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The decision to dispatch the four captured Faucherians hadn’t come easy to Alain. Killing a man in a fight for survival was one thing. Murdering an unarmed prisoner was a different matter. But they were fanatics, the lot of them, willing to die for their organization rather than abandon it. They’d left him no choice.

The bodies of the dead had been removed and sent to a Langeais pack member at the funeral home, along with the rug from Maxime’s office and the runner from the entryway. He’d left the sprinkler system running to wash away any signs of battle from the grounds, and the Faucherians’ cars had been wiped clean and driven away to be abandoned far from the estate. Alain didn’t know how far up the chain things went in the DGSE, but they couldn’t afford to leave evidence lying around should they be raided.

Emmeline and Nathalie had retired for the night. Pierre and Louis, after a phone call to Melinda to tell her she needn’t bother tracking Dubois anymore, were hunkered over Dubois’ laptop in Maxime’s office. If anyone could crack the encryption on it, it was the twins. And Melinda would be joining them in the next day or two.

Alain stood in the living area of the east wing suite. Grace paced by the couch. It’d been a silent walk from Maxime’s office, Grace fidgeting by his side. There were things left hanging between them that needed to be said.

Grace leaned against the back of the couch. “I’m sorry about Maxime.”

“Oui. Me, too. But we’ll find him.” They’d raze half of Paris to the ground if that’s what it took.

“Who is she? The woman he went after?”

“His mate.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her hands, running her finger along the bloodied cut on her palm.

“Grace, why were you in Maxime’s office? Were you trying to steal the grimoires?”

“I should…” She headed for the bathroom. “I should take care of this cut if I don’t want to get an infection. The knife I used was old.”

He followed her in, and she rummaged through the cabinet, then the drawers.

She came up empty-handed and slammed the last drawer shut. “Don’t you people have first aid kits, or disinfectant?”

“We’re werewolves. We heal.” He took her hand and turned it over. “Let me.” He held her bloodied palm up to his mouth.

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t snatch her hand away, and he took that as a win. “Wolf saliva has antimicrobial and antibacterial properties.”

“Oh.”

She turned away, studying the bathroom tiles as he licked her wound. His memories of their nights spent in this suite, discovering her body, of them together in the bath, crowded him in. Nothing good had come from not telling her the truth. Their argument, everything that had followed with Bernard, might well have been prevented had they had one conversation. He was a fool. He should’ve taken Pierre’s advice. She might have rejected him. His kink wasn’t for everyone. She might reject him now, but at least she’d know. And he’d know. He paused in his ministrations of her hand. “Grace, there’s something—”

“I caught Bernard astral projecting.” She traced the pattern on the tile with her uninjured hand. “I couldn’t let the grimoire fall into the wrong hands. I was going to take it to the council for safekeeping.” She snorted. “Stupid, I know. I wouldn’t have got far with it, and it could well have ended up in Bernard’s hands if Maxime hadn’t caught me. If there hadn’t been a safe room. So much for protecting it.”

He wanted to scoop her up in his arms, but he wasn’t certain she’d let him. Not yet. “But you did protect it.” With lethal force.

The Kings had underestimated her. So had he. She’d shown him how much at every turn. She might not cuss or drink, and she was so wholesome she shone, but she was brave and determined, and she had a moral compass that pointed true north. He should never have doubted her intentions for a moment.

“I killed Irena.” She choked back a sob. “It was Cordelia’s spell, but I used it. I tried to warn her, but… It’s because of me she’s dead.”

“Non. You defended the grimoire. Irena is dead, not because of you, but because of her choices.” He abandoned her injured hand and cupped her face. “Look at me, Grace.”

For a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to. Then she lifted her chin, and something inside him cracked wide open. She was slaying him with her empathy for a woman who would have killed her if given half the chance. She was a better person than he.

A fierce determination washed over him. They were not leaving this room until she knew who she was to him, until he’d bared his soul. And if she rejected him… He would not give up. He would spend the rest of his life proving he was worthy of her.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you of my connection with Cordelia. It’s a secret I’ve kept hidden for so long and…” He dropped his hands from her face and stepped back. Putain. This was harder than he’d thought it would be. “None of the pack knew. Except Maxime, but even he didn’t think I was aware of my ancestry. It’s not something I’ve wanted to acknowledge. Or give any credence to. I prefer to think my gift, my skills, like my grimoire, have come from Constance, not Cordelia.”

She was watching him, but for once he couldn’t read her.

He started pacing in the confined space. “I don’t know. Maybe subconsciously I didn’t want to tell you. Maybe I didn’t want you to think less of me.” Give her another reason apart from his need to dominate to spurn him.

He raked a hand through his hair. Tell her. Now.

Grace backed up against the vanity. There was a look in Alain’s eyes, a determination to the set of his jaw, that unnerved her. He strode toward her, the muscles on his bare chest rippling, grabbed her around the waist, lifted her up then sat her on the vanity. She gripped his shoulders for balance and, as it always did when he was this close, when she was touching him, her body came alive.