Page 38 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

D’Artagnon eyed Aimon and the two horses, his path clear before him.

His brother had sent Aimon to fetch him, as promised.

As soon as they returned to the keep, Gaharet would set out for the Vautour estate to confront the man who had murdered their parents.

He clutched Constance close to his side.

As much as it pained him to leave her, and entrust her into the care of another male, even a mated one, he must.

“Had I known you had shifted, I would have brought an extra horse.” Aimon turned to one horse and lifted the saddle flap to get to the buckle beneath. “But we will make do. I will leave the saddle here and Constance can ride with you.”

D’Artagnon shook his head. “No.”

Constance jerked her head up.

“I will not ride,” he said, softening his tone. He steeled himself for what he must do.

“I guess you have been wolf for so long it is more familiar than being on horseback.” Aimon shrugged. “I can lead Constance’s horse while you run along beside us.”

D’Artagnon eased Constance out of his embrace.

Constance shriveled before his eyes. She understood. She knew. “You are not going back to the keep, are you?”

The deep well of hurt reflected in her eyes, all but bringing him to his knees. He dug deep, recalling his oath to his father.

Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “You are afraid if your brother goes after the traitor, he may not come back.”

He cupped her face, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and brushed his thumb across her trembling bottom lip. “You were right, Constance. To heal, I must face my fears.”

Constance placed her hands over his and squeezed. A tear slid down her cheek.

D’Artagnon pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “I have to do this. I have to go. ” He released her and stepped back, turning to Aimon. “Protect her with your life.”

Aimon stepped forward, his young face earnest and his blue eyes troubled. “Do not do this, D’Artagnon. Gaharet awaits you at the keep. We are stronger together.”

D’Artagnon backed away from them, turning to face the forest, and pulled his tunic over his head. Leaving Constance was going to be one of the hardest, nay, the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.

“That which you think you want was never meant to be yours.”

D’Artagnon stilled. Those words. She had spoken them once before.

In her sleep. He turned. Constance stood, a small, sad figure, her desolation wrapped around her as surely as her arms, but her eyes had glazed over.

She was caught in the throes of a vision.

He had once thought her words nothing more than part of her dream.

He had been wrong. Her words had been meant for him.

His chest squeezed painfully tight. What he wanted was Constance, more than he wanted almost anything. Fate, it seemed, had other plans for him.

Had he not fallen on that battlefield, were he not faced with this nigh impossible choice, this beautiful, kind, giving, extraordinary woman would have been his. His mate. But he had, and he was, and he had another purpose, and a duty to fulfill. One he would most likely not survive.

“What is meant for you is far greater reward, if you have but the courage and the room in your heart to make the right choice.”

D’Artagnon swallowed. He had found his courage.

Thanks to her. He would have his vengeance and complete his vow.

He would protect his brother and ensure the continuation of the d’Louncrais line.

But looking at Constance—her golden tresses wet from their time in the pond, her upturned nose, her unique eyes—it did not feel like the reward he wanted it to be.

Yet Constance’s words confirmed what he knew deep down to be true.

She was not meant to be his.

He dropped his tunic, strode to her and, snatching her up in his arms, he took her mouth in his. One last kiss, one last moment. She melted into him and his wolf howled in the silence of his mind. It did not want to leave her either.

He set her down, pleased with her flushed cheeks and her parted lips. An image he would cherish until his dying breath. “It was never your potion, Constance.”

Confusion flickered across her face.

“The deadly nightshade berries, the leaves and the roots. Anne deceived you. She did not slip it into my food. I would have scented it had she tried.”

“It was not—”

He shook his head. “What happened between us that night was not because of some…potion. It happened because I wanted it to.” He had not spoken so many words since before his exile, but it was important she did not doubt anything that had happened between them.

“Constance, I have wanted you from the moment I skulked in the grass near your cottage, watching you through the storm.”

He dropped his arms and stepped away from her. Before Aimon could say anything more, before he could change his mind, D’Artagnon shifted. His heart aching, but his mind clear, he went in search of Lance Vautour.

His words buzzing around in her mind, Constance tracked the black wolf until he disappeared into the forest. He had wanted her.

From the moment he had… The presence she had sensed in the rain-drenched forest the night Seigneur Ulrik had stumbled into her cottage.

It had been him. He had wanted her, and now he was gone. Despite her words, her prediction.

The shadow, the vision, that had hovered on the edge of her sight had come to her.

And as the meaning became clear, that deceitful thread of hope had wound around her heart, before it had snapped as easily as the first thin film of ice on a pond in winter.

It had not mattered her words’ true intent.

D’Artagnon had made his choice. To hunt down the traitor on his own.

Mayhap he would not return. She stared at the forest, the black wolf no longer visible. He had gone to spare his brother, but every bit of her second sight told her D’Artagnon believed he would not survive this.

Aimon stepped up beside her. “Come, Constance. We need to get back to the keep. Gaharet will want to go after him.”

Constance nodded. “I shall fetch my grimoire.”

Inside the cottage, the evidence of their days together remained, the covers on the cot rumpled from their night of passion.

Constance blinked back the sting of tears.

The healer in her understood he had to leave.

That he would not rest until he sated his need for vengeance that roiled within him.

That his need to protect his brother and his pack came first.

The woman in her mourned he had not chosen her.

That his grief and his anger were too big, too all-encompassing she had not been able to reach him.

That their time together, their night spent in each other’s arms, had not swayed him from his path.

There had been a chance for them, for a mate bond to form, but he had not been able to let his feelings of betrayal go. Perhaps he never would.

A hollowness settled in her chest. Constance closed her eyes, holding in the tears. She would keep the memory of these days in the forest close, cherish it. It may well be all that sustained her through the years ahead.

“Constance?”

Aimon’s voice snapped her from her misery. She left the cottage, her grimoire cradled to her chest, her hopes and dreams, her childhood vision, no more than the burned ash and blackened coals of last eve’s fire.