Page 10 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

The little healer—Constance—was uncomfortable with the curiosity of the servants and the farmers, and with their attention.

He had scented her unease the moment Anne had insisted she wear the blue dress, and her discomfort had only increased when they had entered the hall.

Then Old Tumas had called her a witch. A growl rumbled in his chest, and he glared at the grizzled and grumpy farmer. Tumas had upset Constance.

D’Artagnon gritted his teeth. Why am I defending her?

Protecting her? Caring how she feels? Why had he leaped onto the seat, squeezing himself between Constance and that which disconcerted her?

This witch with her angelic braids peeking out from under her veil, and her pretty upturned nose, discussing herbs and poultices with Anne.

He snorted. And his brother, openly grinning at him from across the table.

Gaharet was as taken with her as Anne was.

He had thought them both more shrewd than that.

Well, she would not fool him with her honeyed voice and her hesitant smiles. She would not work her magic on him .

Old Tumas shrugged at him and turned his attention to his supper.

D’Artagnon eyed the rest of those assembled at the table, snarling at any hint of a furtive glance.

It rankled that he did so, that he could not stop himself.

His brother’s continued amusement only infuriated him further.

He growled at his brother. Gaharet chuckled.

His brother’s mate frowned at him. “What’s so funny?”

Gaharet leaned closer to her. “D’Artagnon.”

She raked her gaze over him. “Oh?” Her focus slid to Constance and her green eyes widened. “Oh.” A slow grin spread across her lips. “That’s a good thing.”

“It is,” his brother agreed. “A very good thing.”

What is? What were they talking about? Beside him, Constance toyed with her food. Other than her lack of appetite and her discomfort, nothing seemed amiss, nor struck him as something to be smiling about.

“D’Artagnon.” Gaharet gathered the green-eyed woman’s hand in his. “This is Erin. My mate.”

D’Artagnon quirked the eyebrow over his remaining eye.

Did his brother think him witless because he would not shift?

His senses were stronger than they had ever been.

Years of using them to survive had honed them.

He focused them on the woman now, searching beneath his brother’s musk, the heady aroma of sex and the scent of the pup in her womb.

Confidence and curiosity surrounded her.

Gaharet kissed his mate’s hand, and she softened against him.

His brother had found a good mate. A strong one.

An emptiness welled up inside him, a long-forgotten yearning threatening to consume him.

As a young man, the desire, the need to mate had burned ever brighter as the years had passed, embedded in his psyche as much as his wolf, intertwined and inseparable from the instincts that drove him.

As had his brother, nay all werewolves, he had strived to meet the one woman who would be his match in all ways. Like his father had found his mother.

Behind him, the wall hanging played out his parents’ courtship. Something to aspire to. Something worth fighting for, to cherish. A constant reminder of what could be. Until the day they had lost their mother, and his father his mate.

His shoulder twinged. That had all changed on that sodden and muddy battlefield.

Fate had another purpose for him, and a mate would be but a distraction.

He had spent too many years strengthening his body and his mind, pitting himself against nature to give up on his quest. Let his brother have the joy of being mated, of being a father and carrying on the d’Louncrais line.

Beside him, Constance laughed at something Anne had said, and the sound sank deep, almost to the marrow of his bones. He shut his eye, leaned closer, and breathed her in. The ruff on his neck bristled, and he opened his eye to his brother’s smirk. He jerked away from Constance.

D’Artagnon spent the rest of the meal on edge, annoyed at his brother’s amusement, as much as at himself for his undeniable need to protect the little healer, and shield her from the attention she so obviously abhorred.

It was a relief when the meal finally ended, when the staff departed and servants cleared the empty platters from the table.

Constance begged fatigue, gathered her book and slipped from the hall.

He watched her go, an unexplainable urge to follow surging in his chest. The wolves and Farren remained, none making a move to leave.

They would have discussions this night. About him and the pack’s situation.

About the traitor. Talk he should be a witness to.

A lot had happened in the years he had been gone.

