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As a curator and an influential member of the acquisitions team for historical texts for the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Solange had a deep knowledge of the occult and ancient grimoires. And, according to his contact on the Council of Witches, was a closet witch. Alain had conferred with many an expert, some witches, some not. None of them had had the answers the pack needed. Fate willing, Solange would.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Oui?”

Oui. He knew her other little secret, too. Another thing they shared, and he had planned to use that to his benefit. She would give him the information he was after—information the pack needed to survive—and in return he would satisfy her in ways few men could. As a werewolf, he could read a woman’s body better than any mere human. Push her right to the edge, hold her there before letting her topple over into mindless ecstasy. She was a beautiful woman. No hardship there.

Solange draped a manicured hand over his arm, drawing his attention. “I think we could come to some”—she ran an appreciative gaze over him, her smile hungry—“arrangement.”

Her touch struck a discordant note, and he resisted the urge to shrug her off. His plans had changed the moment he’d set eyes on the mystery woman in the yellow dress.

“I was talking about our interest in the occult. I’d specifically like to know your thoughts on curses.”

She leaned into him, fiddling with his bow tie. “Of course. Your place or mine?” She dropped her gaze. “We’ll play. I’m sure you can be very persuasive. And I’ll promise to do everything you say, or you can…” She licked her lips, and her voice turned breathy. “Punish me.”

It seemed his preferences were no more a secret than hers. But tonight, it would not be Solange benefiting from them. “No. Just talk. Here.”

Solange was too practiced to let her anger at his rejection show in her expression, or in her voice, but he could read it in her body. Any submission she’d been willing to give him was gone.

“If you are not interested”—she took a step back from him—“there is always someone else willing.”

“I’m sure there is. After we talk.”

She ran her hand along the lapel of his jacket, pouting. “I don’t think I want to talk to you now.”

She was being a brat. Poking the bear. Or the wolf, as it were. On any other night that would have appealed, brought out his need to dominate, to smack her pert derrière until it was a delightful pink and her pussy was weeping.

Alain glanced across the room. She was watching, a vision in yellow, her brows dipped and her lips pursed. The only perfectly rounded ass he wanted his hands on tonight was hers.

He dropped his champagne flute on a table, grasped Solange’s wrist, steered her into a corner and pulled her close, letting a hint of his wolf shine in his eyes. She’d like his dominance, but his wolf…? “But you will talk.”

Her pulse beat a staccato rhythm in her throat, and a thread of fear wound through her scent. If she were half as decent a witch as she was a curator, she’d have her suspicions as to his true nature.

He released her and Solange stepped back, wary. She had good reason to be. He wasn’t playing games. This wasn’t some prelude dance that would lead to sex or a scene in his playroom. It was too important.

She held her champagne flute in front of her, one arm tucked across her chest and cocked her hip as though he hadn’t just threatened her. “D’accord. What is it you wish to talk about then?”

“I need to know what you’ve learned about curses. What the ancient texts say. Specifically, how to break them and avoid the consequences of doing so.”

“Have you cast a curse and are regretting it, Alain d’Louncrais? Tsk, tsk, tsk. What would the council say if they found out their newest sitting member was casting curses now.” There was a smugness to her smile. “Oui. I know who you are. I know of your reputation as a lover and a witch.” Her eyes said she knew he was something more.

“I didn’t cast it, but I…” He sighed. “I am impacted by it.” All the Langeais wolves were.

“That’s an easy fix.” Solange shrugged an elegant bare shoulder. “Deal with the caster. If you get my meaning. Then the energy behind it will be gone and the curse will fade.”

Oh, Alain got her meaning. And he wished it were that simple. He’d like nothing more than to rid the world of Cordelia King.

“Unless, of course, it’s a lineage curse, and then you’re screwed.”

It wasn’t. Not exactly.

“And none of this should be news to a witch powerful enough to be a sitting member of the council.”

It wasn’t, and it didn’t give him the answers he needed. “I can’t deal with the caster. There are reasons.” He rubbed his hand over his chin, debating how much he should say. Solange hadn’t gotten the reputation she had in her field by being a simpleton. “The curse itself is not the issue. It has some…advantageous repercussions.”

The curse had created them. He was a living, breathing version of it. As was every single Langeais wolf who walked the earth. Now, in the past and in the future. But if what he’d discerned from his ancestor’s grimoire were true, if Solange were right, not for much longer. Each confrontation with Cordelia risked her death. And time itself was catching up with the old witch. If either of those things happened, the implications for the Langeais wolves could be catastrophic. And Alain wasn’t too keen on waiting to find out.

“We’d like to deal with this witch,” he said. “She deserves to be brought to justice for everything she’s done, but…”

Solange’s smile was predatory. “You’d like to keep the repercussions.”