Page 37 of Wolf's Redemption

The young chevalier stiffened beneath his touch, sharing a look with the servant, who scurried away. To hide Kathryn from him? To warn Gaharet of his presence? The latter, he hoped. He would welcome Gaharet’s counsel, though he doubted Gaharet would risk revealing himself with so many of the keep guard present. He was an alpha werewolf, not invincible.

Lothair swept through the keep and into the library. Aimon followed, and Lothair’s four guards took position outside the door. Aimon was a werewolf. Kathryn, too. Lothair had not survived so long by taking unnecessary risks.

He poured himself some wine, chose a chair by the brazier and scanned the room as he sipped from his goblet. Chests of scrolls, parchments and books lined the walls. Never had he seen so many in one place. Not in his keep, nor in the cathedral at Tours he had once visited in his youth. Rumor had it there were works in here from as far off as Constantinople. What knowledge would he find were he to take the time to look? What secrets might it reveal? He drummed his fingers on his thigh. Perhaps he should take the vaunted d’Louncrais library for himself.

Aimon stood, waiting, his face revealing nothing of the emotions, the fear, Lothair was certain whirled inside him. He was learning. Ensnared in his trap for the informant, and unpracticed in the art of intrigue, Aimon had been too easy to play. Recent events had changed that, but Lothair had yet to meet a man he could not read.

“Tell me, Aimon, of your meeting with the pack. Did you uncover Renaud’s informant?”

Uncertainty flashed in Aimon’s bright blue eyes. Maybe he had been wrong to send in Aimon. He was no match for the experience of the others, Lance in particular.

“Tell me you have something. An impression. A feeling in your gut. Who fought hardest for Kathryn, apart from yourself?”

Aimon’s gaze hardened. “Godfrey.”

Mmm, interesting. He picked up the poker and stirred the coals in the brazier. Aimon ventured no further information. Well…thatwould not do.

“Aimon, I thought we had an understanding. In return for your assistance, I would let you have the girl, but…” He shrugged. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you do not wish for Kathryn as much as I believed.”

A stillness came over Aimon, one Lothair recognized well. The readying of a predator before the attack. In the air a musky scent pervaded, and Aimon’s intense blue stare fixed on him.

With a nonchalance that betrayed his own alertness, he set aside the poker and approached the young chevalier, casually draping his hand across the hilt of his sword. “Do you want to keep her?”

He stood toe to toe, eye to eye with Aimon. A man who could shift into a werewolf. The thrill of it zipped through his veins. Who would triumph in a match between them? The beast? Or the warrior whose precarious hold over his county, and at times, his life, had long since stripped away any conscience he may have been born with?

Aimon’s lip curled back in a snarl, revealing an elongated canine. “Kathryn is mine.”

His words were little more than a guttural growl as dark shapes shifted in his eyes. The musky scent intensified. How close was Aimon to shifting? Could he channel his inner wolf,the strength and the enhanced senses, without changing form? Lothair longed to know, to be on the other side of this standoff. To have what they had. He would have it. Theywouldgive him what he wanted. Eventually.

“I will ask you again. Do you want to keep her?”

He would not, could not, allow a challenge to go unchecked, not even in the privacy of this library. Aimon could still prove useful, but Lothair would not hesitate to cut him down. As a chevalier, Aimon was good, but not as practiced, nor as cunning as he. As a werewolf, he might think he could best him. But would a turning only a few years old give him the edge over an experienced warrior? One whose ruthlessness the pontiff had likened to that of the Devil? Had Lothair faced Gaharet, the outcome would be in question. But Aimon… Lothair was certain he had the advantage.

Aimon, it seemed, came to the same conclusion, for he backed away.

“It is time for you to earn your keep, Aimon.” Lothair released his hold on his sword, pleased with the outcome of their little battle of wills, yet disappointed he had not the chance to test himself against a werewolf. “Tell me what happened at the pack meeting.”

Aimon stared at the floor. “I could not discern who the traitor is. Godfrey was unusually angry, and he is hiding something.”

Aimon’s loyalty to his pack was strong. For one such as him, it would cut deep to give up their secrets. But his desire to protect Kathryn burned brighter, and Lothair would use that to get what he wanted.

“And?”

Aimon’s face twisted into a grimace, as though telling him anything caused him physical pain. “Lance gave me a plausible excuse for why he lied about the night in the clearing, about where he was when Ulrik—”

“Yes, speaking of Ulrik. Where is he, Aimon?”

Aimon frowned, concern and confusion flickering across his face before it went as blank as un-scribed parchment.

Lothair considered the young chevalier. “Did you aid him in his escape?”

Aimon shot him an incredulous look. “How? You had him shackled in silver. I am no more immune to it than he is.”

“And the woman?”

More confusion. “What woman?”

“The woman who helped him escape. The woman who, the guard swears, did not pass them, yet somehow got into a locked and guarded underground chamber.”

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