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There was a deep well of pain in Maxime’s eyes. “You would think so.”

It hadn’t worked out so well for Maxime when he’d met his mate. From the few whispers he’d heard, she too was on the other side of this war. “The pull is there. She has to feel it. Last night…” Last night she’d trusted him. Let him take her beyond her comfort zone. Not far, but that little kernel of trust was everything. A beginning. Something that could grow. He knew that from experience. “Is the east wing empty?”

Maxime’s eyes narrowed. “It is.”

“Have the main suite prepared. Grace and I will be needing it.”

Anticipation curled in his groin. He’d had a taste last night. This time he was going to go all the way. He sent a quick text to Nathalie. Tonight he would make a play for his mate. And if he succeeded, instead of Grace being a weapon against him, she might turn the tide in their battle with Cordelia.

* * * *

He found Grace admiring one of the decorative wall hangings in the hall, the grimoire abandoned on the table along with pages of her handwriting. Not wishing to announce his presence yet, he eased his way to the table and looked over what she’d written. The translation of the legend of the Black Wolf, nothing more. No notes or question marks. Except for an underlined blank gap. Ah, the name of the witch who’d cursed Alexandre.

He placed the archive box with Cordelia’s grimoire down on the table and approached her. “That’s the story of Maxime’s ancestors’ marriage.”

Grace spun around. “Son of a motherless goat!” She put her hand to her heart. “You scared the heck out of me.”

Alain couldn’t help but smile. “Son of a motherless goat? You know, that’s not a physical possibility.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s better than the alternative, despite what you believe about cussing and intelligence. My daddy raised me right.”

She smiled up at him, and the sun exploded behind his breastbone. He tucked his hands in the pockets of his pants lest he snatch her up in his arms. She was so…bright. The goodness in her shone like a beacon. That Cordelia had attempted to sully that made him want to tear things apart.

And here he was, planning on introducing her to his world. Would he dim her light with his darkness? Tarnish it? He stared down at her lips, so close, so tempting, his heart thudding in his chest like a bass drum. Or would she be the one to light his way?

Chapter Twenty-Five

Alain was so close, Grace thought he might kiss her. Those northern lights were back, sending heat to her core. She turned back to the wall hanging. Her body was all in, but… She stared at the figures in front of her. A woman in a green dress with flaming red hair riding out the front. Behind her, a man in a red coat and armor, with black hair and beard, also on horseback. “This”—she jerked her thumb at the embroidered figures—“doesn’t say marriage to me at all. Unless things were way different back in medieval France. It’s like this guy”—she tapped the glass above the dark-haired man—“is chasing this woman.”

“He is.” Alain pressed in close behind her. “That man”—he leaned over her, brushing her shoulder to point to the armored figure—“is Jacques d’Louncrais. He was the alpha of the Langeais wolves in the late tenth century. The woman”—he leaned over her other shoulder and pointed to the woman in the green dress—“is Elise, Jacques’ mate. The story goes, she played hard to get.” Alain’s hands settled on her shoulders, his breath warm against her ear. “Never underestimate a wolf when it comes to his mate, Grace. He’ll move heaven and earth to claim her. To protect her and make her happy.”

A shiver skittered up her spine, her awareness of Alain, the warmth of his body, the thinness of her borrowed cotton T-shirt and sweats, the press of…of something long and hard against her, intensifying.

The door behind them closed with a thud, and Maxime walked into the room. “Shall we get down to business?” He dropped another old book on the table and took a seat, motioning for her and Alain to do the same.

Grace hurried to do his bidding, putting distance between her and Alain. Not for long. Alain dropped into the chair beside her, his large hand resting on her thigh. Like a statement. Her gaze was drawn back to the wall hanging.

“Do you have any questions about what you translated, Grace?

She stared at the hand on her thigh.

“Grace?”

Grace snapped back to what Maxime was saying. “I’m sorry, I missed what you said.”

Alain’s smile was smug.

Maxime’s face was a blank slate, but his eyes burned with something else. “I asked if you had any questions about what you’d translated.”

“Uh…” Grace grabbed her translated notes and flicked through the pages. “No, I don’t think— Wait, I do. I do have questions.” Get it together, Grace. “How much of this is true and not some medieval fable told to—”

“All of it.” There was no hesitation in Alain’s voice. “The legend of the Black Wolf was documented by the witch who helped them. And this grimoire was handed down through the coven over the centuries to a witch named Constance. Then down through my family from Constance to me.”

“The woman who was married…mated to D’Artagnon. Your ancestor. The one whose portrait is on the wall.”

Alain cocked his head. “Oui.”

Grace opened the book to the second page of the story and pointed to the blob of ink obscuring the name of the witch who’d cursed Alexandre. The woman with two different colored eyes. She held up her hand as Alain went to speak. “I don’t want you to tell me.” She slid the grimoire in front of him. “I want you to show me. I want to read her name for myself.”