Page 17 of Wolf's Prize

“Mon Dieu.” Aimon jumped to his feet and strode to the door, flung it open and beckoned over Gascon, who stood waiting in the corridor. “Please fetch Mademoiselle Kathryn. It is important I speak with her. And Gascon, do not take no for an answer.”

“Of course, Monsieur Aimon.” Gascon disappeared down the corridor.

“What are you going to do?” demanded Farren.

“I need to show her what I am. It is time she learned she is not alone. For her to know this is not a curse.” He regarded Farren’s alarmed expression. “I do not regret what I have become, and neither should she. She must stop repressing her wolf and embrace it. Your daughter will not find peace until she does. Believe me, I know.”

Chapter Seven

Kathryn stared at the wall, counting the stones from the top down, then the bottom up. And again. She gave a little hiccup and a sniffle and brushed away her tears, her hands still shifting back and forth.

“Sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine.”

Aimon’s blue eyes flashed into her mind. Brilliant blue, with dark indigo shadows flitting in their depths. She could lose herself in those eyes.

Coarse hair spread past her wrist. She uttered a sob.

“Seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three.”

The feel of Aimon’s soft lips against hers. The gentle, but firm pressure of his hand on her neck.

L’enfer.

Three fingernails became claws. She trembled, another sob wrenched from her throat, and she inhaled a shaky breath. She could do this, had done so many times before.

“Seventy-four, seventy-five.”

This bedchamber was far larger than her previous one, so it took her longer to count all the stones. She all but ignored the opulent furnishings, the clean smell of fresh, untainted meadowsweet rushes, and the plush blankets on the enormous bed. It stood to reason the d’Louncrais would have better, larger, more luxurious rooms than the Beauchenes could ever have afforded.

Kathryn kept counting. She would stand here all night if she had to. After her reaction in the forest, that was a distinct possibility. Was it the stress of the day, Comte Lothair’s announcement and the move to a new home with new servants that made it so difficult to control her curse? Or her encounter with Aimon?

“Seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine.”

The coarse, red hair slowly receded, and fingernails replaced claws. His scent—she had never smelled anything so… Heat pulsed through her body, and her hands tingled with the beginnings of a shift to paws once more. She gritted her teeth.

“Eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two.”

She stared at her hands and waited. They remained human, with fingernails and skin. Human hands. Her shoulders sagged, and she flung herself on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

What should she do now? She had placed all her hopes and dreams on Aimon Proulx, and one whiff of his clean, musky scent, one gentle kiss, had swept all her control away. If she could not keep the beast at bay in his presence, she could not marry him.

But if not him, then who would I choose?

Startled, she sat up as the door swung open and the largest woman Kathryn had ever seen bustled in carrying a platter of food and drink. Prodigiously round, with the most enormous bosom and gray hair pinned back in a neat bun, her friendly smile lit up her lined face.

“Come, child, this will warm your blood and fill your stomach.” The woman set the platter down on the table and wiped her hands on her food splattered apron. She brought a mug to Kathryn and urged her to take it. “The name is Anne, dear. I am the cook. And you must be Kathryn.”

Kathryn took the cup foisted on her. She sniffed. A faint, sweet, herbal smell filled her nose. “What is it?”

“Chamomile brew laced with honey. Good for calming the nerves. The d’Louncrais put great stock in it. I make sure there are always chamomile flowers growing in the garden. Come now, drink up.”

Too drained to offer any resistance, Kathryn complied.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Look at that pretty face of yours. All red from crying. We cannot have that.”

Kathryn glanced over her cup at Anne. The woman was bold for a cook.

“There is naught to be bothering yourself about here, Kathryn. It is a new home, I know, but we will take good care of you.”

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