my hair, I could tell it was mussed up, and my cheeks were flushed and flustered hot as I rubbed them with my hands. I was dazed at what I'd just experienced, and feeling everything too intensely. A strange mixture of guilty betrayal and unfulfilled lust echoed between my legs.

Mr. Whiskers leaned a hand against the wall and blew out a heaving breath. What was he going to do when he found out the ring was gone? What would he do when he realized I was the one who had stolen it? Because that would be the only conclusion he could come to. Me. I was the thief.

It was hard resisting from patting my pocket to feel the ring where I'd it tucked away. Instead, I lifted a hand, silently asking for my backpack. He unhooked the straps from his shoulders and handed the bag over. "Shit," he hissed, tipping his head back as he raked a hand through his messy hair.

Slinging my bag over one shoulder, I shifted my weight nervously from foot to foot. I had a more pressing problem, one he had to solve for me. I cleared my throat, drawing his attention back to me. "You'll steal the glamour potion?"

The corner of his mouth curled up, and his violet eyes gleamed like a cat that had slapped its paw upon its prey. "One night," he demanded once more.

I nodded, swallowing thickly.

"I will, I will, I will..." he muttered, the words sounding like a mantra as he adjusted his erection in his pants and sucked in air. "Shit."

A few seconds later, I left him behind and slunk out of the secret servants' shortcut, still reeling over what I'd done, what I'd experienced and touched. I was deep within the servants' quarters, near the dormitories, not thinking as clearly as I should have been, and grinning madly. I could have simply run straight to my bedroom, but I heard a distant murmuring of conversation and movement coming from the male and female sectors ahead of me. And I couldn't be seen entering my room in this disguise. As far as anyone was concerned who might have spotted me earlier, I'd entered my room in my avant-garde dress and I'd reappear very shortly in it too. It was best to stick to my plan—sneak back outside and then climb through my bedroom window.

Quickly breaking into a fast-paced walk, I furtively glanced behind me as I quietly scurried across the squeaky flooring. As I high-tailed it past the junction between the male and female dorms, someone rounded the corner and I slammed right into them—

Stumbling backward with my arms flailing and a startled oomph—

I fell onto my backside. I winced as pain sliced through my butt and the hard surface of the floor jarred my bones. The abrupt momentum had freed my backpack and it flew upwards and then back down. It hit the polished floor with a loud smack and skidded along to rest beside a pair of expensive male shoes.

My heart thudded in my throat.

I scrambled into a half-kneeling position, drawing in an awful-sounding breath as horror whirled through me when I realized my backpack wasn't zippered up. The black bag had fallen open and the zip-lock plastic bag of Laurena's hair was clearly on display.

The static noise of electricity humming above from the lights set into the ceiling fizzed inside my head. The man who loomed over me cut a fine authoritative figure in his suit and I withered in the shadow he cast upon me.

Romain Deniaud.

Marissa's father.

He smoothed his navy tie down flat against his gray shirt with his flattened palm. His thin mustache twitched as he stared down at me with deep blue eyes, narrowed almost to slits.

Romain recovered first, much quicker than I. He bent down and picked up my backpack. One thick eyebrow arched as he looked inside my bag and at the damning contents.

Without saying a word, he slowly zipped up the backpack, the sound of metal teeth grinding against my ears.

I couldn't meet his gaze. My own guilty one shot past him where it was safer, where he'd come from within the dormitories. Blood pounded in my ears and the thunderous boom of my rapid heartbeat deafened my rapidly unraveling thoughts.

All the air tightened in my chest like a fist.

What was I going to say when he inquired about what was inside my bag?

When I finally met his eyes again, they were cold and sharp and almost angry. A muscle ticked in his hollowed cheek, and his cleft chin lifted as he ran a curious eye over my outfit, my disguise, before slowly handing over my backpack.

He couldn't know just yet what I had done. But what I was wearing—this strange get-up—and what was stuffed inside my bag, practically screamed I was up to no good.

I took the bag from him with trembling fingers and shoved to my feet.

He still remained silent, and it took a long moment to untangle my sluggish tongue in a mouth that had gone bone-dry and whispered my thanks. With my head bowed low, and my arms clasping the bag to my chest, I turned away and made my way toward the Servants' Hall on unsteady legs that threatened to buckle beneath me. As I walked down the corridor, my footfall was heavy and loud and slammed against the walls.

When I glanced back over my shoulder, Mr. Deniaud was watching me with a look I couldn't read. He then pivoted, the heel of his shoes squeaking on the lino, and headed away.

I lost hold of my threadbare sanity. It was a surreal, out-of-body experience. My body reacted while my mind fell apart under the severe position of what I'd found myself in.

I stumbled outside, lost in terrifying, panicked thoughts. I had no idea how I managed to move across the lawn or climb up the chestnut tree, but when I awoke to awareness I found myself clambering through the bedroom window I'd left ajar, tumbling onto the desk below, rolling off, and thumping upon the floor.

I lay on the worn carpet staring up at the pocked ceiling, trying to catch my breath and pull myself together.

What am I going to do?

Would Mr. Deniaud piece it together when, if, Mr. Whiskers found a replacement of glamour potion and administered it to Laurena? In three days' time the potion would wear off and Laurena would see what had happened to her and Mr. Deniaud would know it had happened here, and who was responsible—me. He'd turn a finger on me, pointing, and rightly accuse me of being the person behind the hair-snatching heist.

I'd be no doubt punished brutally by the Wychthorns and separated from my aunt.

Who would take care of my aunt?

Who would ensure no one here got hurt because of that thing inside her?

I rose woozily to my feet. With shaking, clumsy hands I managed to pull my clothes off, undo the footballer's attire, kick off my shoes, and shove them into my trunk. I'd take every damning piece of clothing before the sun rose and bury it so deep beneath the forest's floor no one would discover the incriminating evidence.

I changed back into my avant-garde dress with its torn armholes, smoothed my hair, and tried to erase the knots tied in my muscles. But just as I went to empty my backpack into the false bottom of my trunk...

A feeling, a deep-seated terrible feeling, invaded my mind and body.

Something I was missing...

The scissors.

The scissors!

I tipped the backpack upside down and shook it. Everything tumbled out onto the carpet. I fell to my knees so hard they popped. I scrambled through the contents strewn over the floor. I couldn't find them. They hadn't been inside the bag. I searched again, once more, a third time, and a fourth. By the fifth attempt, I was shaking so badly that I couldn't get my hands to work. A heavy weight like a blacksmith's anvil crushed me and pushed me into full-blown panic.

I knew...I knew where the scissors would be. The backpack had fallen open in front of Romain, but I was positive nothing had spilled out.

There was only one place the scissors could be—Laurena's bedroom.

I'd been in such a mindless disorientated state after Byron started pounding on Laurena's bedroom door, I'd shoved everything into the backpack before we fled.

But...I hadn't picked up the scissors. I'd stashed away everything else, but not that.

Clammy sweat beaded upon my skin. Acid churned in my gut. The room seemed to spin around me. Tomorrow morning Laurena was going to wake up and find the dressmaker's scissors beside her. Even if Mr. Whiskers came through for me, and she'd been temporarily fooled by glamour, in three days' time she'd piece it together.

If there was any time to give myself a pass on cursing, now was it.

I was fucked.

So fucking fucked!

Fuuuck!

I had to find Mr. Whiskers and tell him to find the scissors too when he snuck back into her bedroom. I rose and ran to my bedroom door, pushing it open. And that's when I heard a horrendous cacophony of noise seeping in from the open bedroom window—chaotic and clashing—coming from outside the mansion.

And screaming.