"You're different!" Arabella insisted, her damp eyes fixed on Frederick. "You are not a pervert. You're a good person." She was pouting, her voice trailing off into a spoiled plea.

Frederick had learned his lesson about her stubbornness. He decided to end the debate. He offered a hand, palm up, with a practiced, gentlemanly grace. "Birdie, the 'good person' can carry you back, or you can walk."

"Carry me! Carry me, carry me!"

Frederick scooped her up with ease. His muscular arms felt like a warm, solid cradle. Heat radiated through his shirt and vest, soaking into her skin. Dizziness from the wine washed over her as she looped her arms around his neck, burying her face against the side of his throat.

They moved back through the Path of Pink Angels. Frederick didn't speak. His stride was steady, his heels clicking rhythmically against the floor as the crystal chandeliers cast shifting light over them. The estate was buried in a profound silence, far from the world, broken only by the wind and the distant chirping of night birds.

"You smell nice, Frederick," Arabella whispered into the quiet.

Frederick's Adam's apple moved as he swallowed. He didn't look down, keeping his focus on the path ahead.

"Where is Germany?" she asked suddenly.

She really didn't remember a thing. Not even the name of the country. Frederick thought of the dark corners of the world—the trafficking rings and the auctions where Eurasian girls were highly sought prizes.

"Germany is a country in Central Europe," he explained, his voice low. "Your home is likely in the East. Do you remember which country?"

"China!" she said instantly. That, she remembered.

"China has thirty-four provinces," Frederick said, trying to trigger a memory. "North? South? Or perhaps you are a foreign national of Chinese descent? Think carefully".

Arabella's brow furrowed. The more she tried to think, the sharper the pain in her head became. Between the wine, the dizziness, and his insistence on making her think, her temper flared. She tilted her head up and bit down hard on his Adam's apple.

A low, guttural groan vibrated through Frederick's chest. It was a sound like a beast, raw and dangerously sexy. Arabella froze, her face flushing hot. "Frederic—"

His arms tightened around her instantly, his grip bordering on painful. She didn't dare struggle. "I didn't bite that hard... really," she whispered guiltily.

Frederick's face was a mask of stone. "Behave," he warned, his voice heavy with authority. "Or walk".

He moved faster now. The sensation of her teeth against his throat wouldn't fade, making his skin crawl with a restless heat. He took the stairs two at a time, his stride aggressive. The fabric of his trousers pulled tight against his thighs with every step.

Arabella felt the sudden change in his energy. Why is he so restless?.

Frederick didn't care to explain. He just wanted to put this little bird down before he lost his composure. He reached her suite and pushed the double doors open with his knee. He didn't turn on the light, moving through the shadows like a nocturnal predator.

He placed her on the bed and immediately moved to the sofa, grabbing a throw blanket. He didn't give it to her; instead, he draped it over his own arm, shielding his lap. Only then did his rigid posture seem to relax an inch.

Moonlight spilled through the window. Arabella watched him from the bed, her head tilted in confusion.

Frederick straightened his rumpled shirt in the dark before flicking the switch. The light revealed a messier version of the man from dinner. His vest was missing a button, and his rolled sleeve had slipped, partially hiding a thick, pulsing vein on his forearm.

Arabella pointed at the blanket on his arm. "Are you hot?".

"It's dirty," Frederick lied, his voice clipped. "I'm taking it to the maids".

He offered a thin smile. "The maids will bring milk. They will help you with your medicine and your bandages".

Arabella shook her head. "I don't want them. I want you! You bring the milk. You fix the bandages".

"Listen to me, Birdie," Frederick said, his blue eyes narrowing. "I have work to handle. Take your medicine and sleep. Do you understand?".

Arabella pouted but didn't argue further. "Fine. But you have to come see me tomorrow".

"Goodnight," he said, offering a slight bow.

She watched him turn to leave. Her eyes traced the breadth of his shoulders, the narrow line of his waist, and the hard curve of his muscles beneath the vest. She blinked, feeling a strange urge to reach out and touch him.

"Frederick!"

He stopped at the door and looked back.

"I want to sleep with my candy pillow," she said.

"A candy pillow?" Frederick frowned. "We don't have one. I'll have Harold buy one for you tomorrow, alright?".

"And can I have real chocolate mousse? Not the blueberry lie?".

Frederick nodded, his gaze softening. "You will".

Frederick stood in the dim corridor, the silence of the Herheid Estate pressing against his ears. Crimson carpets bled into dark mahogany walls, illuminated by the flicker of crystal lamps and the sharp glint of gold reliefs. He took a heavy breath, fingers tightening around the wool blanket he had used to hide his lap.

Harold stepped forward, extending a tailored coat. "The temperature is dropping, sir." He reached for the throw. "Let me take that for you."

Frederick pulled the wool back. "Keep the coat, Harold. Call the JH Foundation instead."

He adjusted his stance, eyes cold. "Tell them to prepare a room in the relief center. And they are to add chocolate mousse to her lunch tomorrow."

Frederick paused, his voice dropping an octave. "Actually... add it to every meal. From now on."

Harold's brow furrowed. "You're sending her away, sir? To the Foundation?"

Frederick offered no explanation, his face a mask of aristocratic indifference.

"I thought... I thought you might keep her," Harold murmured, his shoulders slumping.

"Keep her for what? She is an isolated incident." Frederick spoke as if discussing a misplaced ledger.

Harold sighed but didn't push. He knew the look in Frederick's eyes—the eagle was ready to hunt, or to hide.

"Get the medicine, Harold. Two pills."

Harold's head snapped up. "Sir? You haven't needed the suppressants in six months."

"Just go. It's an isolated incident."

Everything about the Birdie was an incident—the girl, the bite on his neck, and the sudden, violent surge in his blood.

Frederick turned toward the private chapel opposite his study. Harold watched him go, knowing better than to follow when the Master sought the confessional.

The hall was small but choked with gold leaf and stained glass. At the center, a crucifix hung above the altar—Jesus in a crown of thorns, looking down with eternal mercy.

Frederick sat on the hard bench, his head bowed. Moonlight sliced through the dome, pinning his massive frame in a silver spotlight.

"Forgive me, Father..." he whispered, his knuckles white around a gold cross.

The medication hit his system with clinical precision, a cold wave drowning the fire beneath his skin. He finally pulled the blanket away from his lap.

The tension in his tailored trousers flattened. The restless predator in his gut finally stilled its claws.

This was a first. A single, shallow peck from a "clumsy bird" had forced him to double his dosage just to remain standing.

He had a feeling. A deep, irrational, dangerous feeling that had sparked the moment he saw her in the mud.

Logic dictated the move. Feelings were for the weak; the Herheid legacy was built on iron and restraint.

She couldn't stay. Not for another hour, not for another second.

Tomorrow, he would send her away. He would cast her so far into the world that their paths would never cross again.

Tonight would be a ghost, buried in a drawer with the turquoise cufflinks and the rumpled sheets.