Sebastian

there was anyone inside besides Mr. Finch. Instead he stood there, his muscles clenched from the effort to remain still. "We need to talk."
    Glorianna gave him a long look, followed by a mischievous smile—and looked like the cousin he loved instead of a dangerous rogue Landscaper. "Later. You're going to have your hands full for a while, Sebastian."
    Then she looked at Teaser, who bobbed his head as a salute and said, "I'm helping Sebastian."
    "Yes," she said after a long pause. "Yes, you are." She sounded intrigued, as if something had exceeded her expectations.
    Then she walked away.
    "Well," Teaser said, blowing out a breath and wiping sweat off his forehead. "Well."
    He didn't run away, but he headed up the street in the opposite direction at a swift walk that would put some distance between himself and Belladonna.
    Which left Sebastian standing alone outside Mr. Finch's shop. Was there any point in waiting? There had been a message in Glorianna's smile, but he couldn't decipher it… and wasn't interested in trying.
    He turned away from the door, feeling unhappy and discouraged. He'd shaken up the Den to create an illusion for a few hours. And for what? To feel like a child again, encouraged by the other children to think he'd been invited to play, only to discover raising his hope of being accepted was the game?
    "Sebastian?"
    Being part human wasn't human enough. And trying to be human had never gotten him a single damn thing. Why couldn't he give it up, let it go?
    "Sebastian? I'm ready. I think."
    He turned around and rocked back on his heels. "Lynnea?"
    Flustered, she raised one hand to her face. "I don't look that different, do I?"
    Daylight, Glorianna! What did you do to my little rabbit ? It was Lynnea… and it wasn't Lynnea. The succubi and human whores—even the city women who visited the Den—wore more paint on their faces, but there was something devastating about seeing wholesome and pretty changed to seductive. And that catsuit…
    Mr. Finch was a wicked, wicked man for designing a piece of clothing that hugged a woman's body like that.
    "Sebastian?" Timid. Uncertain. That first taste of feminine power withering under the weight of his silence.
    He closed the distance between them and settled his hands on her waist—and congratulated himself for not running his hands up and down her to find out what she was—and wasn't—wearing under that catsuit.
    "You look wonderful," he said, leaning a little closer. "Powerful." No perfume, just the light scent of the soap he'd left for her in his room. A scent suitable for a country girl, not this seductress looking at him with innocent bedroom eyes.
    Too many conflicting sensory messages. Too much feeling. The only thing he knew for certain was that if he ended up sleeping alone tonight, he was going to curl up and die.
    "Kiss me," he whispered.
    "Here?" she squeaked, her eyes darting to the people moving up and down the street.
    "A tigress wouldn't be afraid to kiss her lover in public."
    She stared at him. "Lover?"
    "Tonight I'm the lover of Lynnea the tigress."
    "Oh, gracious."
    He wasn't sure if that translated into something good or bad. Then she lightly pressed her lips against his, and he didn't care how it translated.
    Sweet. Warm. He hadn't been this excited about a closemouthed kiss since… All right. He'd never been this excited about a close-mouthed kiss. And when her hands curved around the back of his neck and her fingers tangled in his hair, he didn't see any reason for either of them to move until they fell over from exhaustion or starvation.
    Then she eased back, looked at him, and frowned. "I don't think that's the way a tigress kisses, but I—"

    He didn't give her a chance. He brought his mouth down on hers and showed her how a tigress would kiss a lover, how an incubus would kiss a lover when she really was a lover and not just prey.
    A bull demon's bellow from somewhere nearby finally broke through lust's haze. Sebastian stepped back and took her hand. "Let's prowl." While I can still walk .
    There were musicians on the street corners, jugglers in the street, tables outside the taverns for visitors who wanted to watch the entertainment.
    They strolled down one side of the main street, watching everything and everyone. The feel of the Den was festive, with a sharp edge that could turn mean in a heartbeat but was staying on the fun side of that line.
    This was how the Den had felt when he'd found it fifteen years ago. This was the