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Grace regretted opening that drawer. The smug look on his face when she’d held up, with her toes, the one thing in there with a semblance of a sharp edge and he’d told her what it was, was reason enough to have kept her feet firmly on the bed. Nipple clamps. Her face burned hotter than an Alabaman summer afternoon. And now he was taking her somewhere. She hadn’t missed the pause, the look in her direction. Property wasn’t the word he would’ve chosen were she not in the room. But what word was? Coven? Enclave? Headquarters or stronghold? Holy water and incense sticks. They were in France and Alain d’Louncrais was old money wealthy. The word could be castle.

Her gaze slid to the drawer that had contained the nipple clamps and probably a whole lot of other things she was trying really hard not to think about. The word could also be sex club. Or playroom. She’d stopped searching the apartment when she’d found his ward humming away like a bug zapper. He could have his own version of a Red Room. Her body clenched at the thought.

Grace gritted her teeth. Just because she got a little curious, and maybe a little…aroused when she’d watched that movie—the one about the billionaire and the college student and what they did in his Red Room—didn’t mean she wanted to experiment. No, thank you. She wasn’t that kind of girl.

But with paraphernalia like scarves and nipple clamps in his bedside drawer, Alain d’Louncrais was most definitely that kind of man. And he was watching her, a hint of a smirk curling up the corners of his lips as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

With the confidence of a man who knew he had the upper hand, he swaggered toward her. Grace turned her face away.

He chuckled and leaned in close, close enough that his warm breath brushed against her cheek. “Now be a good girl and stay put for a minute.” Then he winked at her and disappeared into the closet before returning with a few items of clothing then entering the en-suite bathroom.

She fumed at the closed door. Good girl, my patootie. She pulled on the scarves restraining her wrists. It wasn’t like she had a lot of choice.

Before long he was back, in navy pants and a white collared shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows and the top two buttons open, giving her a tantalizing glimpse of dark chest hair. She bit back a little moan. No way was she going to let him know how he affected her.

He sat on the bed beside her and removed the gag. “I’m going to untie you. You’re going to behave. You’re not going to run. Believe me, you do not want to do that.”

Because he’d catch her? And…punish her? Something swirled in his eyes. Something dark and hungry. She nodded, a little frantically. She didn’t want that. No, no, she didn’t. She really didn’t. She swallowed. Maybe a little bit.

His nostrils flared, and a low growl rumbled up in his chest. A growl. Deep and most definitely not human. And it hit her. Why her herbs hadn’t worked on him. Why he didn’t want her to run. The muskiness of his scent that she couldn’t identify.

Holy kitty whiskers! Alain d’Louncrais was a witch and a fracking shifter.

In one fell swoop, her chance of success had gone from possible to zero. How could Cordelia have forgotten to mention this? It changed everything. She wouldn’t be able to lie or deceive him. Or outsmart him. He’d scent it. Heat prickled up her neck, and she squirmed. He’d scent more than that.

She met his gaze. “I won’t run.” She meant it, too. Running was the last thing she’d want to do with a shifter. It triggered their predatory instinct. Told them you were prey, no matter the type of shifter he was—bear, cougar or wolf.

As he leaned in close, untying her from the headboard, she tried not to breathe him in, not to quiver at the brush of his body against hers. What was Alain? He was muscular and tall, but he didn’t strike her as big or bulky enough to be a bear shifter. Cougar? There were no native big cats in France, and never had been, as far as Grace was aware. But there were wolves. Her hands free, she rubbed her wrists, studying him as he returned to the walk-in closet.

Wolf shifter. It fit. The way he’d walked through the crowd at the museum, direct, confident, not with the slinky stealth of a cat. His ease among people, not the solitary aloofness of a feline. The phone call. Wolves worked and lived in groups. That word, the one he hadn’t wanted her to know, wasn’t coven or enclave or castle. It was territory. He was taking her to his pack.

“Here.” He scooped up her shoes and held them out to her. “You’re going to need them.” He tossed a jacket on the bed beside her. “And put this on. It’s cold outside.”

Grace focused on buckling the killer heels, her thoughts in a whirl. Stealing from anyone was wrong, but she was prepared to do it for her mama. Anything for her mama. That Alain d’Louncrais was acting slicker than snake snot by not contacting the council eased her conscience a little. But what was she getting herself into? Did it matter? What Cordelia would do to her and her mama were Grace to return without the grimoire didn’t bear thinking about. She’d be creative. Maybe use those tattooed men to ‘take care’ of them.

Grace had heard the rumors doing the rounds in the King family. Faucherians. That’s who those men were. The ones who’d given her Dubois’ number. Established in France, they were an organization dating back to the Dark Ages, trying to branch out into the United States. So they said. Their motto—destroy anything supernatural. Their presence had the most stalwart of the Kings nervous. Why would an organization that hunted shifters, vampires, demons and witches ally itself with the King family? It didn’t make any sense, but no one was brave enough, or stupid enough, to question Cordelia. Or to cross her. Or to not do her bidding. And Grace wasn’t any braver than the rest of them.

She slipped on the jacket. It swamped her, overwhelming her in his scent with every breath she sucked into her lungs. Grace didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t go back without the grimoire.

Alain ran his gaze over her, the hint of his wolf in his eyes again. He gave a grunt, which she took to mean he was satisfied with her compliance. It took every ounce of Southern orneriness to not retreat when he leaned toward her, but he didn’t touch her. Rather, he leaned past her, and pressed his thumb down on one of the button studs on the headboard. With a click and a soft whirring, a panel beside the mirror slid away. She stared at the button, one of many on the studded headboard. It’d been right beside her head this whole time.

He shrugged into a jacket. “You would never have got through my ward.”

She narrowed her eyes at the smugness in his tone. “I got through the one on your front door.”

He frowned. “You did.” He sighed. “And there’s a reason for that.”

Huh. Whatever that reason was, he didn’t seem too happy about it.

Pulling out his phone, he made a call. “I need a distraction.” He disappeared into the darkened space of the secret compartment, the rumble of his voice too faint for her to make out his conversation. She leaned closer. He spoke in French. Whatever he was saying, this time he didn’t want her to hear. Then he returned with a box in his arms. The grimoire. It had to be. Alain tucked his phone in his jacket pocket. “Come on.”

Leaving the secret compartment open, he led her back to the kitchen, setting the box on the countertop next to her purse and her passport. No, not one box. Two.

Blast.

Which box held the grimoire? If the opportunity arose, she would take both. Her gaze slid to her passport. She’d need that, too. And her credit card and phone.

Alain tucked her passport inside his jacket, like he’d read her intentions. Outsmarting a powerful witch like Alain was always going to be a challenge, but a wolf witch? Did she stand a chance at all? Ugh. She could cuss Cordelia for putting her in this position. And Alain d’Louncrais for coming home so fast. And her mama for marrying into the King family. But it wouldn’t solve anything.