Page 19 of Wolf's Redemption

Lines of writing flowed across the page. Twelve of them. Four in the now familiar script found only on the beast’s amulets. Another four in what appeared to be some strange form of the language of Bretaigne. Not at all like the example he had seen of Caedmon’s hymn. He lifted his gaze from the parchment.

Had not d’Louncrais’ betrothed hailed from Bretaigne?Coincidence? I think not.

He returned his attention to the writing. The final four lines he recognized. Latin. The language of the church. His lips curled into a semblance of a smile, and he slipped the parchment into the folds of his robes. Even that wretched Eveque Faucher did not have what he now possessed—the key to the amulets, to the werewolves’ disappearances. The translation of the spell. With this, he no longer had need of his informant. Time to sever his alliance. And he knew exactly how to do it.

With a smile hovering on his lips, Renaud climbed the steps and left the dark, little chamber.

Chapter Nine

Bek stumbled along, the flimsy soles of her fluffy, pink bunny slippers providing little protection from stones and exposed tree roots. Her feet felt like two enormous bruises, her legs lumps of wood, and her injured hand throbbed. She’d done a ten-hour shift at Charlie’s, and now they’d walked for… How far had they walked? Miles? Too damn far. Any effects of the wine had long since worn off. It felt like forever since she’d sat on her couch, drinking a few glasses of cheap red, looking forward to a meal of two-minute noodles. Her stomach rumbled.

Again, she attempted to wrest her arm free from Ulrik’s grip—not tight enough to give her bruises, but not an inch of give.

“How much further?” She cringed at the whine in her tone.

“They will be out hunting us. Once they discover we left via the postern gate…”

His pace didn’t slow at all as he answered her. The man was a veritable machine. Not a single stumble or misstep, his pace measured and even. Perhaps slower than he would normally walk because of her. Chained up for God knows how long and he could still walk the pants off an Olympic triathlete.

“Can we take a break? Just for a moment?”

“No.”

Bek groaned. She eyed the wineskin hanging over her shoulder, bumping against her hip as she walked. Getting drunk on ancient wine wouldn’t help them any, but it sure would make her feel better right now and blot out the misery of her aching muscles.

“We need to get as far ahead of them as we can. They will be on horseback. Need I point out the obvious?”

Bek grunted and forced herself to keep walking.

After what felt like another mile, the sound of running water reached her ears. Would they stop now? Even if he let go of her, she doubted she’d have the energy to run from him. At least, not fast enough or far enough that he wouldn’t be on her like white on rice. He wasn’t even puffed.

She stumbled, her tired legs buckling. He was there, strong arms catching her and holding her upright.

“We will stop here for a few moments,petite cracheuse de feu.”

Pettie crashooze de fer?What the hell did that mean? Did she even want to know? She’d been called many things by the patrons at Charlie’s, by Charlie, by the prison wardens. Many of them unpleasant. None of them in French.Probably something like pain in my ass, or mouthy bitch.

Whatever it was, to her tired mind it sounded much nicer in French than English. And she wanted him to say it again. Whisper it against her hair as he held her in his arms, the warmth of his body soaking into her fatigued muscles. Bek let out a contented murmur and relaxed into his hold. Her eyelids fluttered closed, her reasons for escaping, for keeping him at arm’s length drifting away. If she could just stay here for a moment…

She snuggled into him, rubbing her cheek against his bare chest.

“Begging for my attention already?”

Bek’s eyes snapped open, and she wrenched herself from his arms. He chuckled, the smugness of the sound leeching through the darkness.

“Sit for a moment, Rebekah. I will tend to your hand, then I will remove my boots and roll up my breeches and we will wade upstream.”

Seriously?He was going to make them walkfarther?Inwater? She looked down at her slippers, trying to summon the energy to remove them and roll up her jeans.

He snagged her chin, forcing her to look at him. “You are exhausted. I will carry you.”

Bek stumbled back.Oh, hell no. “I can walk.”

“Rebekah, sit.”

She balked at the command, but when his hand pressed on her shoulder, she slumped to the ground. Just for a minute or two. Until she got her second wind. Then, once he was barefoot, she would take the opportunity and run. Good plan.

Ulrik ripped a strip from his torn shirt and dipped it into the stream. Then he knelt beside her and gently wrapped it around her bruised hand. The cool cloth was a balm for the throbbing of her knuckles. She leaned her back against a large tree, the leaf litter on the forest floor providing a surprisingly soft seat, and she stretched out her legs. The breeze whispered in the trees and the water in the stream bubbled over rocks. Moonlight filtered through the canopy—the reddish glow gone with the ending of the eclipse—and Bek closed her eyes.

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