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

Uncertainty flickered across his brother’s face, his shoulders tense.

“Maybe. Whoever it is, they possess knowledge of the amulets. The pack split into three so long ago, and the alpha stripped the amulets from all who left. Would either the Ludenwic or the Rus pack remember any of the lore surrounding them?”

D’Artagnon glared at the embroidered figure on the wall.

Their traitor was far closer than Ludenwic or Rus.

All D’Artagnon had to do was shift and speak his name.

Or cross the hall and touch his nose to the wall hanging.

Point out the man who had killed his parents and betrayed them all.

His brother would then have the answer he craved, though the truth would be a pain all of its own.

Indecision swirled in his gut. Things had seemed so much clearer in the forest, his mind consumed by his wolf and his decisions made on instinct alone. Should he tell Gaharet and risk his brother’s unborn pup growing up without a father?

Gaharet threw up his arms. “I know you are in there, D’Artagnon. What needs must I do to reach you? To convince you to shift?” Gaharet crossed his arms, leaned against the table and scowled.

Movement in the doorway and the scent of freshly baked bread, raw meat and herbs drew D’Artagnon’s eye. A large woman in a flour-dusted apron, her bulk weighing heavy on her knees and a genuine affection brimming in her eyes, shuffled toward him. Her name floated into his mind. Anne. The cook.

She held out a raw deer haunch. “Here you go, D’Artagnon.

Sorry it took me so long, lad. I had to send the stable boy out for a fresh kill.

I was not expecting to be feeding a wolf.

And you look like you could use a good feed.

Never fear. Old Anne will look after you now you are back.

” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “It is good to have you home again, lad.” She placed her hand on her chest. “When I thought you were dead, it near broke this poor old woman’s heart. ”

“D’Artagnon, please. Stay.” His brother sighed and gestured at the haunch. “At least until you have eaten.”

His shoulder twinged. A good meal by the warmth of a fire would do no harm. He carefully took the haunch in his teeth. The old woman beamed, then patted him on his head.

D’Artagnon jerked his head back, dropped the meat and snarled. Gifts of food or no, he was no pet. Nor a harmless pup. He bared his teeth and snarled at her again. The fire crackled and spit, loud in the sudden silence in the hall.

Gaharet’s eyebrows shot up. “You are taking your life in your hands there, brother mine.”

Anne stood before him, hands on her ample hips, with a glare so ferocious a seasoned chevalier might balk. D’Artagnon peeled his lips back further.

“Now you hear this, young man.” Anne wagged a plump finger at him. “I will tolerate none of your nonsense now any more than I did when you were a boy. I will grant you some leeway, given all you have been through, but this will be your only warning.”

Haunch forgotten, he crouched, ready to pounce, his hackles raised, his ears flattened against his skull and his growl a promise of violence and retribution. Any hint of the man he was, of the brother he had once been, he had pushed so deep there was little left but wolf.

Do not threaten me , old woman.

With more speed and strength than was right for a woman of her age and bulk, she struck, slapping him across his snout.

D’Artagnon lunged.

He caught a blur of movement from the side, then his brother’s strong hand gripped the scruff of his neck, threw him to the ground and held him there. He thrashed, snarling and snapping at the hand that pinned him to the floor.

“Stop, D’Artagnon!”

The order rolled over him and he fought it, fought against the strength of his brother’s hold. A thick, musky scent filled the air. His brother’s wolf was close, readying for a shift.

Gaharet’s grip tightened. “D’Artagnon, enough ! Do not force me to confine you to the training room until you can get yourself under control. I will not have you attacking Anne, nor anyone else here, no matter your suffering.”

His brother was strong. Even in his human form.

A true alpha. Still, with all his years spent as a wolf, D’Artagnon could best him.

But… The memories of his youth broke through.

Of them shifting into their wolves and racing through the forest together.

Of plotting against Anne to steal treats from the larder.

Training together. Competing for available females.

