Winterblaze by Kristen Callihan

chest. He forced himself to look down into her eyes. Those wide, golden eyes could beguile a man in an instant. They gleamed now, not golden but her more human light brown. Petal soft lips touched his ear. “Why you don’t take what you want.”
    “Because I don’t want you.” He didn’t. His insides twisted from being this close to her, but his body didn’t seem to care.
    As close as she was, she felt the reaction, and a soft chuckle rumbled against his skin, making it twitch. “Liar.”
    It wasn’t right. She wasn’t right. She was too compliant. Too easy. A shiver of warning, touched with icy fear, lit down his spine an instant before her palm cupped his cheek, and she drew his mouth down to hers. Cold, dead. He reared back, a shout bubbling up, but iron-hard hands held him fast as a tongue snaked into his mouth and down his throat in a river of white-hot fire. Into his belly, tearing into his soul. And then he was screaming.
    The heavy weight of silk satin settled upon Poppy’s shoulders, and she resisted the urge to squirm. There were worse things than getting trussed up in a dinner gown, shewas sure; she just could not think of them at the moment. The color of a pink rose in bloom, the gown Mary Chase laced her into was inarguably beautiful. Held up by sleeves that were thin enough to be called straps, the low squared-off bodice did surprising wonders to Poppy’s meager bosom. And while the style of the day, according to Daisy and Miranda, was to adorn one’s dress with as much frills and laces as possible—thus giving a woman the appearance of a flower, which really made Poppy want to roll her eyes—this bodice was utterly smooth and devoid of ornamentation. For which Poppy was thankful. The skirt, however, was another matter.
    Mary gave the bodice a final tug, and Poppy expelled a pained breath as Mary moved on to fuss with the gown’s more problematic area, namely the overskirt, with its numerous drapings, train, and whatnot. Bloody hell, but there were so many yards of undulating pale pink that Poppy could barely feel her own legs. They’d been smothered.
    In an effort not to panic, she smoothed a hand over the tight waist of her bodice and glanced down at Mary, whose mouth had a decidedly unhappy pinch about the corners. “You are certain that you do not want to join us for dinner?” Poppy could not give an apple in Eden about the rules.
    “No, mum.” Mary fluffed the overskirt, her nimble fingers making certain the draping rested just so. “I believe it would be a good time to make another round of the ship.”
    “Good thinking.” Poppy took a breath and, not getting nearly enough air in the blasted torture chamber of a dress, took another. “I wish I could go with you.”
    Her palm still held the memory of Win, the weight and feel of him. Admittedly, she had played rather dirty. But the man knew precisely how to drive her to madness.Which both vexed her and secretly thrilled her. Regardless, she wasn’t keen on coming face to face with him just now. He had to be… smarting.
    Hands hovering around her middle, she took a light breath and glanced back down at Mary. “You will be careful.”
    Mary rose in an effortless glide. “Of course. I intend to roam in the astral plane.” Which meant her body would be tucked safely in her room as her spirit slipped into all sorts of places Poppy could not go. Mary reached for Poppy’s evening fan, a confection of white lace, blush pink satin, and white painted cast iron supports that could crack a bone with one good whack. A clever little weapon, as most males viewed a lady’s evening fan as frippery. Their mistake. Mary turned back, and the lamplight shone on her slim upper arm. A scratch marred her skin, not a gash, but deep enough to have drawn blood.
    Poppy moved to touch it, but stopped when Mary flinched and averted her eyes. “What happened?”
    Looking away, she fiddled with Poppy’s evening gloves. “I lost my balance and had a run-in