Page 14 of The Wolf and his Witch

Annabellestared at herself in the mirror, at her flushed cheeks and her too-bright eyes as the silence stretched between texts.

Pleeeease.

The wait for a reply was interminable.

I’ll be there as soon as I can. But you owe me. Big time.

Thank you, Isobella. You’re the best sister ever.

Ha! I’m your only sister.

Annabelle slipped her phone back into her bag and straightened her dress. With her shoulders squared, she exited the ladies’ room. She just had to keep from killing Dutton, or begging Gabriel for sex, until backup arrived.

Chapter Seven

Over his wineglass, Gabriel eyed Dutton. Their talk with Marjory Jackson earlier had yielded more than he’d expected. Marjory Jackson was looking to retire as High Priestess. Annabelle was Marjory Jackson’s niece, and was who Marjory was pinning her hopes on as her replacement. Dutton, thefils de pute, according to Marjory, wanted the coven, not Annabelle. Gabriel wasn’t too sure about that. He’d seen the look in Dutton’s eyes at Marjory’s house. The way he’d stared at the swell of Annabelle’s breasts as she’d poked him in the chest, furious he’d dared to insinuate their marriage was a done deal. Gabriel grimaced. Coven politics, it seemed, were no less convoluted than pack politics.

He glanced at his phone again. Nothing. No word from Pierre or Louis. What he was going to do if his Annabelle turned out to betheBella Rodriguez, he couldn’t even contemplate. Stef had asked him if he was sure she was his, and he was. Wasn’t he? His leg bounced beneath the table, and his wolf paced in his mind. He and his wolf were about going out of his skin just thinking about letting her go again.

Dutton set his whiskey on the table. “Why don’t we get down to business? Annabelle cannot go on this mission. I’m sure you agree.”

Gabriel hid his amusement behind his wine. He did agree, but not for the same reasons as Dutton. He tilted his head and regarded the warlock. Could Dutton be the coven’splan de sauvegarde? They’d suggested Marjory come up with acontingency plan, should something happen to Annabelle. Like Gabriel claiming her. Could Dutton be it? Gabriel didn’t think so. Marjory had been very diplomatic, but she hadn’t been able to hide her distaste for the warlock. Not completely. Not from him.

“I’ll not allow it,” said Dutton.

Gabriel choked on his wine. Were they thinking of the same Annabelle?

“And it’s clear to everyone in the coven, with the exception of the High Priestess, that I should be the one to undertake this task.”

Was it clear, or was Dutton nothing more than acrétin arrogant? The latter, he suspected.

Annabelle, a vision in midnight blue, exited thetoilette. And like in Paris, when he’d first spotted her strolling along the Seine, her coffee in one hand, her camera in the other and her woolen leggings showcasing her shapely legs as she spun around taking in the view, she mesmerized him. She walked toward their table, her dress clinging to her curves as she moved. Wearing nosoutien-gorge,her breasts bounced as she sashayed across the room.

And those boots…Fuck me.Hewanted her naked but for them. Gabriel spread his legs a little, allowing more room for his burgeoning cock.

He followed the line of her dress, from the swell of her breast, past the curve of her hip, down to the hint of skin between the hem and the tops of her boots, giving her a thorough eye fucking. It’s what he suspected she’d had in mind by wearingthatdress, those boots and no brassiere. He was not one to disappoint. Not his Annabelle.

She slid into her seat, glaring at him, though the effect was sultrier than perhaps she intended. Anticipation sizzled up hisspine. He would have his woman beneath him before the night was through.

She turned her scowl on the warlock. “Dutton, you’re still here. What a pity.”

Dutton clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair.“So you really think you can take on this tenth century witch hunter, Annabelle?”

It was tempting to hook his foot around theconnard’schair, reef it out from under him and watch him fall.

Annabelle’s eyes turned the icy blue of the Arctic. “Yes, Dutton, I do. Now”—she dismissed Dutton with a flick of her hand—“Gabriel, what can you tell us about this Eveque Faucher?”

Gabriel leaned his elbows on the table. “Faucher is not the only danger you’ll face in the tenth century. How accurate is this spell?” He took a sip of his wine—a nice Bordeaux he’d chosen with Annabelle in mind. “You have tested it, right?”

He didn’t like the idea of discussing too much in front of Dutton, but it didn’t look like theconnardhad plans to leave anytime soon.

Annabelle’s gaze dipped, burned a path across his shirt and caught on the vee of skin laid bare by his open collar. Her pupils dilated, leaving only a thin circle of blue visible. Her breath gave a little hitch and her heart rate increased.

He bit back a grin. “Annabelle.”

Her gaze snapped back to his face. “What?”

“The spell,” he reiterated. “You have tested it, right?”

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