Page 35 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

Lance Vautour heaved himself off the cot and tucked his cock back into his breeches.

The woman moaned and slumped to the mattress, her copper hair splayed across the pillow.

He had chosen her because…well, because she had looked like her.

In the dim light of the pleasure house, his vision clouded with lust, he could imagine—if but for a moment—it was her .

The woman he had coveted and was meant to be his.

He pulled his padded gambeson on. The woman he had killed in a fit of rage when she had rejected him and laughed in his face.

The puterelle on the bed curled into a ball, the welts on her back an angry red and the skin broken where he had clawed her, bleeding.

She was but a poor imitation . Her skin not as pale or smooth, her eyes not the blue he remembered, and she lacked the spirit, the defiance of her.

Elise. His love, his mate, stolen from him by Jacques d’Louncrais.

Anger boiled in his veins, not at all eased by his release, nor the imprint of his grip on the woman’s thighs and hips.

She would have bruises by the morn. He pulled on his hauberk, the familiar weight of its steel links settling on his shoulders.

It did not matter. He paid the madam handsomely to overlook his predilection for violence and his rough treatment of her girls.

“Leave,” he growled at her, and the woman’s head snapped up, her face puffy and mottled from her crying and terror in her eyes. She snatched up her shredded chemise, clutching it to her chest, and hobbled from the room as quickly as her abused body would allow.

He buckled his sword to his waist. Of late, he had succumbed to the need to be battle ready at all times, his skin itching if ever he remained unarmed too long.

With Gaharet certain one of the pack had betrayed them and that witch hunter, Eveque Faucher, knowing his name, he all but slept in his armor, his sword by his side.

Damn Renaud. If the archeveque were not dead already, he would rip out his throat.

“She seems like she might be a bit of fun.”

Lance glared at the man leaning against the open door, lank hair, more gray than brown now, flopping over his eyes as he leered after the woman stumbling down the corridor.

Didier, disgraced stable hand and petty schemer, was useful to him in many ways.

Intellectual conversation was not one of them.

“What news have you of the d’Louncrais?”

Didier slouched into the room, shutting the door on the sounds of sex coming from down the hall. “Three days ago, a cart left the d’Louncrais keep and headed out into the forest. Not to the village, not to Langeais.”

“Heading east?”

“Yes.”

Lance grunted. The old farmer’s cottage. So that was where Gaharet had hidden out. He remembered it well from his youth. He had once planned to take Elise there until… He gnashed his teeth… Until Jacques had staked his claim.

“There was a servant, and a woman, and enough supplies to last for a few weeks, maybe more.” He paused, a cunning gleam in his eyes.

If Didier thought he could outwit him, then he was stupider than Lance had surmised.

His resentment toward the d’Louncrais had been easy to twist to fit his own plans, but it was a singular connection Didier brought with him that had proved more beneficial than anything Didier could accomplish, weak, puny human that he was.

He would tolerate a thousand Didiers to have the witch and her spells at his disposal.

That woman, she had a darker heart than he, and had already proved useful.

How a woman so powerful could beget a miscreant son like Didier confounded him.

Lance reached for his purse and pulled out a handful of coins. Didier eyed the coins, licking his lips, the scent of his greed so strong it overpowered the miasma of sex, stale and recent, that clung to everything in the chamber.

“There was a black wolf with them.”

“Gaharet?”

Didier shrugged. “I could not get close enough to tell for certain, but who else would it be? He is the only black wolf left.”

Who else, indeed? But why would Gaharet take his mate to the old farmer’s cottage now? Gaharet had reconciled with Lothair. He had no need to hide anymore, and the keep was far more defensible than a lone cottage in the woods. Could it be…? Lance scowled. D’Artagnon .

He tossed the coins at Didier. They bounced off his chest and scattered. Didier cursed him but dropped to his knees and scrambled around on the floor, collecting every last one.

Lance stood over the groveling man. “Go back to the d’Louncrais keep. Find this black wolf. I want to know for certain it is Gaharet.”

Resentment brimming in his eyes, Didier pulled himself to his feet and performed an exaggerated bow. “Yes, Mon Seigneur. ”

Lance ignored the slur. There would come a time when he would end Didier, but for now, while he was not free to roam about, he needed Didier to run his errands and to do his spying for him.

The madam provided him some information, but her reach did not extend as far as the d’Louncrais.

For all that Gaharet shared the secret of his existence with his entire estate, not a one would betray him.

He slammed the door on Didier’s retreating back, fighting the urge to release his wolf.

He grabbed the table, with its pitcher of wine and goblets, and threw it across the room.

It crashed into the wall with a cracking of timber, cheap wine running down the mud brick like blood.

He picked up a chair, and it suffered a similar fate.

Then another. He curled his fingers, his claws punching into his palms and coarse brown fur prickling across his knuckles.

Nothing, nothing, had gone to plan. D’Artagnon’s death should have destroyed Gaharet.

Like Elise’s had destroyed Jacques. It should have left the leadership of the pack open to him.

He picked up the cot and tossed it over, sex and blood-stained covers spewing across the room.

His chest heaved as he fought for control.

After all he had done, after all the schemes he had set in motion, Gaharet had remained strong.

Everything the d’Louncrais had should be his . He closed his eyes, sucking in deep lungfuls of rank air. It would be his. He would prevail.

A soft footfall in the corridor, and a tentative knock on the door had him snapping his eyes open.

“Mon Seigneur, is everything well?”

He flung open the door to the calculating eye of the madam.

She peered past him to the ruins of the chamber. “Are my girls not keeping you satisfied, Mon Seigneur?”

“I will need another room. And another girl. No. Two girls. I will pay you double our agreed price.”

The madam smiled. “Of course, Mon Seigneur. It is always a pleasure doing business with you. Come with me.”

He followed the madam down the corridor, his dark needs twisting within his chest. Once he had sated his fury and cleared his mind, then he would make his plans.

He would not stay hidden forever. The time would come for him to take his rightful place as the alpha of the Langeais wolves.

Nothing, not Gaharet, not this Eveque Faucher, nor the comte of this wretched county, would stop him.

And if D’Artagnon lived, if he had survived his attack, Lance would soon rectify that mistake.

This time, he would make certain he was dead. He would take his head.