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Annabelle stayed. She had no intention of moving, her body pleasantly limp and satiated. Finally. Since the moment she’d stood across from him in Aunt Marjory’s study, the craving to have him had plagued her. Now it was satisfied. For the moment, at least.

Her gaze followed Gabriel’s taut ass as he disappeared into the bathroom.

She closed her eyes and languished on the lush comforter, her body still tingling from two mind-blowing orgasms. There would be more.

Gabriel always had had the stamina of a prize bull.

It made perfect sense now. Shifter genes and all that.

She frowned. In the heat of the moment, she’d trusted him when he’d said they didn’t need to use a condom.

They’d used them in Paris. Every single time.

They’d blown through so many packets of the damn things she should have bought stocks in the company.

Were they simply a part of his deception? Keeping his true nature from her?

She pushed herself up on her elbows. He’d said he couldn’t procreate with humans.

Was that why he’d left? And what had he meant by the wolves of Langeais were werewolves in the true sense of the word?

In what way were they different from other shifters?

Other than their supposed inability to not get humans pregnant.

She needed to look into that. Maybe Aunt Marjory knew something.

Or one of the shifter packs known to the coven.

“You’re thinking very hard there, ma chérie.” Gabriel leaned against the doorway, a wet cloth in his hands.

Lord, the man was a piece of art. A Michaelangelo sculpture in the flesh. Six feet four inches of gorgeous, chiseled flesh. Her stomach fluttered. Once with Gabriel would never be enough. After tonight, would she be able to walk away?

“Just thinking about the mission,” she lied.

“Mmm.” He pushed off from the door frame and propped on the edge of the bed. Dipping the warm, flannel between her legs, with gentle strokes he cleaned her. “If you say so.”

Annabelle flopped back on the bed, surrendering to his ministrations and his gentle steady hands. With the flannel over his thumb, he rubbed against her clit and her body came alive again, arching into his hand.

“Gabe.” The word was little more than a breathless entreaty.

“I hear you, bebe. ”

The cloth disappeared and his bare hands settled on her thighs, trailing down her legs to her boots.

“ Putain, j’adore ces bottes. I think I’ll have you wear them every time we have sex.”

Laughter bubbled up in her chest. They were her favorite boots, too, and she had worn them with Gabriel in mind.

She’d wanted to tempt him, wave in front of him what he’d chosen to discard.

She’d planned to show him what was no longer his, and when she had him eating out of the palm of her hand, walk away from him with a sashay of her hips and a jaunt in her step. Yeah, that had worked out well.

Gabriel moved to the end of the bed, grasped her ankles and tugged until her naked ass was on the very edge. Then he sunk to his knees, spread her thighs and draped her legs over his shoulders.

God, the sight of him between her legs, his dark eyes fixated on her core… Could she orgasm from a simple look?

“Sexy boots, pretty pussy.” His hot breath puffed against her swollen lips.

She just might.

“All mine.”

Then he put his mouth on her, and Annabelle knew the true meaning of the word ecstasy.

* * * *

Tucked against him, her breathing soft and steady, his mate slept, worn out by their marathon of sex.

Her face, her expression soft in repose.

No stubborn jutting of her chin, or flash of defiance in her eyes.

He loved her sass, her independence and determination.

He trailed a hand down her arm, and she stirred, murmuring in her sleep before settling again.

But it was moments like these he truly treasured, where she lay soft and pliant in his arms. It was only here, in the bedroom, she let him take care of her.

Where she dropped her guard, revealing a different side to the feisty Annabelle she showed the rest of the world.

He pressed a soft kiss on her head and she rolled over, her eyes fluttering open. With his large hand, he cupped her cheek, touching his lips to the top of her nose. Her gaze drifted to his leather wrist cuff, and her eyebrows dipped into a frown.

Annabelle placed her hand over his and leaned into his palm. “What if they’re right, Gabriel?”

Cornflower-blue eyes met his, full of uncertainty, and he swore vengeance on the person who’d put it there. “Right about what, mon amour ?”

She chewed her bottom lip, a sure sign she was feeling vulnerable. “That I’m not strong enough to rule the coven.”

“Ah, Belle . Don’t take that connard Dutton’s words to heart. He has his own agenda, and making you doubt yourself works in his favor.”

“But what if he’s right? All that time in Paris, not once did I suspect you were a shifter.

” Her hand slipped to his leather cuff, and she ran her fingers over the silver wolf.

“It’s right here. On your wrist. Like a flashing neon sign, and I never guessed.

What sort of witch am I if I can’t tell the difference between a human and a shifter? ”

“Hey.” He tilted her chin to look at him. “That was three years ago. And I didn’t think you were ready to know, so I hid what I was. I didn’t suspect you were a witch, either, and I’m head of pack security.”

“But—”

“No buts, Annabelle. You’re more than capable of running that coven.” With him by her side, no one would dare challenge her.

“You really think so?”

Merde. He hated the tremble in her voice, the self doubt that plagued her.

“I do.” Once they were mated, once she became… His gums ached with his need to claim her. He was getting ahead of himself. “And when you’re High Priestess, you can kick that fils de pute and his whole damn family out of your coven.”

“Mm, that’s a nice thought.”

Her gaze dropped again to his wrist cuff.

Gone was the soft expression. The in-charge, take no prisoners Annabelle was back.

