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“I still think you should go all beast on her. Maybe she likes that you’re a Dom. Not all choir girls are innoc—” Louis dodged a slap to the back of his head from his twin.

Merde. He’d told Grace he’d never force her to do anything she didn’t want, and he wasn’t going to go back on his word. He needed to get out of here, away from their well-intentioned advice before he did something stupid. He needed air. The forest, the feel of the earth beneath his paws, the moon to howl his anguish at.

He spun on his heel and stormed out of the room, out of the manoir, stripping out of his clothes on the front porch. His wolf burst through his skin and he was on four paws, running. He might not be able to outrun his pain, but he could run himself to exhaustion.

He paused on the edge of the treeline, staring up at the manoir. Backlit in the upstairs window stood Grace. He turned and loped away into the forest.

Grace crossed her arms, watching the wolf disappear into the forest. Alain. She didn’t know how she knew it was him out of a houseful of werewolves, but she did. She sighed. Had he really forgotten, or had he never had any intention of telling her? But he’d told her other secrets. Things he sure as shootin’ wouldn’t have told other women he’d taken into his playroom. But…how many of them were witches who had a personal connection to Cordelia?

Darn it. She rubbed her face with her hands. She didn’t know what to think. Or what to feel.

Her mama joined her. “He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”

She dropped her chin. “He shouldn’t. I’ve only known him a little over a week, but…” She let her voice trail off. He’d gotten under her skin. Those dimples, his touch. The tender way he held her in the bath, brushing the washcloth over her skin. How he anticipated her pleasure, and also her needs and her moods. She’d be flagging, bowed under the weight of the grimoire, and Alain would call it a day or suggest a break. The way he’d hold her, reassuring her they’d find her mama any day now. And true to his word, he had.

Her mama wrapped her arm around her. “You mean a lot to him, too.”

She searched her mother’s face. “Do I?” He’d introduced her to his world, and she’d gone willingly, blissfully into it with him. She’d taken a walk on the wild side. Done things with him that would make a porn star blush. But had he ever had plans for her to stay?

Her mama smiled. “From the way he looks at you, I think so.”

Grace turned back to the window, staring at the spot where Alain had disappeared into the forest. Alain had a way of making you feel you were the only person in the room, in the world, who mattered. She’d watched him across a sea of people at the Cluny Museum, giving a woman in a red dress, some curator of somewhere fancy, elite, his undivided attention. She’d lapped it up, and Grace couldn’t blame her. It was intoxicating and impossible to resist. The problem was, naïve little old Grace hadn’t understood the rules, and she’d fallen for his charm, his devotion.

“You can’t choose your family, Grace,” her mama was saying. She wrapped an arm around Grace’s shoulders. “He’s not Cordelia any more than Bernard is.”

If only it were that simple. “There’s more to it than that, Mama.”

Her mama shrugged. “Well, whatever it is, you’re not going to resolve it moping about it by yourself. You want my advice? Don’t stew over this for too long. Talk to him. Hear him out. If you care enough about him, you owe it to him and yourself. Now it’s late. I’m going to go and have a nice soak in that wonderful big bathtub and wash away the last few weeks, then get a decent night’s rest. You should do the same.” She kissed Grace on the forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Grace remained at the window, staring out over the forest. From the bedroom, her mama’s and Bernard’s voices echoed, muted and unclear, then the sound of running water into the tub and a door closing.

Tears threatened, and she blinked them away. She longed to be back in Thrifty Witch, surrounded by her herbs. Before all this had happened. Before Alain. Before Cordelia. Or, better still, back in Alabama, digging away in her mama’s herb garden. She’d thought it so…so…provincial back then. She couldn’t wait to experience the wider world, to be open about being a witch. Well, she’d done it, and look where she’d ended up.

Grace stared out into the forest, willing Alain to reappear. Was her mama right? What would he say if she gave him the chance? She heaved out a shaky breath. The truth. That’s what she wanted. And she would deal with it, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how hard it’d be to sit across the table from him and not think of the nights they’d shared. Being tied to the bedpost, his hands and mouth all over her. Being held by him in the bathtub, like she were something precious. Waking every morning to his body curled around her. There were bigger things at stake than her feelings.

She’d wait for his return in the east wing. Her hand on the doorknob, she half turned it. “’Night, Bernard. See you in the morning.”

She glanced through the open bedroom door. Bernard sat on the bed, his hands on his knees and his eyes open, staring at the bathroom door. He didn’t respond.

“Bernard?” He wasn’t moving. That his chest rose and fell the only sign he was breathing. Had he fallen asleep? Was he meditating?

She approached him and waved her hand in front of his face. Nothing. “Bernard,” she said, louder this time. Not a flicker of an eyelid or a hitch in his breath to acknowledge her presence. Something wasn’t right.

Grace laid her hand on his shoulder and her fingers tingled. She snatched her hand back. Not meditating. This was something else. Magic. Staring down at Bernard’s face, devoid of all expression, a coldness settled in her chest. She knew what this was.

It was a rare skill. One many considered a myth. Grace hadn’t known Bernard could do this. But he was doing it here. Now. And there could only be one reason for that, and for why he’d chosen not to tell either her or her mama about his ability to astral project.

She glanced at the bathroom doorway, her heart breaking for her mama. They’d been wrong. Both of them. And Alain was right. Bernard King was no different from the rest of his family.

* * * *

Joséphine stared at the space where, moments ago, Bernard King had appeared, imparted the confirmation they needed, then disappeared. “What the hell was that?”

They hadn’t bothered tracking Emmeline and Bernard. Not after their last attempt with Grace had been foiled. Instead, she, her father and Dutton had driven straight to a property the bank had foreclosed on last week outside of Saint Epain. A few kilometers down the road was the estate Joséphine had spent months untangling the complicated ownership history of. The estate she believed belonged to the Langeais wolves.

Ten feet away, her father was on the phone, pacing as he barked out orders, setting things in motion.

Dutton, his face pale, opened the driver’s door and leaned on it, not yet recovered from breaking Alain’s ward, but his grin was smug. “That, my dear Joséphine,” he said, emphasizing the French pronunciation of her name, “is what’s known as astral projection.”