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Gabriel glanced from the High Priestess to Annabelle, then to the warlock—the man who thought he had some sort of claim over Annabelle. His Annabelle. Like hell.

It had been three years since he’d last seen her.

Three fucking long years with the memory of her sweet body clenching around his cock on constant replay every time he closed his damn eyes.

God, he’d missed her laughter, her sass.

Her cornflower-blue eyes twinkling to rival all the Christmas lights in Paris.

Or hooded, with her full lips puffy from his attentions and her long blonde hair splayed across his pillow.

He hadn’t wanted to leave her. God, it’d been the hardest thing he’d ever done, getting into that taxi.

The look on her face, the confusion, then the disbelief.

That last glimpse of her, the dawning understanding in her eyes, still haunted him.

He’d had no choice. His pack had needed him.

What a shock to find her here. And to find out she’s a witch.

But, as his pack knew all too well, fate often played a hand in these things.

Now here he was, on pack business, nearly three years to the day since he’d left her on the Champs-élysées , and he was damned if he was going to leave here without her.

Nothing would stand in his way this time.

Not his pack, not the High Priestess, and most definitely not a pretentious, overconfident warlock.

He grinned. Merry Christmas to me.

Gabriel turned to the High Priestess. “What exactly do you mean when you say you want to rewrite history?”

The High Priestess leaned back in her chair and regarded them.

“Imagine if someone could go back in time and kill Hitler before he rallied the people. Or Osama Bin Laden, while he was only a boy. Or Stalin, or Pol Pot, before they became responsible for so many deaths. Would you hesitate, or would you act?”

She paused and arched a manicured eyebrow.

“It’s estimated somewhere between thirty-five and sixty thousand people, predominantly women, died during the Inquisition.

Many of those people were nothing more than victims of gossip, superstition and overzealous churchmen.

Some of them were genuine witches, dedicated to helping and healing those who sought their aid.

” Her keen eyes studied him, watching for his reaction.

“What if we could change that? What if, with one carefully orchestrated and targeted attack, we could prevent the Inquisition from ever happening?”

“Interesting proposition.” Gabriel side-eyed Stef.

“I’m sure many people have wondered how different the world would be if we could go back in time and change things.

There’s a whole genre of fiction dedicated to the idea, but no one has invented a machine that can travel through time.

Yet, here you are talking as if it is a possibility. ”

Oh, it was possible. That he’d even been born was proof of that. Not something he was planning on sharing with Marjory Jackson.

“Oh, I assure you, Mr. Montagne, it is a possibility. A very real possibility.”

Gabriel feigned surprise. “How?”

“Now, now, Mr. Montagne,” she said, tapping a manicured finger on her desk. “You can hardly expect me to divulge our coven’s secrets.”

She smiled at him, a perfectly practiced smile that spoke of class and manners, but there was no denying this woman was a formidable opponent.

Behind the facade of elegance lurked a dangerous and powerful woman.

She wouldn’t be single-handedly ruling her coven if she wasn’t.

According to his brothers, Pierre and Louis, the computer geeks of the pack, she’d been running the coven for nigh on forty years.

The lines around her eyes and her gray hair might hint at her age, but this woman was no geriatric.

The High Priestess, Marjory Jackson, would not roll over and give them what they wanted. He hadn’t expected she would.

But the Langeais wolves weren’t easy pickings, either.

They might be here to ensure the witch went back in time, and to help prepare her for the tenth century, to give her knowledge of the pack and warn her of the situation she was stepping in to, but Gabriel wasn’t going to lay out all their secrets for them.

Not when the coven had one of their own.

Like, where the hell had they come across a way to time travel?

Oui , the pack had sacred amulets that could traverse time.

Not their original purpose, but something their ancestors had discovered possible when archeologist Erin Richardson had found one and zapped herself back to the tenth century.

But the spell that had created them, and all knowledge of them, were a more closely guarded secret than their very existence.

As were all remaining amulets, as far as Gabriel was aware.

Besides, there was no guarantee what year, or what century, an amulet would take a person to. Had these witches stumbled across one and found a way to target a specific time and place? Or a spell of their own, perhaps? That was one spell the Langeais wolves would love to get their hands on.

