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Under the cover of darkness, as he tracked Maxime’s taillights until they disappeared, Alain called his wolf back in. For years he’d channeled his dominance into alternative pursuits for the sake of the pack. There could be only one alpha. Tonight, had Maxime not backed down…

He sighed and turned. Grace stood by the car, a determined set to her jaw. Tucked up in his jacket, her bare toes peeking out from beneath her gown, she looked so fragile and yet so…defiant. He didn’t need that right now. Not with instinct riding him hard from his close brush with Maxime, from the residual high from his spell on the gate, and from his need to protect, to care for her in every way possible. To have his mate beneath him. To convince her he was worthy of her and to stake his claim.

“Don’t move.” He needed to focus on what was important—the grimoires. He retrieved the archive boxes from the car and stormed into his cottage. He didn’t turn on the lights. If she disobeyed him, if she came to the doorway, he didn’t want her discovering how to access his secret compartment. Like the one in his apartment in Paris, it was warded to the gills. Unlike his apartment, his cottage was filled with all the herbs she would need to break his ward. And she might simply walk through it, as she’d done with the one on the front door of his apartment. She was his mate, but until he could understand why she’d chosen to do Cordelia’s bidding, he couldn’t trust her. On this, much to his consternation, his second sight was silent.

Maybe he was reading too much into things. She was a member of the King family, and as a werewolf, he knew the importance of family and the bonds they created more than most. Knew the things you would do, things he had done, for family. It could be that simple. That didn’t bode well for them as mates.

He released the latch to his hidden compartment. The panel slid open and he placed the two archive boxes on the shelves. Satisfied the climate control was doing its thing, he slid the panel shut and leaned his arms against the wall, his back to the door. She was out there, in the dark, and he shouldn’t leave her there for too long in case one of his pack mates came to investigate. In case Maxime changed his mind and returned. He scrubbed his face. He needed a moment.

It hit him like a ten-ton boulder, desire roaring through his body and almost bringing him to his knees. His body shaking and his chest heaving, he spun around and there she was, inside his cottage. He hadn’t heard her coming, too focused on his own thoughts, but his body had known the moment she’d stepped through his ward. Again. As a distraction, Cordelia had picked the perfect weapon.

He was moving before he’d given it a second thought, charging straight toward her. He didn’t care if this was a ploy to get to the grimoire. The imperative to mate, to make her his in every way, would not be denied. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t retreat. He would need to be gentle, as vanilla as he could be. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her off. She’d seen his playroom. She knew what he was capable of, but everything about her told him she was not ready for that. Not yet. Maybe never.

He scooped her up and kicked the door closed. She didn’t protest. Good girl. Don’t poke the beast. Not tonight. Or she might get more than she bargained for. He carried her to the rug that dominated the room and sank to his knees. She worked for Cordelia, was a member of the King family. Tomorrow, he would take her to see Maxime. This night might be all he’d have, and he was determined he would have it. When she was gone, returned to her family, facing him across the other side of this centuries-long war, at least he would have his memories of this night to sustain him. That was more than Maxime had.

Her breathing was a little shallow as he slipped his jacket from her shoulders. At the base of her throat, her pulse pounded as he unzipped her dress. Goosebumps rose across her bronze skin as he peeled the pale-yellow satin down to her hips, baring her beautiful breasts, her dark areolas, her peaked nipples. But she didn’t stop him. Putain. The end of the world couldn’t stop him now.

He laid her down, those big, beautiful eyes of hers wide as he pulled the dress over her hips, down her thighs and clear, leaving the scantiest scrap of lace covering her pussy. A piece of lace designed to tempt. And tempt him it did. It set his blood on fire. He’d never been so close to losing control. Not when he’d cast his first spell as a young pup. Or on the training mats sparring with Maxime.

He kneeled between her legs, fully clothed. It was the only thing keeping his wolf at bay, stopping him from ravishing her without a thought or a care for anything but his needs. For if he were skin to skin with her… He bit back a groan. The only thing he wanted more was her in his playroom. Willing, nay begging him to do his thing.

She reached for him.

He caught her wrist, grabbed the other one and held them to the floor above her head. “Keep your hands here.” He hovered over her, his mouth inches from her delectable lips. “Do you understand me? Do not move them.”

Her bottom lip trembled, and it took every ounce of restraint, of training, not to suck it into his mouth and feast on it. He would feast soon enough.

“Please.” Now he was the one begging. That was a first.

