Page 25 of The Wolf and his Witch

The man had balls, Dutton would give him that.

Irritation flickered in Cordelia’s eyes. Boucher showed no signs he’d taken the hint.

“We’ll uphold our end of the bargain.” Cordelia’s words came with a coating of steel.

Boucher shrugged. “And I will uphold mine.” He turned to Dutton. “Where iz ‘e now? Montagne?”

Dutton gritted his teeth. “Fucking Annabelle. They have history. Damn wolf is acting like he has some sort of claim onher.” Though his blood still boiled, he took comfort in knowing Annabelle would soon be his—willing or unwilling—heart, body and soul.

Boucher cocked an eyebrow, making the scars on his face stretch. “’E iz? Mm. Interesting, no?”

“Interesting? He’sfuckingmy intended. It’s pissing me off, that’s what it is. It’s notfuckinginteresting.” Dutton paced, his earlier agitation returning. The prick of a shifter had not tried to hide his intentions. He’d slung Annabelle over his shoulder right in front of him and carried her into the elevator. The triumphant smirk on the shifter’s face, the challenge in his eyes as the elevator doors had closed—it had taken everything he had not to throw himself at them. He’d wanted to pound the shifter into the expensive foyer tiles and wipe them with his blood. He’d been so close to unleashing his magic right there and then, in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton. Only Isobella’s warning glare had held him in check.

Boucher remained unmoved. “She must be somezing special, zis Annabelle, no? Zis could be useful.”

“Useful?Useful?”

“Dutton.”

The warning note in his great aunt’s voice pulled him up short. He huffed and made a beeline for the side cabinet. He needed a drink, and he didn’t care it was six in the morning. After the night he’d had, imagining Annabelle with another man between her thighs… Dutton poured himself a whiskey, allowing the slide of it down his throat to burn away some of his anger.

“Could it be zis woman iz Montagne’s mate?”

Dutton spat out his whiskey. “What?”

“Could it be zis Annabelle means more to ’im zan a mere, ’ow you say,booty call?”

Dutton wiped the whiskey off his chin with his sleeve.

“You say ’e has a ’istory wiz her? Perhaps z’ere is somezing bringing him back to ’er, no?”

Was it possible?

“Does ’e have eyes for no ozer woman, no matter ’ow beautiful? Does ’e growl when you get too close?”

“Yes.” They had connections with shifter clans here in San Francisco. Dutton had witnessed the way shifter males were with their mates. Boucher was right. Everything about Montagne’s behavior suggested he believed Annabelle was his mate.

“Oui.I zink she iz ‘iz mate.Zis is good ’zing. ’Iz focus will be on ’er, not uz. She will lead ’im around byla bite, no?”

La bite?Dutton didn’t speak French, but he got the idea. Dutton smiled and threw back his whiskey. In taking Annabelle for himself, Dutton would be taking away the shifter’s one true mate. And didn’t that just make his day.

Chapter Twelve

A persistent nudging of his foot stirred Gabriel from his sleep, and he rolled over.

“From that grin on your face and the reek of this room, I’m guessing someone got lucky last night. Very lucky.”

Gabriel opened one eye to Stef standing over him. He flung his arm out to draw Annabelle into his arms and encountered nothing but cold sheets. His mood soured. She’d left him? Snuck out while he slept?

“Time to get up, Napoleon. There is intrigue afoot and your Josephine is in the middle of it all. And put on some clothes. It’s too early in the morning to deal with any shifter naked, but one who I think of as a brother…” Stef exited the room. “I’ll make coffee,” she called out as she pounded down the stairs.

Gabriel forced himself from the bed, away from the intoxicating scent of Annabelle and sex, quickly showered then dragged on a pair of jeans. Shrugging into a T-shirt, he descended the stairs. What had Stef meant about intrigue? Had she found something at Rarity last night?

In the kitchen, Stef handed him a cup of coffee and he took a few fortifying sips before setting it down. “So, give me the details. What did you find out last night?”

Stef leaned back against the counter, cradling her cup in her hands. “Marjory’s study was a wealth of knowledge, but I found nothing relating to time travel, spells or otherwise. Nor did I find a hint of an amulet, but”—she shrugged—“I left not long after you texted me and I hadn’t been in there long. It took a bitgetting past Marjory’s wards. I had to call Alain for help. There could’ve been something there.”

“Maybe. Annabelle said she sent her the photo she says she took of the spell. Marjory Jackson’s too smart to have printed it out.”

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