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I n all the long, lonely years of his life, he had never told anyone about his brother or the curse that bound him to immortality. When Albert learned the dark truth about him, he was horrified. He’d started planning the coup almost immediately.

He had not shared with her he was a man by day, a dangerous beast by night. Perhaps it was just as well she returned to her country home every evening and not stay here in this vast castle alone with him. Despite all his and Dickens’ precautions, he broke through his bonds every night.

He was dangerous. He was evil incarnate. He was death.

At breakfast, she’d questioned him about the howling wolves. She’d heard it near her small estate. It terrified him to know his beastly self was so close to her in the night. Though the full moon was waning and heading toward a new moon, his transformation continued. That, too, terrified him. For he suspected the curse was getting stronger and, eventually, would become permanent.

Leopold finally gathered his wits enough to cast a glance in her direction. She looked bereft, her lovely face creased with sorrow. He didn’t want her pity.

He thought he saw tears glistening in her eyes. When she whisked them away, it confirmed his suspicion. She recomposed herself and straightened.

“I’m sorry about your brother.”

He wanted to fire off an acid reply telling her to keep her condolences to herself, the anger pumping under the surface. But he remained mute, watching her as she cast her eyes down to her clasped hands in her lap.

“What you did for him…your sacrifice…it should have meant the world to him. His betrayal must have cut you deep.”

At that, she lifted her blue-eyed gaze to his. He expected to see horror, fear, or abhorrence there. Instead, he found calm compassion and sincere understanding etched in her lovely face. He was momentarily taken aback by that and struck mute.

“It would have meant a lot to me,” she said, her voice quiet in the stillness of the room.

His heart lurched with the sweetness of her words. A sharp pain on longing took up residence in the center of his chest. He was unable to resist pressing a hand there as he got to his feet and turned away, unwilling to let her see the anguish it brought him.

He was certain she was sincere, and it touched him deeply. But in what world could she ever love him—a beast? He was running out time to find the answer to this curse, and she was all the hope he had left. He needed her but now he was starting to want her.

“How does the hourglass fit into all this?” she asked.

He heard the rustle of her skirts and composed himself, putting on his best emotionless expression. She moved to stand next to him peering at the object on his desk with a curious glint in her eyes.

“Every grain of sand represents a day of my life since the curse took hold.”

She sucked in a sharp breath and glanced up at him in question. “But it’s almost empty.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

Bella turned her gaze back to the hourglass. “And what happens when it is?”

It sounded as though she knew the answer but wanted him to confirm her thoughts. The hourglass appeared to him moments after the shadowy monster granted his wish. It came with a warning.

Every grain of sand is one day of your life. When the sand runs out, so does your life. You will be forever bound to the shadow realm.

“Then I am forever cursed.”

She took a deep breath, exhaled it. “Well, then. I best get back to the book and finish that translation.” She picked up her skirts and started for the open door, determination in her every step. But before she left, she turned once more to him. “Leopold…if I may ask…how old are you?”

He answered quickly, “Five hundred and thirty-seven.”

Surprise flickered over her face before she concealed it. Nodding, she turned back to the door and dashed away.

Bella hurried back through the halls of the castle, down the stairs, and returned to the library. She didn’t know how much time had passed as she sat with Leopold in his private parlor. Time seemed irrelevant here in this place. There was neither day nor night. Just a constant shadowy existence that seemed to haunt every corridor, every hallway, every corner.

Back in the library, she pressed the door closed and returned to the book. She stared down at the open pages with contempt. Was this the abhorrent thing that caused the curse? Was there somewhere deep in those pages a shadow thing that demanded the price for saving a life of a loved one? She slammed the book closed in agitation. Then she scooped up her pages and neatly folded them. She tucked them on the inside cover and turned from the table.

She intended to return to Hawthorne Hall. Again, that indecision flared bright and hot through her. Every step she took getting closer to the truth—his truth—was another step that terrified her. Another step that took her into a world she had no control over. Another step that pushed her closer to him than she ever imagined.

What did he mean he was cursed to live between worlds? He didn’t explain. She didn’t ask. She was too terrified to ask.

One thing she was certain of, though. The loss of his brother—by his own hand—haunted him. There was deep sorrow in his eyes and, certainly, in his soul. As though he wanted to absolve himself of the crime but could not.

The strangest thing of all, though, was that he said he was over five hundred years old. Five hundred . That didn’t sound right.

She tapped the tip of her finger against her chin and turned to face the immense library. Her gaze alighted on shelf after shelf. In truth, she did not know much about the history of the realm. She was never interested in the past. She was only interested in stories about fair maidens and dragon-slaying knights.

While she remained there, pondering all this, her mind returned to the book she was interpreting for Lord Vincent. It was a sad story about a frightening sorceress and the prince who broke her heart. The prince who would forever remain alone in the shadowy recesses of his castle. She never finished that translation and so she didn’t know how it ended.

But she couldn’t help but see the similarities in that story and the world she was living in now. It would be strange if they were connected.

If Leopold spent his lifetime searching for the book—her book—then what else did he possess in his library? What other strange and exotic volumes perched on the shelf waiting for the day someone would open their pages and let them be free? She’d seen a few of them the first time she was here. But she had never properly explored.

Libraries were meant to be properly explored.

An idea struck her. She darted off toward one of the bookshelves. She started pulling them one by one off the shelf, flipping through them, and then replacing them. She was uncertain as to what she as looking for, but she suspected she would know it when she saw it.

Book after book. Shelf after shelf. Row after row.

When she entered the last row, she pulled a nondescript book off the shelf. It was bound in buttery soft leather with a leather tie wrapped around it. She carried it back to the table, her curiosity getting the best of her.

At the table, she pulled open the tie and placed it on the wood top. Then, with a careful hand, she opened the cover.

The pages were yellowed from age and emitted a musty scent. As though it had not been opened in decades. Perhaps longer.

The only word she recognized in the foreign—not magical—language was one. Cassoné.

She turned the page. Someone had spent a great deal of time writing lengthy prose in a careful script. She stared at it hard, willing her mind to translate it. To understand. To know .

And then something clicked insider her. That was when she knew the words would flow. She sat in the chair, her heart pumping hard and fast with the first glimmers of excitement and began to read.