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Bernard pulled both women into his arms, and Alain’s wolf roared to the surface.

Maxime put a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, Alain.”

He wrangled his wolf into submission, shaking Maxime off as Pierre and Louis climbed the porch steps.

Pierre shook his head. “You didn’t take my advice, did you?”

Louis nudged him with his shoulder. “You should’ve told her. Then she would’ve known not to hug another man.”

Alain punched Louis in the stomach. It helped relieve some of his aggression.

“Ow.” Louis doubled over, feigning injury. He turned to Maxime, hugging his stomach. “I’m going to need some of those pastries your cook makes to take away the pain.”

Maxime shook his head. “You asked for it. And don’t go waking the cook. It’s late. You can wait until morning.” He studied the new arrivals. “You found them fast.”

Louis turned serious. “Too fast.”

They kept their voices to a murmur, not loud enough for human ears.

“Either she’s getting sloppy in her old age,” agreed Maxime, “or…”

“Cordelia’s many things. Sloppy isn’t one of them.” Alain shared a look with Maxime before fixing his attention back on Grace. “Did Gabriel say anything about the extraction?”

“Oui,” said Pierre. “It was too easy, too. A few Faucherian guards. Not well-trained ones, either. New recruits, perhaps. No match for werewolves and witches. The ward had a bit of a punch, knocked Annabelle across the street, but not as nasty as they were expecting.”

Maxime grunted. “She wanted us to find them.”

“And there’s something not quite right about Bernard,” said Pierre, “but I can’t quite put my finger on what exactly.”

“Oui. I feel it, too,” said Maxime. “What about you, Alain?”

Alain focused in on the Kings, opened his senses, both wolf and witch. From Emmeline, he detected the subtle hum of a protection spell, joy and relief at being reunited with her daughter, and caution directed at him and his fellow Langeais wolves. All to be expected. From Bernard… He narrowed his eyes on the man. The same, yet not. As Pierre said, there was something not quite right. His emotions were aligned with Emmeline’s, but they had a transience about them, as though they were shallow, a mere reflection of his wife’s emotions and not his own. “Oui.”

“I’ve called in the pack,” said Maxime. “They’ve been trickling in all week.”

He had? Alain had to hand it to him. Maxime was always one step ahead. It made him a good alpha.

“Any luck tracking Dubois?” asked Maxime.

Pierre shook his head. “Melinda’s working on it.”

“From a safe place,” Louis added.

Alain didn’t blame them for keeping their mate away.

Maxime stepped forward as Grace approached with her mother and stepfather. “Emmeline, Bernard. I’m Maxime d’Louncrais.” He shook hands with them both and smiled, but he made no effort to hide his alpha intensity. “Welcome to my home.”

“My wife and I are truly grateful for your hospitality,” said Bernard, accepting his handshake. He turned to Alain. “And for taking care of our Grace. We are in your debt.”

Not your Grace. Mine. If she’d have him. He tamped down on his wolf, sending it deep. He smiled, and it took every ounce of his control to keep his fangs from showing and pulling Grace into his arms. “Come inside. Grace and I will show you to your suite.”

Grace led her mama and stepdad down the corridor, toward the stairs, a tight-lipped Alain trailing along behind.

“Impressive,” said Bernard, taking in the wall of portraits. “There’s a lot of history here.” He smiled at Alain. “Nice to know you can trace your family so far back. I mean, look at this one. The clothes…” He continued along the line. “And these ones. Mm.” He nudged Alain, smiling. “I’m glad we don’t have to wear codpieces.”

Alain’s face remained impassive, not a hint of a smile or those dimples she was so fond of. A knot settled in Grace’s stomach. All morning he’d been a little…distant. She’d tried to ignore it, but even Maxime had noticed something was different. Was it because she’d asked for kissing and hugging? Because she’d asked for more than he was capable of giving?

Bernard admired the portraits along the hall, commenting on each of them. He stopped at the four oldest portraits, the drawings. “Oh, my. These are old. What century is this?”