Page 20 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

Constance climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, her heart beating a little faster than it should.

Had Anne laced Monsieur D’Artagnon’s food with her potion?

Anne’s wink suggested she had. The black wolf sniffing and tasting his food, then eating it with gusto, implied she had not.

As inconspicuously as she could, Constance had observed Anne serve Monsieur D’Artagnon’s meal—slices of meat bloody and partially raw, chunks of bread lathered with butter and large helpings of the vegetable stew.

It would have to be in the stew. There was nowhere else to hide it. If the old cook had slipped anything into it, she had been fast. So fast Constance had not caught her. Perhaps living with werewolves her whole life gave her an advantage.

The following hours would tell if Anne had succeeded. Constance had never gotten the chance. Not with the black wolf’s singular gaze following her every move. He had suspected she was planning something. It had been hard to disguise. Had he recognized any of the plants she collected?

Anne had known, but would he? Monsieur D’Artagnon was a chevalier.

In his youth, before he had sustained his injuries, he would have focused on his training.

But there were years of his life not accounted for.

Years where he had spent doing who knew what.

Surviving, yes, but where? And with whom?

There was no accounting for what he knew now, and Monsieur D’Artagnon was not talking.

As usual, Monsieur D’Artagnon followed her into the bedchamber.

Constance, as she had every night she had been here, placed her grimoire beside her pillow and undid the braids in her hair.

She removed her clothing but for her chemise, washed down her face and prepared her ward around the bed.

She did not want him thinking this night was any different from any other.

Constance hopped into bed and pulled the covers up. “Goodnight, Monsieur. Pleasant dreams.”

It would take time for the herbs to work. If she had the dosage correct. She snuggled into the soft mattress and closed her eyes. If not, she would try again on the morrow.

* * * *

Constance stirred and her eyes fluttered open.

The coals in the brazier had burned down and the chill night air had seeped into the bedchamber.

During the night, she had rolled onto her side and pulled the covers up under her chin, but something was different.

Something had disturbed her sleep. A noise? Was her spell working?

She listened, not daring to move. There. A pop and crack, and a subtle change of weight at the foot of the bed. More pops and cracks.

Is he shifting?

For all her knowledge of werewolves, she had never witnessed one shift before. Dare she risk a peek?

The bed dipped, and a warm body, far too big to be a wolf, curled in behind her.

A hot breath brushed against her cheek, and an all too human arm snaked over her and pulled her close.

Constance’s heart fluttered. She did not move.

She yearned to turn over and look upon the man that was Monsieur D’Artagnon.

If she gave in to her desire, he might startle and revert to wolf form. She could not risk it.

Soft lips dropped kisses against the bare skin of her neck.

Oh my . Those oft spoke about consequences had made an appearance.

Her spell was working too well. The hand about her waist dipped lower, holding her firmly in place as his hips ground into her bottom from behind.

Despite the thickness of the covers between them, there was no mistaking the effect her potion was having on him.

Constance shivered, but her body flushed with heat. His warm lips moved up the column of her throat and, Mother help her, she arched her neck to give him greater access. A lick of her earlobe, and a nibble, just like in her…

Like in her dream.

Constance rolled over. The light from the coals was soft, but as her eyes adjusted, she got her first look at Monsieur D’Artagnon the man.

No. Not her first look. She had seen this man before.

Standing over her, watching her sleep, and again a few eves’ past. That nose, the untamed beard, the puckered skin of his scar beneath a lock of black hair where his eye had once been.

This was her dream D’Artagnon. Except…he was not a dream.

He was here. Real. Shifted. And as she stared at his face, it was clear to her this was not the first time.

Constance opened her mouth, and he dove right in, stealing her words before she had the chance to utter them.

With his mouth, with his tongue delving deep, speaking of all manner of carnal sins, he swept away all her thoughts, all her shock.

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the solid feel of him, the heat of his skin, and the musky swirl of his scent that surrounded them both.

Her hands, as though they knew their own mind, trailed over his shoulders, around his neck and she twirled her fingers in his hair.

She should not encourage him. She should stop him.

He was not in control of his actions. Were it not for her potion…

But she had not given him anything yestreen, and her dream…

She tried to grasp hold of her thoughts, make sense of them, but when he rolled her under him, parted her thighs beneath the covers and slipped between them, she lost the fight.

She let her concerns slide away, too caught up in what was happening to care.

With a moan, she pressed her hips to his, seeking the delicious rub of his length against her core. Chasing the promise of her vision.

He tugged at the covers, pulling them down to her waist, and her nipples puckered, but not from the cool night air seeping through her thin chemise.

His large hand cupped her breast, and she pushed against his palm, offering him her body.

Never had she thought herself so brazen, so demanding.