“Perhaps,” said Marjory, the sweetness of her smile not matching the steeliness of her gaze, “you could share with us why our coven’s internet search caught your attention.”

“Of course.” He had to give Marjory something, and as long as it fit with their end goal and did not compromise the pack, he was authorized to divulge certain facts.

“The Langeais wolves had dealings with Eveque Faucher. Not good ones. He hunted our pack and a witch under our pack’s protection.

And he kept detailed descriptions of his endeavors.

Our ancestors searched for those writings, hoping to find them and destroy them, but they were unsuccessful.

” Gabriel raked his hand through his hair.

“You understand, we cannot allow such information to fall into the wrong hands. Even now, there is an element of society who wish to eradicate us. Like his writings on witchcraft, should this information come to light, it could do immeasurable damage.”

Marjory Jackson inclined her perfectly coiffed head. “Well, we agree then. Targeting Eveque Faucher is advantageous to us both. Do you have information that could aid us in eliminating Faucher?”

Gabriel bit back a smile. “We do.”

“And would you be willing to share that information? Work with us on a mutually beneficial plan?”

Gabriel pretended to weigh up the request. He glanced at Stef. She frowned and pursed her lips, studying the witches in the room for a moment as though considering their options, then gave a brief dip of her chin.

Gabriel nodded. “Yes. In return for our assistance…”

Marjory Jackson’s raised eyebrow spoke volumes.

“…we would like to know how you plan to send someone back through time.”

The woman barely blinked, masking her thoughts and her emotions. Most people’s bodies would betray them, and Gabriel never had any trouble reading them. No shifter would. But Marjory Jackson gave nothing away.

The spell would have to be here. In this office.

She’d want to keep it close. Same with an amulet, if she had one.

The bookshelf, perhaps? That was the obvious place.

Or on the Christmas tree, hidden in its faux branches.

Or boxed up as a present artfully arranged at its base?

Could a shiny bauble conceal an amulet within?

“I’ll consider it, depending on how useful you prove to be.”

Gabriel smiled. “That’s all we ask.” He’d break into this office every night he was here, rip that tree and every bauble on it to pieces if he had to.

They would have their answer before they were done.

“Now,” he rubbed his hands together. “Who’s the lucky witch—or warlock—you plan to send back to the tenth century? ”

“Our strongest and most proficient member of our coven.”

Gabriel doubted that, knowing where, and in what condition, his ancestor had found Bella Rodriguez.

Dutton beamed and his chest puffed out. “Well, thank you, High Priestess, for your confidence—”

“My niece. Annabelle.”

What? Annabelle. His Annabelle. Putain. No. She’s the wrong witch. Merde . They had their work cut out for them here.

Dutton gaped at the High Priestess. “But…but…I…” He snapped his mouth shut and glared at Annabelle.

Annabelle smirked. “Like I said before, Dutton, I don’t need you .”

Marjory turned to her niece, all business. “Annabelle Jackson-Rodriguez, do you consent to undertake this task for the benefit of your coven and all witches, past, present and future?”

Gabriel’s lungs seized as he stared at Annabelle.

No, it couldn’t be. She was… But… Annabelle.

Jackson. Rodriguez. Bella Rodriguez . It wasn’t possible.

He’d thought… With a name like Bella Rodriguez…

With the olive skin and dark brown eyes his family were known for, he’d thought…

Hell, they’d all thought the American Bella Rodriguez was Hispanic or Latino.

Annabelle, his Belle , was blonde and blue-eyed.

Since when had her name been Rodriguez? Or Jackson? She’d told him her name was Annabelle Newman. She’d lied to him.

You lied to her, too.

He had, but… Merde, what sort of excuse for a shifter was he that he’d failed to scent her lie?

He was head of pack security, for fuck’s sake.

But he’d been so caught up in her, in that sexy smile, in her determined independence, that he’d missed it.

His nose had let him down. No wonder he hadn’t been able to find her.

How many months had Pierre and Louis wasted trying to track an American woman named Annabelle Newman for him?

He’d never live it down if his brother’s found out the truth.

Annabelle squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “Yes, High Priestess, I do. Thank you for believing in me.”

“Well, then, it’s settled.” Marjory clapped her hands together. “Time to get to work. We have history to change.”