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Her father ground his cigarette out on the black and gold wallpapered wall and tossed the butt down the hole. “Dutton, tear zis place apart. Find zomezing, anyzing that might help us locate zem, oui?”

“No, not oui.” All amusement vanished from Dutton’s expression. He slammed the swing so hard it hit the wall and rebounded. He batted it away. “I have my orders. Where you go, I go.”

Wonderful.

Her father made no acknowledgment. He simply turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

“Where are we going?” Dutton hurried to catch up with her father.

“Saint Epain,” came the answer from down the hall.

Merde. Saint Epain. Where the suspected stronghold of the Langeais wolves was tucked away in the forest. Where he was.

The man—werewolf—who claimed she was his mate.

Chapter Twenty

Alain woke to the sound of footsteps approaching the cottage before something was left on the doorstep, then the footsteps retreated. He sniffed the air. One of the Proulx boys dropping off some food for breakfast. No one, not Gabriel, their head of pack security, or Maxime, could enter his cottage if he were absent, so no one had stocked it in preparation for his arrival. Normally that wasn’t a problem. If he were hungry, he went wolf and roamed the forest hunting his food. Out here, he was in wolf form as often as he was in human form. The only thing he required was coffee and a few nice bottles of wine. But this time, he had Grace to think of.

He extracted himself from Grace’s arms, slipped into a clean pair of pants absent of any evidence of last night, and padded to the door to retrieve the basket. A fresh baguette, butter, honey and jam, a selection of croissants, a compote of fresh fruit, fromage frais and a Thermos of coffee. It wasn’t the breakfast for a werewolf, but it was perfect for Grace. He set the Thermos—the only item in the basket that interested him—on his kitchen counter. He’d have Maxime and the cook from the manoir to thank for the food. For all he took issue with Maxime, Alain had to admit that he was an excellent alpha in the ways he cared for the pack.

With Grace still asleep, he poured himself a coffee and checked his phone. There was a message from Pierre received last night and another this morning, and one from Maxime sent ten minutes ago. He checked the one from Maxime first.

I’ll expect you at the house by 9.

Connard. He typed out his own text.

Grace is still asleep. We’ll get there when we get there.

It’d piss Maxime off for certain. He hit send, then checked last night’s message from Pierre.

We led them all the way to Rennes, then lost them in the Old Town.

He swallowed his chuckle, not wanting to wake Grace, and scrolled to the message from this morning.

We’ve looked into Emmeline and Bernard King, Grace’s mom and stepdad. Gabriel’s mate Annabelle said they’d been absent from coven business for a few weeks, but that’s not all that unusual.

Gabriel, head of their pack security, being mated to Annabelle, the San Francisco Bay coven’s High Priestess, was proving to be a valuable connection. Especially now.

They scoped out their house. It’s all locked up. No one’s checked the mail for a few weeks. The bin hasn’t been put out. Nothing about a holiday on their socials. Gabriel talked to the neighbors. They mentioned a couple of black SUVs coming by about a week ago. A bunch of tattooed men in tactical gear. They reported it to the police. They’ve got no leads. We’re on it. Best guess, either Cordelia or the Faucherians have them. Or both.

Putain. Last night, he’d figured out why Cordelia had sent Grace. Now he knew why Grace had chosen to come. Cordelia had her mother.

* * * *

Grace yawned, stretched and rolled over, meeting nothing but rug. Alain was gone, but the imprint of his body, naked and curled around hers, was still fresh in her mind. As was what they’d done. What he’d done. In the dark, his hands on her body, his fingers inside her, touching her in ways no one ever had. She swallowed a groan and propped herself up on her elbow, clutching the blanket to her chest.

Morning sun streamed in the small windows, giving Grace her first real look at the cottage. Like in Paris, it wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Rustic but cozy, it lacked the elegance of the Paris apartment but not the charm. Rough stone walls, a brick fireplace, a plain timber mantle. The wooden door with heavy hinges, rounded at the top. Solid beams crossed the low ceiling. The building was old. It had history that seeped out of the walls, the memories of times past. And no Alain.

Wrapping the blanket around her, she got to her feet, taking in the simple kitchen—its cast-iron stove that had seen better days, the old but sturdy wooden table stained and scratched, the two mismatched chairs. There was a basket of food—croissants, a baguette, jam. Her stomach rumbled, and she snatched up a croissant, biting into it as she surveyed the rest of the cottage. Except for the bookcases overflowing with books and shelf after shelf of bottled herbs—a collection that would rival her stock at Thrifty Witch, perhaps surpass it—this was like an old farmer’s cottage, or a cottage for a groundskeeper.

She took another bite of the flaky pastry. Then another. The man had money. From his apartment in Paris, that much was obvious. He could’ve built a home to rival it, or renovated this place, added rooms, a bespoke kitchen. Or live up at the house. From the impression she’d gotten from the drive in, they were on a large estate. There’d be a manor house. Maxime had said as much. If it were anything like the historical houses of the estates in Alabama, it wouldn’t be small. Yet Alain had chosen this humble dwelling. Interesting.

The wardrobe held a few shirts and pants on coat hangers and pair of shoes, nothing of interest. She opened a door and poked her head in. A bathroom with a toilet, shower and a small basin. She closed it again, scanning the cottage. Apart from the entrance to the cottage, it was the only door. This was the only room. There was no bedroom. And the couch was small, too small for Alain to sleep on. It wasn’t one of those fold out ones. Huh. She finished the croissant, licking her fingers. Maybe it wasn’t usual for Alain to stay here overnight.

Grace took another croissant. Her mama’s peach turnovers were the best, but the French didn’t do too bad a job either. Munching on flaky pastry, she turned her attention to the bottles of herbs on the shelves, some common, some exotic and rare. Clove, marigold, hyssop, rose petals, yarrow. The next shelf up—Nymphaea caerulea, Damiana, Asofoetida. Some herbs she couldn’t legally obtain in America—and would never stock due to their toxicity and her liability should she sell them to the wrong person—Mandragora officiunarum, Juniperus sabina, Hyoscyamus and Datura.

She stalled at a bottle on the top shelf. Aconitum. Also known as monkshood or wolfsbane. A highly toxic, baneful herb, it was useful in small doses for protection or intense boundary work. Unless you were also a werewolf. Sealed in the bottle, it probably wouldn’t affect him, but it was odd Alain would have it here.