Page 61 of Wolf's Prize

Or perhaps himself? Is this where Renaud’s scheme led? Lothair took several sips of his wine, letting Renaud wait for his answer.

Two can play this game, old man.

He placed his goblet down and leaned forward, his arms resting on his desk.

“Do you know anything about the process, Renaud? I cannot imagine being bitten would be pleasant.”

Renaud frowned and adjusted his pectoral cross. “I imagine once a werewolf, the bite itself would be irrelevant. Werewolves heal fast, I am told. The benefits—speed, agility, strength, heightened senses—would outweigh any discomfort. Why, were I not a man of God, I might be tempted to offer myself up.”

Lothair eyed Renaud up and down.I should get Ulrik to bite Renaud.The thought amused him, though he would have no use for a werewolf priest. Other than as a sacrificial victim. Tempting, but likely to bring the focus of the church to bear. Not something he wished to deal with right now.

“I need details, Renaud, not conjecture. Talk to your informant. Better still, bring him to me. I will hear of it firsthand.”

Renaud’s eyes widened. His jaw tightened. “I do not think my informant—”

Lothair sliced a hand through the air, cutting Renaud off. “This is not up for debate. I will make no decision about who I will turn until I have spoken with your informant myself.”

Renaud’s smile was strained. “Of course, Mon Seigneur Comte.”

“That will be all.”

Renaud stalked to the door.

“Oh, and Renaud,” Lothair called after him. “Stop killing off my chevaliers. If one more of my men dies by your design, I will hunt you down and gut you myself. Then I will hang your entrails from your pulpit as a warning to any otherman of Godwho dares to defy me.”

Renaud departed, his shoulders stiff and his face a picture of controlled frustration. Lothair smiled. Did Renaud think him foolish enough to risk a werewolf’s bite while knowing nothing of the consequences? That he would turn someone into a werewolf without knowing the process, not understanding if the victim was even controllable, or would survive? If Renaud believed that, then he truly was an imbecile. And he had forgotten Lothair had a potential informant of his own. Ulrik.

Perhaps a conversation with his captive werewolf was in order. For all his faults, Ulrik had a mind as sharp as Gaharet’s. Alone, in the dark, weakened by silver, Ulrik had had ample time to think. About his circumstances, about Renaud and about who may have betrayed the pack. The time had come for Ulrik to cooperate.

Renaud swept from the Comte’s chambers with his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. He kept up the pretense and glared at the two guards in the corridor, and they shrank away. As soon as he was out of sight, he let the tension ease from his shoulders and unclenched his hands. It mattered not that Lothair wanted to meet his informant. The chevalier would never agree, and such a meeting was contrary to Renaud’s plans.

His plans. Renaud allowed himself a small smile. Would Lothair now venture into the underground cell? Would he ask Ulrik about the turning? His smile widened. He had primed the miscreant werewolf well, poked at his anger, his grief and his desire for revenge. Lothair may well get more resistance than he expected when he set foot in that godforsaken hole. Renaud rubbed his hands together. All things considered, his plans were coming along nicely.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Aimon trotted his horse along the trail which meandered beside a creek, following the directions Gascon had given him. Close behind him rode Kathryn, her unease battering at his senses. She clearly did not like the idea of submitting to an alpha. Having awoken within the pack, with Gaharet’s commanding presence at his side, Aimon had never questioned the pack hierarchy. His wolf had recognized the authority of the alpha in an instant. A few lapses during training, until he had become at one with his wolf, had not shaken his conviction of his place.

He glanced at Kathryn, her shoulders stiff and jaw set. Being kept hidden from them, Kathryn had no such certainty. Coupled with the fire that burned so bright within her, her acceptance of Gaharet as her alpha would not come easy. He forced himself to relax. Gaharet had years of experience as the pack’s alpha. Aimon had to trust him to know how to handle Kathryn.

The trees parted, and they emerged into a sheltered clearing with a small farmer’s cottage nestled in the center. Despite the signs of recent repairs, an abandoned air hung over it—no signs of life and no smoke curling from the chimney hole in the roof. He had the right place. Gaharet’s musky scent, and Erin’s softer one, saturated the clearing.

He reined in and dismounted. As he assisted Kathryn from her saddle, the door of the cottage opened, and Gaharet ducked through the doorway, unarmed. Good. Gaharet could be intimidating enough without his armor and sword. Erin, her blonde hair loose and her feet bare, followed close on Gaharet’s heels, beaming at Kathryn.

Kathryn’s step faltered. Her gaze flicked to him, wary and uncertain. He gave her an encouraging nod and urged her forward. She lifted her chin, defiance burning bright in her eyes. Aimon held his breath.

“Welcome, Kathryn.” Gaharet smiled, no hint of aggression or dominance in his expression. “I am sorry that we meet again in such circumstances.”

Aimon’s tension slid away. All would be well. Kathryn would soon be a part of their pack, protected and cherished, and the responsibility for keeping her safe would no longer rest solely on his shoulders. The thought did not please him as he thought it would. He brushed off his disquiet.

Gaharet stepped forward and reached for Kathryn’s hands. Aimon’s wolf roared to the surface, unstoppable. He forced his way between Kathryn and Gaharet, pulling her behind him. His hackles rose, a growl reverberated in his chest and the slide of his canines filled his mouth. Behind him, Kathryn’s shocked gasp startled him to his senses. He caught Gaharet and Erin exchanging a look.

Merde.

He had challenged his alpha. Again.What is Kathryn doing to me?

Aimon dropped his head and bared his neck, forcefully pushing his wolf down. It did not retreat easily. His canines retracted with aching slowness and the ruff of fur on his neck receded in gradual increments, but he remained where he stood, a barrier between Kathryn and Gaharet. He would take his reprimand, but his wolf would not allow him to move, would not let Gaharet get any closer to Kathryn.

“I am sorry, Gaharet,” he said, his voice little more than a growl. “I—”

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