Here I am about to enter another of my father's masquerade balls. It is impossible to put into words the magnitude of my disinterest in attending one more market in which I am the wares on display and the eligible bachelors of the ton are the prospective buyers. Of course, my father would never acknowledge my perspective on these events and only call me "dear", pat my head, and send me to the most conservative dressmaker. Then I would spend the evening dodging the advances of sleazy fortune hunters, sniveling fops, and elder wastrels looking for a young wife to wrangle the progeny left behind when the original wife died birthing out another lord or lady in waiting.

But not this time.

I had taken it upon myself to visit a slightly more controversial modiste in order to design my gown. She was the one who turned me away from my usual angelic cherub or sprite, all pastel colors and puffy layers. I looked down at my emerald sheath, clinging more closely to my unfashionable curves, and the décolleté that was not quite as modest as I was use to. No reason to mince words in my own mind, it displayed enough cleavage to cause even the modiste to gasp at the fitting and for my lady's maid to inquire as to whether I had a wrap for over top. Here I was about to enter and make quite a splash, as it were. Who knew that deciding to become a mermaid for the evening would change the course of my fate?

Of course the society dames were too refined to gasp as my dressmaker had, but with a quick flick of the wrist they were able to hide there judgmental whisperings behind silken fans. I may have actually even seen a monocle drop into a glass of bourbon. Just as my resolve began to waiver and I wondered if that wrap would not have been a most judicious improvement, he was there before me. His mask was that of a wolf and all I could perceive were blue eyes and a set of full lips that may have appeared feminine on any other man, but on this lean and muscular gentlemen were somehow even more intimidating. For a moment I wondered how it would feel to bit on that bottom lip, causing a most unbecoming and virginal flush to decorate the bosoms in his full view.

"Does the sea nymph have a free space on her dance card for this poor, mangy hound?"

"Of course, kind sir, as long as you promise not to bite."

"Alas, fair maiden, that I cannot promise."

Unable to determine where all of this newfound bold courage had come from, I follow my gallant savior onto the dance floor just as a waltz commences.

"Oh, no! A waltz! Perhaps we could come out for the next one."

"Rebekah, you have come too far to turn back now. Why don't you show these people what you're really made of."

My head whips up as I detect a note of scorn in this stranger's voice and demeanor. I haven't any idea who he is and yet he knows my name and appears to hold me in some contempt, even if he is currently holding me pressed quite firmly against his body. Before I can object or call him out on his too familiar treatment of me, we are dancing across the floor and it is like I was made to move with him. The bothersome crowd fades into the background and all I see, hear, and feel is him. It's as if my every sense has tuned into him and desperately seeks any stimulus to claim as its own. He even smells like a man should smell; no powdered puffery or rose water, just liquor and smoke and danger. As the music begins to wind down, this masked temptation leans down until his lips are but a breath away from mine.

"Be careful of the wolf at your door, Sweetheart. He is not as well-trained as your other lapdogs."

And with that he left me on the floor to fade into the group of new dancers lining up for a reel. I shake myself once to clear the fog that had infested my head and quickly flee the floor. As I make my way somewhere, I had yet to determine where as long as it was away from prying eyes, I come face to face with my father. I was far too flustered to have this confrontation and tried to side step him with some gibberish about the strap on my dancing shoes having broken, but his face bespeaks of someone not so easily put off.

"What is the meaning of this, Rebekah? Is it your intention to bring shame upon this family? For this final insolent act of yours, I can only move on to finding you the appropriate husband without further ado. Consider yourself off the shelf, my dear. You'll be wed within the month."

Too much. It is all too much. Instead of engaging in verbal warfare, I take off for the veranda and the gardens beyond. I had pushed him too far this time and would bear the full brunt of his admonishments and the consequences to my actions. Instead of scaring off all prospective suitors, I would end up tied to the worst of the lot for sure. As tears stream down my face, I can't help but give berating myself.

"You've done it this time, Bekah. You've proven all of society correct in its assessment of you as a flighty, spoiled brat with no thoughts given to anyone else. It's even a wonder that your father loves you."

"I'm counting on the fact he does love you, Sweetheart."

I spin on my heels to find the wolf from earlier, this time without his mask, yet I am sure it is him. Those lips still call out for my teeth to nibble on them. Before I can ask him what he is doing following me into the gardens, a pair of hands yanks my arms harshly behind me to bind them and a gag is slipped between my lips. My eyes plead with the wolf to help me, but I am soon absolved of my notion he is to be my hero.

"So, what's yea be wantin' us to do wif her, Klaus?"

"I'll be sure to take care of her myself. Can't have the lure damaged."

With those words, the wolf throws me over his shoulder and I realize I am doomed. I've just been kidnapped by the fearsome pirate, Niklaus.