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So instead of asking the owl, I very carefully thumb through the book until I land on the glossary.

Eating habits. Hibernation magic. Shifting history of the clan. Bear culture. Mating rituals. Offspring.

Kirk chooses that moment to jump directly on my face. Purring, he settles down between the book and my face, his little wooden tail whipping back and forth in ecstasy as he nestles into the crook of my neck. He chirps, a strange cross between an animal sound and a hollow wooden chime, and starts to bat at the pages, immediately losing my spot in the glossary.

Before I can push him off of me as covertly as I dare, he's flipped the page.

Mating rituals.

He chirps again, rubbing up against my finger and pushing my finger onto the first page. If it were a normal cat, I'd probably be annoyed, but considering this wooden cat is an extension of Midnight House and my magic itself, I have a feeling Kirk is pointing me in the direction of exactly what I need to see. Though mating rituals might be the most concerning of the pages he could have landed on.

Apprehensive, I sit up slightly, the lights in the room automatically—or, I suppose, magically—turning on a bit more with my movement. Thankfully, it's enough to make out the small print. My eyes widen as I read the paragraphs Kirk and Midnight House have brought to my immediate attention:

Bear shifters are loyal to a fault. While they can choose a mate at any time in their long lives, Clan MacTavish believes in fate and often waits until fate has paired them with their destined mate. Academics debate on how, exactly, the ursine clan is able to differentiate between a solid mate match (likely biological) and a fated mate match, and any inquiries of this scholar into their mating habits were met with immediate ejection from the MacTavish clan premises. However, I was there long enough to take—borrow—a diary of one of their first clan heads, and therein found a prophecy.

I pause, trying to steady my breathing, trying to do anything but alert Lachlan to the fact that I'm awake and reading stolen knowledge about his family's mating habits at the behest of Midnight House via a wooden cat I've named Kirk. I shake my head at myself for a moment and return my attention to the manuscript.

There is a prophecy that a fated mate alone can heal the wounds of another, and that that is a sign of a mate bond. As well as a prophecy that aligning with Midnight House would produce the most powerful bear shifters in the history of the Eternal Society. However, Clan MacTavish has long been aligned with Midnight House, and as far as I can tell, while their powers are indeed terrifying, there have been no real changes. So I deduce that whatever this prophecy is referring to is not simply the sworn oath of MacTavish to protect House Midnight but has something to do with wedding into their bloodline. And in fact, a fated mate bond with any of the houses would no doubt precede a power increase in any offspring between the Great Houses and Clan MacTavish. However, it is unlikely for a shifter to find a mate with a non-shifter partner. But if they do, they will not be able to deny their mate anything that they ask. And thus a pairing with one of the Great Houses, including House Midnight, would be extremely dangerous to the power balance of the Eternal Society, for better or for worse.

I stare at the faded print, my heart doing double-time against my ribs.

Will not be able to deny their mate anything that they ask.

Beside me, the mattress shifts.

The heavy band of Lachlan’s arm tightens across my stomach, dragging me backward until my spine hits the solid wall of his chest. His morning wood presses hard and unrelenting against the cleft of my ass through the velvet of my dress.

A gravelly groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating straight through my shoulder blades. "Viv..." he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, his beard scratching against the nape of my neck as he buries his face into my hair.

I don't move. I keep my hands right where they are, gripping the open book.

He takes a deep, ragged breath, inhaling my scent like he's starving, and then his forehead furrows. One heavy hand slides up my ribcage, pausing when his knuckles knock against the cloth cover of The Ursine Question.

His eyes blink open.

Sleep vanishes from his face in half a second flat. His pupils dilate, tracking the bold header at the top of the page, Mating Rituals of Clan MacTavish.

The room goes dead quiet, save for Kirk purring like a rusty lawnmower at the foot of the bed.

"Where did you get that?" Lachlan’s voice is pure sandpaper.

"I bought it at the bookstore," I say, keeping my tone as pleasant as a customer service rep. "Right before I melted a guy a few weeks ago, remember? While you were buying mochas."

I should have read it before now.

I should have tried to understand.

I got distracted by the whole melty-face magic thing, but this? This was important too.

He doesn't move, but the muscle in his jaw locks into stone. "Vivienne. Close the book."

"No, I don't think I will." I tilt the page toward the morning light streaming through the stained-glass. "'There is a prophecy that a fated mate alone can heal the wounds of another, and that is the true sign of a mate bond.' Funny thing, that. Reminds me of that morning when you spit on my thumb and lied straight to my face about an oath of the sword."

"You don't understand what you're reading, lass."

"Don't call me lass." I turn my head over my shoulder, locking eyes with him. He looks wrecked. Hair wild, dark shadow along his jaw, eyes burning with a dark, desperate hunger that has nothing to do with breakfast. "And here's my personal favorite. 'They will not be able to deny their mate anything that they ask.' Is that why you took me to dinner, Lachlan? Is that why you kissed me back?"

"I was protecting you," he grits out.