Whitfield had changed since the office. No more high-colred dress. Instead she wore something softer—a pale green dress that fell to just above the knee, loose and comfortable, with short sleeves that showed her small, fur-covered arms. Sandals instead of boots. Her hair was down, falling past her shoulders in soft brown waves.

  She looked younger. Less severe.

  *More touchable.*

  "So you've always worked in records?" Roslyn asked, keeping her tone light, conversational.

  "Since I was 12," Whitfield said. "Started as a clerk. Worked my way up."

  "That's impressive. Director by—what, 20?"

  "23, actually."

  Roslyn let her eyebrows rise, impressed but not overly so. "That's really something."

  Whitfield's whiskers twitched, pleasure evident even though she tried to hide it. "I'm good at what I do."

  "I can tell." Roslyn gnced at her, letting the look linger just long enough. "You run that office like it's the most organized pce in the kingdom."

  "It is the most organized pce in the kingdom," Whitfield said, deadpan, and Roslyn ughed.

  They turned down a side street, quieter here, the noise of the main thoroughfare fading behind them. Garden walls rose on either side, flowering vines spilling over stone. The air smelled like jasmine and something sweeter.

  "What about you?" Whitfield asked. "Where are you from?"

  *Here we go.*

  "Small vilge north of here," Roslyn said easily. The lie came smooth, practiced. She'd told versions of this story a dozen times before. "Nothing exciting. I've been traveling, doing odd jobs, saving up. Millbrook seemed like a good pce to settle down."

  "What kind of odd jobs?"

  "Whatever pays. Courier work, mostly. Some bookkeeping. I'm good with numbers."

  *I'm good at breaking into pces and stealing things, actually. And I'm very good at this.*

  Whitfield nodded, her expression thoughtful. They walked in silence for a moment, and Roslyn let herself study the mouse woman from the corner of her eye. The way she moved was precise, economical. Everything about her spoke of control, of a mind that categorized and filed and kept everything in its proper pce.

  But that painting on her desk said something else entirely.

  "Your dress is lovely," Roslyn said. "The color suits you."

  Whitfield gnced down at herself, then back at Roslyn. "Thank you. It's comfortable."

  "You look beautiful in it."

  There. Direct enough to be unmistakable. Roslyn watched Whitfield's reaction carefully—the slight widening of her eyes, the pink coloring the tips of her ears.

  *Got you.*

  "That's—thank you," Whitfield said, quieter now.

  They turned again, this time into a small park tucked between buildings. It was quiet here, shaded by old trees, the kind of pce people passed through but didn't linger in. A few benches lined a gravel path. Flower beds bordered by low hedges. And at the far end, a cluster of dense trees that formed a natural screen.

  Private.

  Perfect.

  "I like walking through here," Whitfield said. "It's peaceful."

  "It's nice," Roslyn agreed. She let her arm brush against Whitfield's as they walked. Just lightly. Just enough.

  Whitfield didn't pull away.

  They reached the trees, and Roslyn stopped, turning to face her. The afternoon light filtered through the leaves above, dappling Whitfield's face in gold and shadow.

  "Can I ask you something?" Roslyn said.

  Whitfield tilted her head, curious. Cautious. "What?"

  "That painting in your office. The woman in the grass."

  Whitfield went very still. Her whiskers stopped twitching.

  "It's beautiful," Roslyn continued, stepping closer. "I couldn't stop thinking about it."

  "It's just art," Whitfield said, but her voice had gone quiet.

  "Is it?" Roslyn closed the distance between them, near enough now to see the rapid rise and fall of Whitfield's chest, the way her breathing had quickened. "Because it seemed like something more than that to me."

  Whitfield swallowed, her dark eyes locked on Roslyn's. "What are you—"

  Roslyn reached up and touched her cheek, fingers sliding through soft fur. "I think you know what I'm saying."

  For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Roslyn could feel the heat radiating off Whitfield's small body, could see the conflict and want warring in her expression.

  Then Whitfield's eyes fluttered closed. "My name is Miriam."

  Roslyn smiled and leaned in.

  The kiss was immediate, hungry. Miriam's hands came up to grip Roslyn's shoulders, pulling her closer, and Roslyn responded in kind, one hand sliding to the back of Miriam's neck, the other to her waist. The mouse woman made a soft, desperate sound against her mouth, and heat flooded through Roslyn's body.

  *God, she's been wanting this.*

  Roslyn deepened the kiss, pressing them both back against the trunk of a tree, hidden from view by the thick branches. Miriam trembled in her arms—or maybe that was just the way her whole body seemed to arch into Roslyn's touch, seeking more contact, more pressure.

  Roslyn's hand slid down from Miriam's waist, over her hip, fingers trailing along the fabric of that soft green dress. Then lower, slipping beneath the hem, moving up along Miriam's thigh.

  No underwear.

  Roslyn's breath caught. Her fingers met only warm, soft fur and the heat of Miriam's skin beneath it. Nothing else.

  *She came prepared. She wanted this to happen.*

  The realization sent a jolt of arousal straight through her. This wasn't just seduction—this was mutual. Miriam had dressed for this, hoped for it, maybe even pnned for it.

  Roslyn's hand moved higher, exploring, and Miriam gasped against her mouth, her small body shuddering. The fur was impossibly soft under Roslyn's fingertips, warm and fine, and beneath it she could feel Miriam responding—muscles tensing, hips shifting forward into the touch.

  Miriam broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, her head falling back against the tree trunk. Her eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, and her chest heaved with ragged breaths.

  Roslyn kept her hand where it was, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles, and watched Miriam's face—the way her mouth fell open, the way her whiskers trembled.

  *She's beautiful like this.*

  Then Miriam's hands were in Roslyn's hair, pulling her back into another kiss, this one fiercer, more desperate. Her small body pressed hard against Roslyn's, and she kissed like she was drowning, like she couldn't get close enough.

  When she pulled back again, her voice came out breathless, shaking. "Do you want to go home and finish this?"

  Roslyn's heart smmed against her ribs. Heat pooled low in her belly, her own arousal making her skin feel too tight, too hot. She looked at Miriam—flushed, wanting, barely holding herself together—and felt the answer rise up instinctively.

  *Yes.*

  But even through the haze of desire, her mind was working. Still calcuting.

  *This is it. This is how I get the blueprints. Sleep with her, build trust, and she'll give me what I need.*

  And the best part? She actually wanted this. Found Miriam attractive, found the way she trembled and gasped under Roslyn's touch intoxicating. The mission and her own desire, perfectly aligned.

  Easier than she'd thought it would be.

  Roslyn let her hand slide free slowly, trailing fingertips through soft fur as she withdrew, and smiled. "Yes," she said. "Let's go."