Page 58 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

“I cannot.”

Hell. What did that mean? A revelation of desire or something else? “I know what you want, but I have nothing to offer you but mischief.”

“I did not come for… that. I will not repeat my folly from the garden. I have come for evidence.”

Do not turn around. Not in his current state, with all his senses heightened and screaming for action of some sort.

Some men, like Temple, divested themselves of the power that came into them with their use of their alchemy connection as they stoked that very connection.

Iron required brute force. Temple possessed a heavy hammer to swing and exhaust his senses as he honed the metal.

Nico’s silver did not work that way. Silver required the smallest of movements, a gentle dexterity. It required, at times, greater stillness than action. He could not exhaust the power running through him as he shaped the silver. It built up and required release.

And release had just shown up in his doorway.

He needed to see her. He moved his neck first, twisting until his chin was at his shoulder, caught a glimpse of her.

She might have been wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing a week ago when she’d invaded his garden—shapeless velvet to the neck.

But in the greater light of the fire nearby, he saw its color more clearly.

Red. Perfect in all its shades, especially the shade that rushed across her cheeks now as he turned his shoulders, his hips, and leaned against his worktable, crossing his arms over his chest.

Her mouth hung open for a moment before words slipped between those pretty lips. “You look different. Bigger.”

“Connecting with the silver has that effect.”

Her head cocked to the side. “Connection?” She looked like Felix when he was busy trying to understand the incomprehensible. Bloody adorable.

He chuckled. Despite his title, he’d not had much to do with the transcendent sort. Alchemists had their villages and cities, and transcendents theirs. Only in London did they mix, and even that was a city divided into transcendents in the west and alchemists to the east.

He shouldn’t tell her anything more. The Grants’ scandal had taught every alchemist that lesson—keep your lips sealed. But he already had one secret from her. and he didn’t like the idea of having another.

“All alchemists experience a connection with their bonded metal. As we shape it, it shapes us. It is more visible with me because silver crafting does not require overt strength. More of a delicate touch, dexterous fingers.” His bodily strength swelling as his connection to the metal did.

An hour ago, his shirt had hung loose about his frame, but now his muscles strained against the linen.

Her gaze dropped to his hands, then roamed all over him, across his shoulders and down the length of his bent arms then across his chest, roving lower, lower, hitting the waistband of his trousers and bouncing back up to his face so quickly her eyes might as well be a rubber ball.

“That explains the size difference,” she mumbled to herself. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

She shook her head, shook the haze from her eyes. “Evidence. I’ve come to collect evidence. And to warn you.”

“Curious woman.” His fingers itched and flexed to be a little naughty, to reach for her and take her, to kiss her as he had in the garden. But he kept his ass right on that worktable, the hard edge of it digging in. A little pain helped keep him good. For now.

“The guards. There are five of them, and—”

“I’m aware.”

Felix roused from slumber. He sniffed the air a few times and then, recognizing Miss Dean’s scent, trotted over to her. She knelt, her skirts bunching around her knees, and held her hand out to him. Some of her stunned hesitance melted away as Felix butted his head against her hand.

“Charming fox,” she whispered.

Nico was the one charmed. Had been since the day he’d met her, and every day around her drove him deeper under her spell. She had no idea. No idea that he dreamt of giving her pleasure. No idea he dreamt of giving her joy. No idea he cursed himself for not having the means to do either.

Rising, she said, “Where do you go for Christmas? Do you stay here?”

“Sometimes. Most years I go to Manchester, where the Grants live. Lived. They’ve recently moved to Hampstead Heath.” Manchester was an alchemist town. They were no longer welcome there.

“You’re quite close with them.”

“I lived with them after my father died. I apprenticed under Mr. Grant, Temple’s father. Temple is a brother to me. His sisters like my own.”

Her smile a small, wistful thing. “How lovely. When will you leave?”

“Ah…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Closer to Christmas.” Not a lie.

She ventured closer, glancing over his shoulder. “What are those? Can you show me what you were working on when I interrupted.”

Bloody hell. He’d entirely forgotten. The toys were just behind him. If she saw, she’d know who it was she’d kissed last Christmas. He made himself as broad as he could, hands on hips, elbows flinging out wide.

She took another step closer, craning her neck.

“They look like”—she darted around him, half of her body brushing against half of his—“toys.” She reached, she swiped, then she darted out of reach once more before he could do more than process how she’d felt against him—perfection.

Soft curves and active muscles, winter and Jane with a deep inhalation.

She wrapped him up in an instant without even trying.

Gone too soon, vaulting across the room, wide eyes as she held the rose up to the light. “I know this.” She scurried toward fireplace. “I’ve seen this before.” Under the heat of her hands, the rosebud bloomed. Her eyes met his. “It was you. I knew it. I knew it!”

His control snapped like silver spread too thin. His hands, her waist, lifting, carrying. Her little yelp, her skirts tangling with his legs. Her arms clenching around his neck.

“Put me down!” she demanded.

He did. Right on top of his worktable.

Her hands still wrapped around his neck, the rose pressed between her palm and his nape, she said, breathless, “What are you doing?”

“Being a little naughty. Now… There is something I’ve been dying to know.

” He slipped his hand beneath the hem of her skirts and cupped her calf.

Her breath hitched, her eyes blazed, and he dropped his gaze slowly, savoring the moment when he would finally, finally see those stockings she kept so well hidden.

There they were.

The barest sliver visible.

“Red. I have always wondered if you kept them.”