His gaze slid to the door. Constance’s scent lingered, taunting him. The witch could be doing all manner of things now she was out of his sight. Such as creating a spell or thinking to use silver now she was beyond his brother’s presence.

His brother watched him, waiting.

D’Artagnon huffed and leaped from the seat, padding after the little human, ignoring his brother’s laughter that followed him from the hall.

He had been cautious coming to the keep, sniffing around the village and the walls.

Nothing had been amiss. No scent out of place.

He had promised his brother a few days. There was time enough to hear what he had to say.

Constance he could not trust to leave alone for a single moment.

He found her perched up in bed, flicking through the pages of her grimoire. This time, he did not wait until she was asleep to jump up beside her.

She jerked her head up with a gasp.

He stretched himself out and locked gazes with her, daring her to complain.

She gripped her book a little tighter around the edges, but she did not attempt to shoo him from the bed.

Satisfied, he rested his head on his paws and settled in for the night but remained alert.

Only when her lids fluttered closed and the book slipped from her fingers did he allow himself to relax, to sleep.

* * * *

D’Artagnon moved closer to the warm bundle of soft curves beneath the covers.

He nuzzled her neck and breathed in her soft, earthy scent.

Constance sighed, snuggling into him. He stretched and slid his arm over her, tucking her along the length of his body, reveling in the brush of golden hair against his bare shoulder.

My bare shoulder?

D’Artagnon’s breath seized in his lungs, and he popped his eye open. I have shifted?

Even without the aid of his enhanced senses, he knew the truth of it. Cool night air breathed across his skin for the first time in years.

Merde. I have shifted in my sleep .

Constance murmured, lost in her dreams, and he tightened his hold.

L’enfer. What am I doing?

She let out a soft, breathy moan, and for the first time in a long time, something swirled within his chest other than anger and the deep cut of betrayal. Emotions he barely remembered himself capable of. Tenderness and…desire. His cock stirred.

Merde.

With slow, deliberate movements, careful not to disturb her, he relaxed his hold and removed his arm, rolling away from her.

He slipped off the bed onto unsteady legs, strange to him after all this time, his breathing harsh to his own ears.

He glared down at his half erect cock. What is this woman doing to me? What had she done to him?

He had barely let her out of his sight from the moment she had walked into the hall. Not once had he caught her whispering a spell. Yet, here he was, shifted into human form, as naked as the day he was born. No. She had done nothing, and yet… He clenched his hands into fists. I have shifted.

She rolled in his direction, snagging the covers tighter under her chin.

Her eyes opened, and she stared straight at him.

His heart skipped a beat, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

Then her eyes fluttered closed. D’Artagnon released his breath, allowing the tension to ease from his body.

He slid his gaze over her sleeping form.

The tight lines around her eyes, the press of her lips together and the tension in her shoulders were gone.

A longing to gather her in his arms, stroke her hair and brush his lips across hers squeezed at his heart. To promise her she need not fear again.

D’Artagnon threw back his head and stared at the ceiling.

This woman was dangerous, and not only because she was a witch.

The pleasant memory of her sweet body pressed against him tingled along his skin and he swallowed a groan.

If the state of his cock was anything to go by, pleasant did not go far enough to describe it.

It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the feel of a woman in his arms. Mayhap that was what had caused his uncontrolled shift.

It was possible. It might well be what Gaharet had planned.

To tempt him with the carnal pleasures of a woman.

But no matter how enticing, how much his human body called for him to slip beneath the covers and pull her into his embrace, the darkness swelled within him and his body trembled.

His wolf pushed forward, wanting—no demanding—the change, and he could no more control it, nor push it back than when he had shifted in his sleep.

Perhaps Farren was right. He was afraid.

His bones cracked, his muscles popped, and coarse black hair sprouted across his skin as his face elongated and his spine and hips contorted.

He dropped onto all fours, back into the form he had become more comfortable in than his own skin.

The darkness eased, retreating into the deep recesses of his mind, as he sank into the familiarity of his wolf.

D’Artagnon leaped back onto the bed and settled himself at the foot. He would watch her from here. Getting too close had consequences. Ones he was not yet ready to face.