“Yeah. Once.” Rick. Rick had brought me daisies and sunflowers. But I didn’t say that. “What do I do with them?”

Bruiser’s face changed, and I had no idea what the new expression meant. I didn’t take my eyes from the flowers to get a better look. His voice soft, he said, “They go in a vase. On the nightstand by your bed. Or on the kitchen table. Or on the coffee table in the living room. They go where you can see them most often, and, seeing them, remember that you deserve flowers.” When I still just stood there, he said, “I’ll get a vase from the kitchen. I’m sure Katie left some here. Why don’t you get dressed. And then we can have breakfast. I brought beignets from Café du Monde, and tea.”

“Yeah. I’ll go get dressed.” I could tell my voice sounded weird, but I turned and went to my room, shutting myself in. I stood there, my back to the paneled door, staring stupidly. Flowers? I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and braided my hair, debating on makeup. I finally put a touch of lipstick on my bottom lip and smeared my lips together to mush the color around until there was just a tint left. And found myself staring at my reflection in the mirror, my amber eyes catching the light. Rick had brought me flowers. Rick had deserted me. Now Bruiser had brought me flowers.

Flowers. With catnip.

My Beast was silent but excited, alert, and curious, ears flicking, eyes intent.

I walked back into the living room and followed the smells of beignets and flowers to the kitchen. Bruiser was facing the window, drying his hands, backlit by the window light, so I could see only a profile, his brown hair darkened by glare, his nose a tad too strong for classical beauty, yet well formed. It was a totally sexy nose. He was tall, strong-looking, capable. His stance said he could handle anything, protect anyone, or die trying. Something tightened in my middle.

Behind him, on the table, was a cut crystal vase that had been in the butler’s pantry, the bouquet inside it, the blooms fluffed. Short snips of stems lay in a small pile, where he’d trimmed them. I vaguely remembered that the stems of cut flowers had to be trimmed every few days.

Beignets were on china plates from the top cabinet. Tea had been poured into matching china cups. They were sitting on saucers, with tiny little napkins beside each. There was real cream in a tiny pitcher I had seen somewhere on a shelf and a matching sugar-holder thingy. And polished silver spoons. And the flowers. In a vase.

Beast was peering out through my eyes, staring at my bouquet. She sniffed and filled our/my head with the scent. Catnip? she asked. For Beast?

Yeah. Catnip. The fancy flowers were bad enough. The catnip was something much worse. The aroma expanded as if trying to fill the house.

Bruiser had moved in here not that long ago, a temporary arrangement, he’d called it. Then he had moved back out, and back into vamp HQ, to help with the transition of the old primo—him—to the new primo—Adelaide. Now he wasn’t even a full-time blood-servant, or at least, that was the way I had interpreted the meeting earlier. I didn’t know what he was to Leo. And I didn’t know what he was to me. We had danced. We had killed rogue vamps together in Natchez. We had shared a few intense physical moments brought on by mutual attraction and once by magic. But I had no idea what any of it meant or where I wanted us to go.

Bruiser seemed to sense me behind him and turned. I stuck my hands in my pockets and frowned. His face emotionless, he moved around the table and pulled out a chair. I knew how to do this. I’d been taught proper Southern manners in the children’s home. But I hadn’t practiced in more than a decade. Shoulders hunched, I took my seat and lifted my weight in the ungainly half crouch that allowed him to push my chair in the requisite few inches.

Bruiser handed me a napkin, which I placed over a thigh. He moved my teacup and the sugar and creamer closer. I added both to my tea as he took his seat at the corner, ninety degrees, and only inches, away from me. The house was mostly silent, one of the boys upstairs snoring softly. My palms were slightly moist and my heart was beating fast. The air conditioner came on. It was May, and already hot in the Deep South.

I expected Bruiser to put food on my plate and make me eat it with a silver fork. But he didn’t pass the beignets. Instead he lifted a box from the basket and set it in front of me, to the side of my dainty cup.

The box was maybe twelve inches by fourteen, wrapped in shiny gold paper with a darker gold bow, the ties all long and curly. From the way he handled it, the box was too heavy for jewelry, which was my first panicked thought. Just from looking at the box, I could tell that whatever it held was expensive. Even the paper looked like it cost a small fortune. I stared at it. I was doing a lot of staring. I was pretty sure I wasn’t breathing.

I dragged in a breath, scrubbed my sweaty hands dry on my jeans, and reached for the bow, pulling the ties until the ribbon fell away, My fingers were stiff and clumsy, but I got the paper open without tearing it. It seemed a crime to tear that paper. I set the stiff wrapping to the side and opened the plain white box. Inside was a second box, this one of carved wood, put together with wooden pegs. The wood felt old when I touched it, but well-oiled. I lifted the lid. Nesting within, on a swath of red velvet, was a knife, secured in a scabbard.

My mouth went parched, my hands icy and dry. A faint tremor ran along my fingers and vibrated through my core. I felt a small smile tug at my mouth, and I shook my head, feeling like there wasn’t enough air.

Bruiser said, “It’s a Mughal Empire, watered-steel dagger from India.” When I didn’t say anything or lift my eyes from the wondrous scabbard, he went on. “The knife was made in the seventeen hundreds, and has a slightly curved blade with a central ridge and double grooves. It has a gold-overlaid palmette and cartouche at forte, with a gem-set, jade-hilted handle.”

Still smiling slightly, breathing deeply to catch up on lost air, I lifted the scabbarded dagger and pulled the blade free, holding it to the side so the window light fell on it. The steel was beautiful, with a blued sheen that spoke of careful work with forge and hammer. There were nicks in the blade, but Bruiser hadn’t honed them out, and I was glad. They had history, each nick and scratch.

Bruiser, his voice the caressing lilt of a weapons lover, said, “The jade hilt has hand-carved scroll quillons centered with a carved stylized lotus leaf, and the pommel is in the form of an African lion’s head with gold inlay and set with golden topaz for the eyes.”