Page 41 of Wolf's Return
Every day?The words settled in his mind, heavy and full of promise. And temptation. She would bare her body to his hungry eye. Every. Day. The desire to bring forth the change was intense, yet… His gut clenched at the thought of shifting. Of making the deliberate choice to return to human form. To stand once again as a man, vulnerable in his human skin.
D’Artagnon gritted his teeth. He could simply stay within the cottage. Or patrol the forest. There was no need for him to watch as long as he remained within or without the circle of her ward.Yet he knew, like bees drawn to the flowers of a meadow in springtime, he would not be able to resist.
Her shoulders sagged, and she turned to face him, so lost in her thoughts she had, perhaps, forgotten her nakedness. It took everything he had to lock his gaze on her face. To ignore the gentle curve of her breasts and the soft pink of her peaked nipples in the periphery of his vision.
“I had a vision. I think…maybe…” She stared down at the bowl clasped in her hands, dried blood smeared on her fingertips. “There is a priest. He may come for me. Soon. Perhaps.” She scrunched up her face. “I…I am not sure.”
D’Artagnon shook himself and focused on her words.A priest? Eveque Faucher?She had seen this. But… He cocked his head. Was her vision not clear? She had told Erin the way of her second sight could be vague, but…
She threw her head back and stared up at the autumn sky. “I saw myself bound, pleading. There was a clergyman there. I sensed…”
When she dropped her gaze to meet his, the pain in her eyes sliced through his heart sharper than the blade that had cleaved open his shoulder. The need to scoop her into his arms, to comfort her and promise to protect her so powerful he all but shifted right then and there. For a moment he hovered, the change but a breath away.
She broke their connection and stared out into the forest. “I do not have visions of myself often. In truth, there have only been two others. One which foretold of my mother’s death and another…” An embarrassed flush stained her cheeks. She pursed her lips. “When it comes to ourselves, visions can be— Our own desires and fears can cloud them and…and as such, they are not always…not always accurate. I cannot rely on them.”
Her eyes shimmered with her uncertainty. “I cannot know if what I saw will come to pass, but Icannotignore it. I havestrengthened the ward. If anyone should come here with ill intent in their hearts, I will know.”
The scent of her fear lay thick on the air. “Can you…? Can I ask you toguard me?” She glanced nervously around at the forest. “While we are here, beyond the walls of your keep? If he comes…would you…would you protect me?”
A naked Constance trembled before him, pleading with him, so heart-wrenchingly vulnerable, he could not hold back the force of the change. It ripped through him, caring naught for his fears. His bones were contorting, and his fur receding before he could stop them. He did not want to stop them.
His paws shifted to hands and feet, his spine elongated and he was striding toward her, shaking off the last vestiges of his canine muzzle as he pulled her into his embrace, bare skin against bare skin. He gave in to temptation and ran his nose along the curve of her throat, breathing in her heady scent. His chest rumbled, and in his mind, his wolf purred.
Yes, Constance, I will protect you. No one will harm you. Not while I have breath.
She clung to him, leaning her head on his chest and tucking herself into his embrace, and he reveled in the warmth of her body and the softness of her skin. In the way she sought shelter inhisarms and comfort fromhisstrength. A lazy afternoon breeze whispered across his skin, a sensation he had not experienced in years, and he did something he had not done in a long time. He smiled.
“You…you shifted?”
Her words, mumbled against his chest, snapped him out of his stupor and he dropped his arms, stepping away from her.
A hesitant smile flickered across her lips. “Monsieur D’Artagnon, you shifted.”
He swallowed, and he dipped his head so his hair fell across his face, hiding his damaged face and missing eye. He hadshifted. They stood there, the both of them naked, and—he frowned—he found himself in no rush to shift back. Then his gaze dipped, unbidden, and a pretty pink flush wound its way up Constance’s chest and neck.
“I should probably dress now,” said Constance, breaking the spell and darting toward her clothes. Clutching them to her chest, she disappeared into the cottage. “Hopefully, Anne has packed something for you to wear,” she called out from inside.
D’Artagnon listened to the rustle of fabric as Constance dressed. Right now, in the forest with Constance a bare few paces away, his previous panic at being human was little more than a low hum in the back of his mind.
“Oh, good. You are still human.” Constance stood in the doorway, a pile of clothing in her hands. “Anne had confidence in you.” She held garments out to him, her chin lifted and her gaze fixed on his face. “Breeches and a tunic.”
He took them and jerked his head toward the pond.
“Yes, yes, of course you would want to bathe. I will…” She gestured toward the interior of the cottage. “I have things to do.”
Constance disappeared inside the cottage once more and, on legs wobbly and unsure, D’Artagnon made his way down the trail to the pond. He had a need to cleanse himself. To wash away the years of living as a wolf, and to reconnect to the man he had once been. And though he tried to convince himself it had nothing to do with how good she had felt in his arms, or any desire for her to see him as a man, the smugness of his wolf within his mind confirmed the lie. Vladimir had spoken true. Constance was his mate. What he planned to do about it now he was human again, he really did not know.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Constance eyed the man sitting at the table. He had returned from the pond, hair wet and dripping and his lean, muscled body covered in tunic and breeches. Anne’s confidence Monsieur D’Artagnon would shift was something to be grateful for, but the image of him naked in the bright sunlight would remain forever imprinted on her mind. As would the feel of him as he had crushed her in his embrace. The hardened planes of his torso, his muscled arms banded around her, the soft hair of his chest flush against her breasts. The line of his spine between his broad shoulders she followed to the taut globes of his cheeks as he had stumbled away from her toward the pond.
But what tugged at her heart and made her long for her childhood vision to be true more than anything was how he had comforted her when she had needed it most. Taken her up in his arms and surrounded her with his strength, telling her in a way words never could, he would protect her. Reassuring her he was there for her.
He had shifted. For her. When it pained him so much to do so. And he had remained so, as the afternoon sun had dipped below the horizon and darkness had crept in.
Now, with his beard and hair trimmed, he sat at the table, reading page after page of her grimoire. Aside from a quick jaunt to the pond to fetch water, he had not moved all afternoon. He turned another page, smoothing it down with his large hand. She licked her dry lips. Not so long ago, last eve, his hand had been—
Monsieur D’Artagnon glanced up, shadows shifting in his eye. As with every time he caught her staring, he let a lock of dark hair flop over his face, obscuring his scar.