“Why do you all wear one of these? I’m assuming you all do.

Stefanie has one, too.” Her eyes narrowed.

“It seems, for a pack wanting to remain hidden, this is not the way to go about it. Does it have something to do with being… What did you say… The wolves of Langeais are werewolves, in the true sense of the word?”

He’d been hoping, in the throes of passion, she’d forget he’d said that.

“What did you mean by that?”

That he couldn’t tell her. Not yet. She’d need to know soon enough, but he wanted to make sure she wouldn’t run first.

“These wrist cuffs are a way to protect us against one of our weaknesses.” This he could tell her. “Wolfsbane has a powerful effect on us. Not a good one. So, we use silver to counteract its potency.”

She eyed the small wolf, protected from his skin by the leather of the cuff. “I take it silver is another weakness, or you’d all be wearing a silver bracelet, or watch.”

His Annabelle didn’t miss a thing. “You would be correct. If we encounter wolfsbane, we turn the cuff over. This small amount of silver burns a little, but it nullifies any impact of wolfsbane.”

“Clever.”

“One of our ancestors figured it out. Back in the tenth century.” Could Isobella have had a hand in that? It was possible. Maxime, his alpha, would know. He swore that connard kept secrets for the sake of keeping secrets.

“And these followers of this Bishop Faucher’s teachings, they know about the effect wolfsbane has on you?”

“ Oui .”

She trailed a finger down his chest. “I wonder what else they know. What are you hiding from me, Gabriel?”

Nothing he could tell her right now. He captured her hand and sucked her finger into his mouth.

Her eyes darkened, and her lips parted. “Don’t try to distract me, Gabe.”

He swirled his tongue around her finger and her breath hitched.

“Nice try, big guy, but I still want my answer.”

If the slow softening of her body, and the hint of an arch in her back pressing her peaked nipples against his chest was anything to go by, he wasn’t trying. He was succeeding. He rolled his tongue around her finger again and this time he added a hint of fang.

She closed her eyes and dropped her head back. “Okay. Distract me.”

Her words were little more than a husky whisper. Gabriel grinned, released her finger and rolled her beneath him. With what he had planned, she wouldn’t be thinking about anything for a while.

* * * *

The weak rays of a winter’s sun streamed across the San Francisco skyline as Annabelle collected her boots—discarded after several rounds of mind-blowing sex—and tiptoed down the stairs to grab her clothes.

Gabriel slept on, sprawled across the bed on his stomach, his perfect ass an almost too tempting a reason to stay.

She kept moving. She didn’t want to be there when he woke.

Didn’t want to have to deal with the awkward conversation about what this had, or hadn’t, been.

This time Annabelle was determined to be the one leaving.

She paused for a moment by the window in the living area, taking in the view.

Faint hand prints, her hand prints, marred the glass, a visible reminder of last night.

Her body heated, and she clenched her thighs.

Hell. Last night should have been enough to get him out her of system.

Sadly, no. But her body would just have to deal with it. Guarding her heart took precedence.

She turned away from the window, pulled on her dress and zipped up her boots. With one last look at the penthouse suite— the penthouse suite —she stepped into the foyer, gathered up her coat, scarf and purse and pressed the button for the elevator.

In the lobby, the bellhop, doing his best to hide his grin, called her a cab. She must look like a fright. Well fucked, more likely. And she had been. Her body was pleasantly sore in ways she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

She gave Aunt Marjory’s address to the driver and raked her fingers through her hair in an effort to detangle it at least a little.

In the end, she gave up. She was a grown woman.

When it came to her sex life, she didn’t have to answer to anyone.

Unless it interfered with her mission, or with coven business.

And it wouldn’t. Aunt Marjory had no cause for concern.

What was concerning, and needed immediate attention, was Dutton.

If Aunt Marjory hadn’t informed him of the meeting, and Gabriel hadn’t invited him, how the hell had he known to be there?

And while she was talking to Aunt Marjory about Dutton, she was going to quash any idea, any plan, that included her marrying that insufferable man.

Gabriel might have left her in Paris. He was most likely using her as a booty call now, despite his pretty words uttered in the heat of the moment, but Annabelle wasn’t so desperate to fill the void she’d consider marrying Dutton.

Or anyone from the King family, for that matter.

Only last month, Cordelia King had insinuated that there were other King males she could choose from, should Dutton not be to her taste.

All of them considerably older or younger.

Ugh. She loved her coven, would do almost anything for it, but she’d rather spend the rest of her days wearing out the battery in her vibrator than consider marrying anyone with a last name of King.

She glanced up at the face of The Ritz-Carlton building and craned her neck to see the top floor, her memories of last night on replay in her mind. Up there, in the penthouse suite, still sleeping— that man was to her taste. She’d gotten more than a taste. She’d had barely three hours of sleep.

She pushed aside the images as the cab maneuvered into traffic.

The driver switched on the radio and an idiotically enthusiastic version of Jingle Bells played through the tinny speakers.

She grimaced. Only one more week of Christmas celebrations then it would be all over for another year.

With any luck, she’d be so busy prepping for her mission it would fly by.

Annabelle leaned her head back against the seat and closed her tired eyes. When Gabriel left her again, as he no doubt would, Annabelle would have one more reason to loathe Christmas.