She must have sensed something in him, in the plea dragged from his throat, for she nodded. He closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, eased his grip and sat back on his haunches, wrapping what calm he could muster around him like a cloak. He peeled his eyes open. She hadn’t moved. Her hands she held together above her head as though restrained, and in her eyes… Excitement? His chest heaved. For all the innocent vibes she gave off, she had the heart of a lion. This was the Grace who’d broken into his apartment, and she was here to play. With him. And play they would. Tonight, in this moment, she was his to please, to satisfy, to raise to heights of pleasure she had never, would never experience again.

He had no toys here, no tools but his hands, mouth, tongue and cock. He would use them until not orgasming was almost painful. For her. For him. He would make it a night she would never forget.

Chapter Seventeen

Somewhere in this cottage was the grimoire Grace had come for. In a house elsewhere on the property another werewolf, Maxime, was waiting to talk to her, to question her about her involvement and her connection to the King family. Roaming the forest, protecting the pack’s territory, would be more wolf shifters. Shifters with incredible hearing. Anything that happened in this cottage, between her and Alain, they would be privy to. But right now, Grace didn’t care about any of that.

With her arms above her head, and her body bare to him but for the scrap of a pale-yellow lacy thong between her thighs, she was exposed. Vulnerable. The only thing keeping her in place and her arms above her head was his plea, but they might as well have been in that room. With her tied to that cross. Or to the chain that had hung from the ceiling next to the rack of whips and crops. And though somewhere deep in her conscience she knew that a respectable girl like her, raised right in the bosom of her family and the church shouldn’t want him, not like this, that it shouldn’t send a thrill skipping up her spine and have warmth pooling low in her belly, but it did. She did want this. Wanted him to… The memory of the nipple clamps she’d held up with her toes had her nipples beading.

Her breathing was ragged, and he had yet to touch her. It didn’t make any sense. That she would want them clamped anywhere sensitive. She should be afraid. She should at least protest. But she couldn’t deny the way her body reacted to him. That she was curious. More than curious. That she wanted to know what it would be like to be at his mercy, for him to touch her intimately, and in ways she’d never been touched before. That her clit was already throbbing.

For a brief moment, thoughts of her mama intruded, then Alain curled his fingers in the lace band of her thong and snapped it. She gasped. The sting as the material gave way beneath his fingers sent goosebumps across her skin.

This was what Cordelia had wanted her to do. Except it was Alain who was seducing her. With the light touch of his fingers on her hips in the dark, the press of his knees against her inner thighs and the growl that rumbled up from deep in his chest. And she wanted this with every fiber of her being.

Forgive me, Mama.

Alain spread her wide and ran his nose along her seam. Oh. She threw her head back, her body bowing off the rug, but she kept her hands where he’d put them. For a moment, they hung there in silence. Grace naked and prone, Alain hovering over her, the air charged with possibility, anticipation skittering up her spine. Then his hands were on her, plumping her breast and pinching her nipple. The sting, it was… Then his tongue replaced his fingers, licking away the burn. Another pinch, another lick. At once rough and soft. Pain and pleasure.

He sucked her nipple into his mouth, sharp teeth scraping her sensitized skin. A bite, a suck, another bite. First one breast, then the other. She was drowning in sensation, and it was wicked and heavenly. And she wanted more.

He nibbled along her collarbone. A pinch of pain, then a lick with his tongue. Was he drawing blood? She didn’t care. One hand supported his weight, the other cupped her breast. Squeeze, plump, a thumb across her turgid nipple. Never too hard, just enough, then soothing her flesh. The rub of his cotton-clad thighs against her naked ones, the press of his zipper against her core in rhythm with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. Relentless, purposeful, worshiping her body, discovering her. Slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world, like he could spend all the time in the world right here with her.

Nothing she’d ever experienced had prepared her for this. For such unbroken focus on her body, on her needs.

His teeth scraped along her throat and her body bowed. He chuckled. He twisted her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and she moaned. He did it again. She rolled her hips. He met her halfway, grinding into her. She flinched when he stuck his tongue in her navel. He shifted away to greener pastures. He nibbled at the sensitive skin on her hip, and her breath caught in her throat. He doubled down, lavishing attention there, first on one side then the next, before moving lower to her inner thigh.

This was not the low hum of sexual desire, dashed by rushed hands and indifferent foreplay, the chase for his release taking precedence. This was a man determined to wring every ounce of desire, every moan and every cry from her body.