Page 27 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

Constance placed her hands over the bowl, closed her eyes, took a deep breath in, then released it on a long, steady sigh. She centered herself, a sense of calm washing over her, the words of the spell rising within her mind. Words of healing, release and renewal.

Constance focused her intent on the bowl of ingredients.

“Pain and sorrow, guilt and shame.

Lay at the feet of him to blame

Release from heavy mind and heart

Anger and vengeance doth both depart

Set free that which keeps him bound

So peace and healing can be found.”

When she opened her eyes, D’Artagnon had not moved. Good. It was a beginning. She used her knife to cut a square of cloth from a fresh linen, bound the herbs in a bundle then reached up and shoved it in amongst the thatching above the door. He made no move to stop her.

Constance wiped the bowl clean and began preparing the other herbs—tearing apart the leaves and cutting the root and pine needles into small pieces.

She paused. “It is not as though the church does not have good cause to distrust us, unfortunately. Not all of us use our skills, our power for good. Cordelia, the witch from your village, for one.”

She resumed her chopping, then scraped up the pieces and dropped them into the bowl. She cut another slice in her finger, squeezed a few drops of blood over them, and stirred the contents of the bowl, coating them. “It is witches like her who deserve to be hunted down by the church.”

An icy shiver ran up her spine, and she stumbled against the table as a vision hit her. One of her hands bound before her, begging, pleading. Of a man in black robes with a young, almost angelic face standing over her, a fervor in his eyes.

For a moment, Constance was there, trapped in the body of her future self.

Her fear, her certainty she was going to die as real as the small cottage she stood in.

She clutched at her chest and slumped onto the seat.

The tickle of coarse hair beneath her palm snapped her from her vision, bringing her back to the present.

Monsieur D’Artagnon had leaped over the table and pushed his muzzle into her hand.

Her breathing shallow, she ran her fingers through the wolf’s ruff, seeking comfort.

That he should offer it to her warmed her heart and eased some of her fear.

Constance had no sense of how this would come to pass but, if her vision were to be believed, soon she would become the prisoner of a priest.

D’Artagnon stared at a pale-faced Constance, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

What was happening? Was it a vision? When she had sucked in her breath and slumped to the seat, her eyes glazing over, he was on the table, nudging his head beneath her palm, comforting her without giving his actions a single thought.

His entire body and soul, wolf and man, cared only that she was in pain.

Something in her vision had caused this pain, and he could not resist his need to console her.

He fought his urge to rend and tear apart that which would provoke the emotions rolling off her, clogging up the air in the little cottage. He could barely breathe with it.

She took a shaky breath and brushed away her tears. “More blood,” she muttered, taking up her knife, slicing it across her palm this time.

The coppery scent flooded the cottage, and a growl rumbled in his chest. He did not like it when she cut herself so.

She ignored him, squeezing her hand into a fist, letting the blood drip into the bowl.

With her uninjured hand, she pulled her grimoire closer and frantically searched through the pages before settling on one.

The flowing script of their amulets mocked him. A ward of some kind. Until he unlocked the secret of the language, he could only presume.

Constance read through it several times, then grabbed the flint, striking it.

She blew on the little sparks it created, coaxing a flame in the herbs.

A swirl of pungent smoke curled in the air, and she gathered up the bowl and raced from the cottage.

D’Artagnon leaped from the table and followed her, skidding to a halt in the doorway.

Constance had set aside the bowl and was shucking her boots.

What is she doing?

She tore at the laces of her dress, wrenched it off and cast it aside.

Her underdress followed. “For the spell to be more effective, to be the strongest it can be, I must have a connection with the earth.” She wiggled her bare toes.

“I must be at one with my surroundings. Nothing should stand between my body and the elements.” With her back to him and a nervous shake of her hands, she slipped out of her chemise.

Merde. Constance was …naked. Again. Twice in one day was beyond his forbearance. For a moment, staring at her bare body—the gentle flare of her hips, her smooth skin, the dimples on either side of her spine, the soft curves of her cheeks—D’Artagnon forgot how to breathe.

With impatient fingers, she unpinned her braids, shaking out her hair so it flowed over her shoulders and down her back, glinting in the sun like a river of pale gold.

Beautiful.

He wanted to reach for her. Put his hands on her like he had last eve. Press his lips to her bare shoulder, run his nose along the curve of her throat. Hold her body flush to his and rub his scent all over so all would know she was—

He shook his head and focused on the grass beneath his paws.

“I need to set the ward. Please do not cross the circle until I have completed it.”

She spoke with purpose, but the tremble in her voice betrayed her. It called to him, wrapped its fingers around his heart. The muscles in his shoulders bunched in his effort to stay where he was, to remain wolf. Her soft footfalls moved away. She paused, and he glanced up.

Facing due north, her back to him, she offered her bowl to the sky.

She invoked the earth, whispering her incantation, before circling the cottage until she faced east. Here she called upon the wind.

Words of protection, of warding. She continued her circle, disappearing out of sight, and he tracked her with his ears.

She paused twice more—to the south and to the west. He did as she had asked, and did not move.