To forget who, what, she was. A mere peasant and an outcast. And he a d’Louncrais.

She had taken such care when handling the berries and the herbs, but maybe, somehow, she had absorbed some of their properties through her skin.

He groaned against her mouth, pinching her nipple, and heat rippled through her, intense and far beyond anything she had experienced before.

The whisper of his beard as he dropped kisses across her jawline, down to nuzzle at her neck only heightened the sensation.

With a tug on the neckline of her thin chemise, he tore it, laying her bare from neck to hips.

He stilled, and Constance held her breath, not daring to move lest he came to his senses. Not wanting this moment to end.

Oh, Constance. You are surely going to hell for this.

But would she? Had he not shifted yestreen?

Had they not found themselves right here until sleep had claimed her?

Taking advantage of Monsieur D’Artagnon when he was in this condition, while her potion influenced his actions was wrong, but…

was she? Was this happening only because of her spell, or was something else at work? Something more in line with her vision?

It did not matter, because—Mother forgive her—she could not bring herself to make him stop.

Monsieur D’Artagnon stared down at her naked breasts, his chest heaving.

Muted light from the coals in the fire bathed his face, and dark shadows shifted in his eye.

With a rumble of sound, he dipped his head and sucked her nipple into his mouth.

Constance grabbed hold of his shoulders and held on, arching her back and pressing her head deep into the downy pillow.

She found it hard to breathe, her body a riot of sensations.

Any thought of pushing him away scorched from her mind like the fog of a winter’s morn burned away by the sun.

She embraced the heat, her desire, and squirmed against him. Wanting more. Needing more.

Monsieur D’Artagnon growled around her nipple, and her whole body pulsed with pleasure, a persistent throbbing setting a steady beat between her thighs.

She tilted her hips, wishing the barrier of the covers between them would disappear.

That she had the strength of mind to compose a spell to make it so, but her thoughts skittered wildly as he laved her nipple with his tongue.

He must have had the same thought, for he lifted himself away from her and gave an impatient tug on the covers, dragging them down past her hips, the ripping of the remnants of her chemise bracketed only by their heavy breathing.

Then his mouth was on hers, and his large palm pressing between her naked thighs.

Oh, the Fates, this is…

Monsieur D’Artagnon rubbed the heel of his hand against her mound, sliding his fingers through her slick folds, and she moaned.

The tension between her thighs begged for release, and she chased his fingers.

She might not have had much experience with sex, but she knew what this feeling was, what it led to, and she hungered for it with every fiber of her being.

Then he was wrenching himself from her arms and throwing himself off the bed.

He backed away from her, staring down at his body, his chest heaving and his hands clenching and unclenching.

A strangled noise erupted from his throat, neither human nor wolf, and he stared at her, his nostrils flaring and his mouth working, but no sound coming out.

Constance wanted to scream her frustration, but one look at his expression, at the sheer panic writ across his face, and her stuttering orgasm vanished.

She eased from the bed, ignoring her nakedness. “Monsieur D’Artagnon.”

He squeezed his eye shut and thrashed his head from side to side.

Even in distress, he was beautiful. Scarred, but strong.

Troubled, damaged, but still proud. With the body of a seasoned chevalier.

It made her mouth water. Had her longing to touch him, to run her hands through the dusting of dark hair on his chest. To trace the angry scar curling up over his rib cage and around his shoulder.

Her gaze dipped lower. And yes—Mother help her—she wanted to touch him there, too. Take him into her body, lay with him.

Another guttural groan drew her gaze back to his face. The longing she saw there between the strands of his dark hair had her body tingling.

Is this because of my potion?

He clenched his fists at his side, the muscles in his shoulders and arms bunching. He let out an agonized cry that all but tore her heart open.

Shame flushed her cheeks. What sort of person am I? The man is in pain .

She took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. He straightened and reached for the door.

“Wait. Please.” She pulled the pieces of her torn chemise together. “Stay. Talk to me. Please. Or…I can fetch Seigneur Gaharet?”

Another vigorous shake of his head.

“Then…tell me who betray—”

He snarled and flung the door open. It crashed against the wall as he disappeared down the darkened stairway.

Constance raced after him, heedless of her nakedness, her torn chemise flapping against her sides.

She followed the glimpses of his bare torso, ignoring the cold floor beneath her feet.

If she did not catch him before he shifted back…

She burst into the kitchen, the door to the bailey hanging open. Am I too late? She skirted the kitchen table and peered out. By the keep wall, staring back at her, was the black wolf.

No. Constance’s shoulders sagged.

Monsieur D’Artagnon turned and slunk away into the night.

She slumped against the door frame, the anguish in that guttural cry still ringing in her ears, burning into her memory. Monsieur D’Artagnon had shifted, whether by her interference or for some unknown reason, but at what cost to the man?