I wake feeling blissfully well-rested and relaxed.

Whatever Ambrose had done to me, I couldn't object. Well, except to the fact that he'd kissed me—twice now—without my consent.

Not that I'd found it unpleasant, really, but I did like to have a say in the matter of when—or if—another person's mouth got to know mine.

Especially when that person was some kind of half-dragon creature that seemed all too capable of manipulating my feelings and my mind.

With this thought I rise, shake off the last of my pleasant lassitude, shower and dress with quick efficiency, and head downstairs.

There's no sign of Ambrose, but Dougal greets me at the bottom of the stairs with the enthusiastic desperation of a dog who's been patiently waiting for someone to wake up and let him outside. I do, and note that the roses I'd trimmed look healthier already. I've half started planning some other work I might do when I remember I'm leaving.

I shut the door and then stand in the hall, caught in a sort of eddy of indecision. I should go back upstairs, pack my things, and leave before Ambrose wakes up and has a chance to convince me otherwise.

On the other hand, I feel I owe him something.

Julian and I had fucked up, for sure, but things could have been a lot worse. If Ambrose hadn't been there, we might've both been poisoned and the painting still gone. Instead, Julian was fine, and we knew a lot more than we did before—if only because Ambrose had chosen to share what he'd known all along.

I'm also not quite ready to face Dane. I'll have to—he needs to know about the poison, because it means the thief is willing and able to kill—but the thought of telling him just how close a call we had makes me go cold with dread.

I stand there in the silence so long, lost in thought, I'm startled by my own stomach, rumbling with hunger. I haven't eaten since lunch the day before, I realize, and I'm starving. Maybe I'll be able to think more clearly after breakfast.

In the kitchen, I throw some sausages and potatoes in a pan, and I'm contemplating how many eggs to fry when a loud crash from the hallway makes me drop the spatula and burn my hand. Heart in my mouth, I grab a kitchen knife, creep to the doorway, and peek around the corner into the hall.

Instead of an intruder, or a ghost, or whatever I'd imagined, Ambrose sits on the floor with his back against the wall, and beside him is an overturned sidetable and the remnants of a broken vase.

"Doct—Ambrose—" I correct. "What happened? Are you alright?"

He looks up at me with a bleary expression, like a man with a bad hangover.

"Sorry... little wolf. I fell," he mumbles.

"Fell?"

I look closer and see that his long reddish hair is loose and tangled, his brow and shirt damp with sweat, and his face has an awful, blueish-white cast. Even his lips are pale. "What the—? Are you ill?"

He lifts his eyes to mine with something of an effort and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Don' worry, little wolf," he slurs. "'S jus' the las' a' the poison wearin' off."

Righting the table, I set the knife on it and then kneel at his side.

"I thought you said it wouldn't hurt you?" I ask, knowing I sound desperate and a little scared.

He shakes his head. "I said it doesn' harm me. Fuckin' hurts though," he mutters, and grimaces.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Help me up," he groans, and reaches for me.

I slip an arm around his back and together we struggle to our feet. He leans on me heavily, and I sag a little beneath his weight.

"What are you doing down here?" I grunt, trying to steer him towards the sitting room where we'd gathered the evening before. "You clearly shouldn't be up."

"Got hungry," he says. "An' something smells good."

He leans his head on my shoulder and the whisper of his breath on my skin makes me shiver.

"Um... well, let's get you sat down, first," I say, "and then some breakfast."

I take another step towards the sitting room, but he has his own ideas and heads us for the kitchen.

"Smells good," he says again, inhaling, but he has his nose pressed to the base of my throat and half under the collar of my shirt. Unless I spilled something, it's not breakfast he's smelling right now.

I grimace and shift away from him, but it's difficult when I'm supporting half his weight. Finally we reach the kitchen and I dump him in a chair and go to check the stove. Thankfully, my breakfast didn't burn, and I divide it up on two plates and then fry up some eggs. When I turn back to Ambrose, I find him watching me, his elbow on the table and his head resting on his palm, long legs stretched out in front of him.

He looks a little better than he did, but still awful. I set his plate in front of him, fetch him a cup of coffee, and then sit down on the opposite side of the table.

We eat in silence. I'd forgotten my hunger in my momentary alarm, but now it returns in full force, and I have to hold myself in check so I don't bolt my food. Ambrose seems to have no such reservation, though, and when I look up I see him hunched over his plate, shoveling food into his mouth. It's not at all in line with his usual air of aloof refinement, and for once I'm the one looking at him with raised brows.

"Should I... make more?" I ask. Cooking him breakfast was not on my list of things to do this morning, but it seems like the food has done him some good. A little color has returned to his face, anyway.

He shakes his head, pushing aside his empty plate. "No, thanks. That was perfect. Just what I needed."

He tilts his head back, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, I see something of the usual fire smoldering in their depths. Still, there are more lines around their edges than before, and at the corners of his mouth as well.

"You're sure you're alright?" I ask.

He nods. "A few more hours and I'll be good as new. Speaking of, could you help me back to my room?"