This was Gaharet. His brother. With a snarl, he conceded to Gaharet’s authority and relaxed his body beneath his brother’s hold.

The grip on his neck eased, though his brother did not let him go.

Gaharet’s weary sigh washed over him. “This will not do, D’Artagnon.

You must shift back so we might talk with you.

We need to hear what happened, where you have been and why it has taken so long for you to come home.

” The hand against his ruff gentled, stroking his fur.

“Tell us who attacked you.” His brother released him and stepped back, giving him room.

“Shift back. Talk to us. Tell us what you know, and we will hunt this wolf down together.”

D’Artagnon rolled to his feet and locked gazes with Gaharet. He made no effort to bring forth the change.

Gaharet placed his hands on his hips and frowned. “One last time, I am asking you to shift, D’Artagnon. Do not make me order you.”

D’Artagnon ignored the request. He had not shifted since that fateful day he had crawled from the bloody battlefield. His brother’s determination to seek the man who had cut him down only stoked his resolution to remain a wolf. If he could do one thing, he would protect his brother.

Gaharet’s shoulders sagged. “Very well. I did not wish to do this, but you leave me no choice. D’Artagnon, shift .”

The order rolled over him—the compulsion, the command. He braced against it, flattening his ears. Gaharet scowled and loomed above him, dark shadows in his eyes as his wolf hovered barely below the surface. A strong wolf, powerful, more so than their father.

“Shift, now .”

The words, little more than a guttural growl, rumbled deep in his brother’s throat.

The group gathered around the table shrunk into themselves.

Kathryn shivered. Ulrik’s nostrils flared, and he gritted his teeth.

The thin, balding servant’s eyes bulged and Anne, the woman who had dared slap him across his snout, gulped and retreated.

Not D’Artagnon. Though his knees shook and the urge to obey his alpha sizzled up his spine, he remained resolutely, doggedly wolf.

His brother’s jaw rippled, dark hair sprouted across the bridge of his nose, and the sharp point of a canine peeked out beneath his top lip. His brother’s control was slipping, his wolf pushing forward, angry at D’Artagnon’s defiance.

“ Shift .”

The command, ground out through gritted teeth and a mouth part transformed into a muzzle, hit him with the force of a granite boulder thrown from a catapult. He whimpered, but did not obey.

A startled gasp from the doorway had them both turning.

Two wide eyes—one blue, one green—stared at them.

With tendrils of blonde hair escaping from beneath her hooded cloak, the woman stood in the glow of an oil lamp like an angel sent from the heavens above, clutching a book to her chest. Her.

The woman from the cottage in the woods.

The one he could not banish from his thoughts.

That tingle of familiarity that had scratched at his mind since he had spied on her at her cottage in the forest burned through his brain like wildfire.

“D’Artagnon. D’Artagnon! ”

He ignored his brother and took several steps toward the woman in the doorway. All the other occupants in the room ceased to matter as he took her in. Her worn coat, her sun-warmed skin, the way she clutched the book to her body as though it were her most prized possession.

What is it about her that commands my attention so?

He raised his snout and sniffed the air. Horse, herbs, flowers and a soft earthiness—she smelled of the forest. Of…home. He shook his head. What a ridiculous thought.

The white-haired wolf, Aimon, stepped into the room and nudged the woman forward with a gentle hand to her shoulder.

No. He will not touch her.

D’Artagnon lunged, his teeth snapping and his hackles raised.

Once again, his brother threw him to the floor and held him down. The woman retreated, her eyes wide, her knuckles white as she gripped her book. Aimon, his hands held up, backed away from her. D’Artagnon stopped fighting his brother’s hold.

Why do I care if Aimon touches her?

Gaharet’s grip on his scruff eased. “D’Artagnon, this is Constance, our healer.

Constance, this is my brother, D’Artagnon.

” Gaharet’s attention flicked between him and Constance.

“Have it your way, brother. For now.” Amusement coated Gaharet’s words as his gaze settled on Constance.

“At some point, something, or some one , will make you shift.”