Agathe was not the only one who could cast a spell of transformation. Adam found there was a power in his hands when he laid them upon Belle, in his voice when he spoke to her, that could change his clever, practical, utterly French bride, with her penchant for Erasmus and complex engineering feats, into a creature. Belle could never become a Beast, as he had, though he'd once woken from a dream of her brown eyes peering at him from the sleek shape of a lynx, paws planted on his chest, ready to spring, a dream that had been fearful and erotic and a secret he was not ready to confess to her. Belle beneath his palms was lithe and fluid, all tumbling chestnut hair and warmly sensitive skin, likely to arch into his touch, stroke herself against him like the cat he'd been visited by in the night. He had only to whisper to her, "Mignonne, allons voir si la rose…" to feel the shift within her and her hands upon his were insistent and demanding. She made a sound in her throat that meant want and not desire, a broken moan he felt between her breasts and along the curve of her throat before he heard her. Her dark eyes were blank except for his reflection but she would not hesitate to slip from under him and climb upon him, her thighs slick against his own narrow hips. There was no jasmine left then, no bright, clean bergamot on her, only the scent of musk, rich and intoxicating, that called to them both and made her reach for his shoulders, kiss him with an open mouth, to murmur obscenities while he shuddered against her. She was not slender then, not inquisitive or amused, only lush and urgent, her soul so diffuse in her body that there was nothing crude about her as she sought him. She possessed him completely, without irrelevant gentleness—he was hers. It was not always thus between them and Adam did not understand yet when the enchantment would take her, take them both, but he was sure of one thing: it was never a curse.