Constance completed her circle and stood staring out at the forest. “This is a strong ward, but, as with any ward, I will need to replenish it every day. The more layers it has, the stronger it will be.”

Every day? The words settled in his mind, heavy and full of promise.

And temptation. She would bare her body to his hungry eye.

Every. Day. The desire to bring forth the change was intense, yet…

His gut clenched at the thought of shifting.

Of making the deliberate choice to return to human form.

To stand once again as a man, vulnerable in his human skin.

D’Artagnon gritted his teeth. He could simply stay within the cottage. Or patrol the forest. There was no need for him to watch as long as he remained within or without the circle of her ward. Yet he knew, like bees drawn to the flowers of a meadow in springtime, he would not be able to resist.

Her shoulders sagged, and she turned to face him, so lost in her thoughts she had, perhaps, forgotten her nakedness. It took everything he had to lock his gaze on her face. To ignore the gentle curve of her breasts and the soft pink of her peaked nipples in the periphery of his vision.

“I had a vision. I think…maybe…” She stared down at the bowl clasped in her hands, dried blood smeared on her fingertips. “There is a priest. He may come for me. Soon. Perhaps.” She scrunched up her face. “I…I am not sure.”

D’Artagnon shook himself and focused on her words. A priest? Eveque Faucher? She had seen this. But… He cocked his head. Was her vision not clear? She had told Erin the way of her second sight could be vague, but…

She threw her head back and stared up at the autumn sky. “I saw myself bound, pleading. There was a clergyman there. I sensed…”

When she dropped her gaze to meet his, the pain in her eyes sliced through his heart sharper than the blade that had cleaved open his shoulder.

The need to scoop her into his arms, to comfort her and promise to protect her so powerful he all but shifted right then and there.

For a moment he hovered, the change but a breath away.

She broke their connection and stared out into the forest. “I do not have visions of myself often. In truth, there have only been two others. One which foretold of my mother’s death and another…

” An embarrassed flush stained her cheeks.

She pursed her lips. “When it comes to ourselves, visions can be— Our own desires and fears can cloud them and…and as such, they are not always…not always accurate. I cannot rely on them.”

Her eyes shimmered with her uncertainty. “I cannot know if what I saw will come to pass, but I cannot ignore it. I have strengthened the ward. If anyone should come here with ill intent in their hearts, I will know.”

The scent of her fear lay thick on the air. “Can you…? Can I ask you to guard me?” She glanced nervously around at the forest. “While we are here, beyond the walls of your keep? If he comes…would you…would you protect me?”

A naked Constance trembled before him, pleading with him, so heart-wrenchingly vulnerable, he could not hold back the force of the change. It ripped through him, caring naught for his fears. His bones were contorting, and his fur receding before he could stop them. He did not want to stop them.

His paws shifted to hands and feet, his spine elongated and he was striding toward her, shaking off the last vestiges of his canine muzzle as he pulled her into his embrace, bare skin against bare skin.

He gave in to temptation and ran his nose along the curve of her throat, breathing in her heady scent.

His chest rumbled, and in his mind, his wolf purred.

Yes, Constance, I will protect you. No one will harm you. Not while I have breath.

She clung to him, leaning her head on his chest and tucking herself into his embrace, and he reveled in the warmth of her body and the softness of her skin.

In the way she sought shelter in his arms and comfort from his strength.

A lazy afternoon breeze whispered across his skin, a sensation he had not experienced in years, and he did something he had not done in a long time. He smiled.

“You…you shifted?”

Her words, mumbled against his chest, snapped him out of his stupor and he dropped his arms, stepping away from her.

A hesitant smile flickered across her lips. “Monsieur D’Artagnon, you shifted.”

He swallowed, and he dipped his head so his hair fell across his face, hiding his damaged face and missing eye.

He had shifted. They stood there, the both of them naked, and—he frowned—he found himself in no rush to shift back.

Then his gaze dipped, unbidden, and a pretty pink flush wound its way up Constance’s chest and neck.

“I should probably dress now,” said Constance, breaking the spell and darting toward her clothes. Clutching them to her chest, she disappeared into the cottage. “Hopefully, Anne has packed something for you to wear,” she called out from inside.

D’Artagnon listened to the rustle of fabric as Constance dressed. Right now, in the forest with Constance a bare few paces away, his previous panic at being human was little more than a low hum in the back of his mind.

“Oh, good. You are still human.” Constance stood in the doorway, a pile of clothing in her hands. “Anne had confidence in you.” She held garments out to him, her chin lifted and her gaze fixed on his face. “Breeches and a tunic.”

He took them and jerked his head toward the pond.

“Yes, yes, of course you would want to bathe. I will…” She gestured toward the interior of the cottage. “I have things to do.”

Constance disappeared inside the cottage once more and, on legs wobbly and unsure, D’Artagnon made his way down the trail to the pond.

He had a need to cleanse himself. To wash away the years of living as a wolf, and to reconnect to the man he had once been.

And though he tried to convince himself it had nothing to do with how good she had felt in his arms, or any desire for her to see him as a man, the smugness of his wolf within his mind confirmed the lie.

Vladimir had spoken true. Constance was his mate.

What he planned to do about it now he was human again, he really did not know.