Page 78 of Master Wolf

Duncan’s face was a mask of grief and rage. “You can no longer command me,” he said hoarsely.

“I’m not commanding you.” Francis’s eyes were soft. “I’m asking you to come closer.”

“You want to get the poison on me. Kill me too.”

Francis shook his head. “I won’t even touch you, I promise. I just”—he panted, screwing his eyes closed for a moment before continuing—“there is something I must say to you.” His throat gave a strange rattle then and he fell to the side, hitting the floor hard, a stunned expression on his face.

Duncan leapt forward, arms outstretched as though to belatedly catch him, then he caught himself, and stilled, suspicious. But Francis did not move and after a moment, Duncan slowly lowered himself to his knees and cautiously crawled forward.

His eyes were wild with sorrow and fury.

Lindsay’s fingers had crept back around Drew’s wrist as though he could hold him safely back, while Drew crouched protectively in front of Lindsay, sheltering him with his naked body.

“What could you possibly have to say to me?” Duncan whispered fiercely. “After all this time?”

“A secret,” Francis whispered.

“What?” Duncan moved closer still, till he was leaning fully over Francis, their gazes locked, faces only inches apart. Drew wondered if there were fumes from the Wolfsbane that might affect Duncan. Was that the game Francis was playing? He had promised not to touch Duncan and Francis had never, to Drew’s knowledge, broken a promise.

“You always ask me… why I won’t kill you.” Francis panted

“I know why,” Duncan replied bitterly. “It’s because you’re a pious, cringing coward who fears for his immortal soul above all else.”

“No,” Francis said, through barely moving lips. “It’s because—because I loved you. Because you were…my mate.”

Duncan stared at him. He shook his head. “You… No.”

“Yes,” Francis croaked. “I could not give you my body. But I was always—always yours.” His throat rattled again, softer this time.

“No,” Duncan said, then more loudly, “No, it’s not true!No!”

The lastNotore out of him on an anguished roar, and then he fell on Francis, lifting up his limp body in his mighty arms and capturing his mouth in a savage kiss. He pressed their lips together desperately, then rubbed his cheek against Francis’s pale, cold one, gasping out angry, wrenching sobs.

“You dare to leave me, coward!” he railed. “Eunuch!”

Drew was buffeted by a wave of grief so intense, he felt as though the storm raging through his heart would break it open, never to be repaired. He felt it all—his own grief, and Lindsay’s, and the terrible, raging grief of the man who had just willingly thrown himself into the River Styx with Francis Neville.

Gradually Duncan’s bitter words stopped flowing and his angry sobs grew quieter, till the only noise he made was that same soft rattling sound in his throat that Francis had made just a minute before. Gradually—almost gently—his powerful frame stilled. And then the arms that had been holding Francis so tightly slackened, and the big, larger-than-life body went limp.

Duncan MacCormaic was dead. And so was Francis Neville.

Drew turned his head to see Lindsay’s reaction. But Lindsay’s eyes were closed and his breathing was strange, his chest moving up and down too fast. Wheezing breaths came from his half-open mouth.

“Lindsay,” Drew said worriedly, shaking him gently. When had he passed out?

Lindsay did not respond and a surge of pure fear went through Drew. He had to get Lindsay out of here, away from whatever traces of Wolfsbane were in the air.

Clambering to his feet, he went to the fallen wardrobe and, muscles straining with effort, dislodged it from its wedged-in position, heaving it to one side. Having cleared a path to the door, he rushed back and bent down to lift Lindsay’s frail body. He barely registered Lindsay’s weight in his arms. He felt as though his wolf was with him—not just inside him but present in his body, lending him physical strength. And as he emerged from the bedchamber and began to walk down the corridor in search of another room to lay Lindsay down in, he realised his vision had indeed greyed—he was seeing with his wolf eyes, despite being in his human form.

He had no time to consider the implications of that—he could hear voices, familiar ones. Marguerite and Wynne. And, oh God—Marguerite. When she discovered that Francis was dead she would be inconsolable…

Drew’s human side reasserted itself and he called, “Wynne! Up here!” Exhausted, he braced himself against the corridor wall, waiting.

Footsteps raced up the stairs towards him, and then Wynne was there, saying their names and babbling out questions that Drew couldn’t seem to comprehend, much less answer. When Wynne reached out to help him with Lindsay, he stepped back, hefting Lindsay up more securely in his arms.

“I’ll see to him,” he said hoarsely. Every word he uttered was an effort, strange and unfamiliar in his mouth. “You will need to take care of Mim.”

Wynne’s expression tightened with anxiety. “Why? What’s wrong?”