anya supposed she was pressing her luck a bit, listing so many of her doubts and insistences all at once for Stefan to acknowledge and heed. But that “Enough!” wasn’t just a burst of impatience from him either. She was afraid she’d struck another nerve somehow, without intending to this time, and she knew that wasn’t the smartest thing to do when she was still lying half under him on the bed.

But she needn’t have worried—over that at least. Whatever had set him off, his mood had definitely changed. With one final long glare from those searing eyes of his, he left her side and headed straight for the door.

It took Tanya a moment to realize her good fortune—he’d moved away from her so quickly, he hadn’t even seen her face when his hands let go of it. She turned immediately toward the wall, just in case he changed his mind about leaving, but all he did was issue an order. “Whatever you care to take with you, gather it now. You won’t be returning to this place.” Then he slammed the door shut behind him.

That’s what he thought, the arrogant devil. But Tanya didn’t waste any time fuming over that terse command, or even how to avoid it. First things first, and her immediate priority was to repair whatever damage his firm grip had done to her face. Thankfully, that would take her only a minute or two.

She scrambled off the bed and rushed to the dressing table she’d fashioned years ago from old crates, where she kept her box of colored powders and creams and her precious chunk of broken mirror, which she’d confiscated out of her next‑door neighbor’s trash. However, the sight of the mirror leaning upright against the wall at hip level was more than she, or her piqued curiosity, could bear, overriding even her sense of self‑preservation. She turned around before it and hiked up the back of her skirt, then glanced over her shoulder—and felt the heat rush up and suffuse her face once more. God, he’d seen her like that? She felt shamed to the core—and something else, something she couldn’t name in her naïveté.

Tanya might know all about fornication, having been reared in a tavern where men didn’t curb their language or topics of conversation. She might even have seen it being practiced a time or two, having come upon some of the bolder barmaids they’d hired over the years entwined with men in the most unlikely places—anywhere Dobbs couldn’t find them. She’d even had desire described to her by one helpful wench, which was why she’d been able to recognize that swirly jumble of sensations she’d felt earlier when Stefan had suggested they make love. But a “fluttering in the middle innards” was all she knew about, and that was quite different from the hot gush of achy pleasure she felt now in a spot much lower than her middle, as she pictured that dark devil seeing her like this, and touching...

Like Stefan, she forgot for a moment what she was looking for. Unlike him, when she finally spied the small crescent moon under the curve of her left but­tock, she was hit with another wave of shame, know­ing now without a doubt that one of those men had seen even more of her than her bare backside through her window. But which one? Stefan? Her shame less­ened somewhat, and because she realized it did, it came flooding right back.

Daft‑wined idiot, you can’t like the idea of him watching...

“What in the hell is this?” he snarled at her even before the door slammed against the inner wall, too late a warning that the golden‑eyed devil had re­turned.

Tanya dropped her skirt instantly, but she was much slower in turning to face Stefan. Lord help her, she was going to burn to a cinder with mortification this time, to have been caught ogling her own back­side. It was just too much on top of everything else. But when she was finally looking at him, he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at his hands, which he held out in front of him as if he’d sprouted a few more fingers than he should have. And for a girl who was supposed to have been repairing her face, it didn’t take much guessing to know what the “this” was he was asking about. Not her unseemly behavior, as she’d thought, but the gray powder now coating his long fingers.

She quickly decided that he’d be staring at her if he had figured it out yet, so she turned her back on him and tried as unobtrusively as possible to smooth out the damage he’d done to her camouflage. She didn’t quite dare to bend over to see in her mirror if she’d managed to get rid of all his pale fingerprints. That would draw his attention to her face—and an­swer his question, which she was anxiously hoping he’d forget.

Attempting to distract him, she said, “If you don’t know how to knock, I’d be pleased to teach you.”

“I believe I asked you a question, wench.”

So much for distracting him. “And I believe you’ve asked one too many questions for one day. I don’t feel like—”

The grip on the tight bun at the nape of her neck put an end to her defiant evasions. She hadn’t even heard him come up behind her. But she couldn’t miss the large hand that appeared mere inches in front of her eyes.

“You will tell me, now, how it can be that when I touch you, my hands change color.”

“Ash?” she offered as a possibility. “I was clean­ing the hearth this morning.”

“And rubbed your face in it?”

“No, but—”

“Of course, it could be ash,” he said thoughtfully as he rubbed his fingers together. “It has that consistency.” Just as she started to relax, her head was twisted sideways and back, until she was staring into his eyes. “But somehow I doubt it. Tell me why I doubt it, wench,” he commanded, while one finger traced a diagonal line down her cheek.

Tanya closed her eyes for a moment against the turbulent emotions she read in his. He knew, and was furious about it, though she couldn’t imagine why. So her appearance was an illusion. She should be the one enraged to have it discovered, not he.

“Let go—”

That got her another tug on her bun that pulled on hair that had already been drawn back as far as possible. Tears popped into the corners of her eyes, accompanied by a gasping sound of pain and a reproachful glare that had no effect on him that she could see. In fact, for half a breath she thought he was going to tug even harder. He didn’t. His grip slackened, and Tanya didn’t spare a second to leap out of his reach, only to screech mightily because he hadn’t actually let go of her bun. It was pulled loose from his fingers with her movement and now unraveled down her back. Her hair whipped over her shoulder as she spun about to glare murderously at him.

“I’ll be lucky if I have any hair left, you bastard!” she cried, her hands coming up to massage her scalp. “Where do you get off treating me like that?”

Her question was ignored, totally. And she lost the space she’d gained as he took a step forward to grip her chin, forcing her head back.

“The truth, wench. Do you paint your face to enhance—or to conceal?”

Even as he asked this, his eyes were determining the answer for himself, probing so deeply. Tanya stiffened and knocked his hand away, but it only fell to her shoulder, keeping her from turning away from him.

She had nothing to lose at this point by demanding, “So you want the gory truth and the last of my pride with it? I don’t have much to improve on, but then you’ve already guessed that, haven’t you? You’re a cruel devil to make me admit it.”

Trying to sound as if her pride had been wounded when all she felt was anger just didn’t come off, but she was sure the conscience she was trying to prick was nonexistent anyway.

He only grunted to acknowledge her effort before scoffing, “You are a lie from head to foot, mistress, but that ends here and now. I give you five minutes exactly to emerge from this room as your true self. Defy me and I will scrub you down myself, then heat your backside for putting me to the trouble.”