"Of course."

I offer my arm again and he leans on me, though not as heavily as before. With me on his one side and the bannister on the other, we make it to the second floor, and then down the hall, in the opposite direction from my room, towards what I gather is the master suite.

It's a large, long space, the whole width of the house, with windows on three walls. A large bed with an ornate frame of dark wood stands at one end, and I aim for this. Ambrose collapses onto it and lies back. I start to step away, but he catches my hand and stops me.

"Thank you, little wolf," he says. "I'm sorry I surprised you. Usually, I can't bear to be seen like this—reminds me too much of bein' a child an' helpless—but somehow I don' mind it, if it's you."

"It's no trouble," I demur, unsure what else to say. He still hasn't let go of my hand.

"Aengus was a doctor, you see," he goes on, "though not a very good one. Not until I came along, anyway. Afterwards, he got a reputation for 'miracle cures,' and started charging what only the wealthiest could afford. At least it kept the influx of patients to a manageable level. Enough that I didn't go mad with it, anyway."

I blink at that. "How long did...?"

"My ability manifested when I was five. Aengus used it to his profit until Jack finally realized what was happening, and got me out of there when I was fifteen. I'd forgotten—or maybe never really known—what it was to feel well."

"That's... awful," I say.

He lifts a shoulder, shrugging against the pillows at his back.

"It's in the past. Now I'm more interested in...the present."

His eyes are fixed my fingers where I'd burned them on the pan.

"You're hurt," he whispers.

"It's nothing," I say, and try to draw away, but he pulls my hand towards him and then—to my surprise and slight disgust—licks the burn.

"Ugh—what are you—"

His eyes flick up to mine and I see they're lit with his strange fire.

"I like the taste of you, little wolf."

He says this in a different, lower voice, and I feel my eyes go wide. He yanks my arm, the motion sudden and rough, and I fall beside him on the bed with a shout of surprise.

Before I can react, he rolls to trap me beneath him, his hair falling over his shoulders in a cascade of auburn curls, and then his mouth is on mine, insistent and hot.

I feel the weight and strength of him, the heat of his hands and lips, and already the intoxication of his touch is clouding my mind.

There are two voices in my head—both screaming—one saying 'yes' and the other 'no.'

The 'no' is a little louder, and a little scared.

"Ambrose—stop," I say, trying to push him away. Rather than listen, though, he catches both my wrists and pulls my arms above my head, just hard enough that it hurts.

And then, triggered by the pain and the sudden spike of fear, my instincts finally kick in.

"I said stop!"

I wrench my hands free of his grip and shove him hard. He falls to the side with a grunt, and my own voice is a wolfish snarl as I twist away from him. I know my teeth have lengthened and my eyes are bright with their own amber light. Scrambling up, I back away towards the door, breathing heavily, with a growl in my chest and already starting to shake.

He sits up, all the fire gone from his eyes and a startled look on his face.

"Noah..."

He starts to rise and I turn, intending to run for the door.

"Noah, wait—please!"

There's something in his voice—not a command, but a plea—that makes me stop. I hold still a second and then look back.

He hasn't moved, still standing by the bed, pale with dismay.

"Please, Noah—forgive me. When I'm like this, I can't control myself, sometimes. Please don't go."

"Why shouldn't I?" I ask. My voice is still a little rough, but more with emotion than anything else. "Why do you want me here?"

"Isn't that obvious by now?" he asks softly. "I like you. Rather a lot."

I laugh, and I hate what a bitter sound it is. "No, it isn't obvious. What's there to like, anyway?"

He looks pained by this, and takes a half-step towards me, but stops.

"You're not seeing clearly, little wolf—you're looking at the world through a veil of hurt," he says. "I see you as you are, and you're beautiful; the worst thing is you don't even know it. I—" He pauses and takes a breath. "I fucked up, just now. I haven't lost control like that in years. Surely, you understand what it's like to have another nature rule your mind."

I can't deny it, though of all my family—of all the wolves I've ever met—I think I might be the least wolf-like among them.

"Fine. I believe you."

I believe he didn't mean to hurt me, at least. As for the rest...

"I have to go." I say. "Will you be alright on your own?"

He looks stricken, but nods. "Yes. I'll be fine."

"Good. I'm going to Dane and Julian's. I'll tell them what you've told me. Can you make me a list of the other occultists—their names and current statuses?"

"Yes, I can do that."

I nod, not knowing where my sudden confidence is coming from, but not hating it either. "I'll take Dougal with me. He'll enjoy the farm."

"That's... yes," Ambrose agrees, and runs his hands through his long hair, exhaling through his nose as he does. "I know you'll take good care of him."

I realize, as he says this, that he thinks I'm not coming back.

"Do you have a preference for dinner?" I ask. "I can make something, if you want."

He looks up, and I see the faintest spark reignite in his eyes—little fires of hope. "Shepherd's pie," he breathes. "It was my favorite, as a lad."

I nod, allowing myself the hint of a smile.

"You can look forward to it," I say, and then leave him as his soft, relieved laugh falls gently at my back.