Leah
I hesitated, then lifted the lid.
Inside lay a gown—black as midnight, woven from something impossibly fine. Tiny moonstones were stitched into the fabric, catching the light in soft, silvery pulses.
I stared. “This is…”
“Moon-goddess silk,” he said, shaking it out and holding it up to me. The material shimmered against my skin in the mirror. His long fingers traced the neckline idly—deliberately. “Light protection against wolfsbane. Thought you might need it tonight.”
My breath caught. The casual way he touched the fabric, the way his eyes darkened as they followed the line of my reflection—it was calculated. He knew exactly what he was doing to me.
Bastard.
Before I could snap something sarcastic, he produced another box. This one smaller.
A moonstone necklace—elegant, under
