Epilogue

Ulrik slipped from the bed and eased the covers over Rebekah, tucking her in. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned in her sleep, but she did not wake. He brushed a strand of dark hair off her forehead and dropped a kiss on her nose. How had he been lucky enough to come across a woman so perfect for him? And so forgiving? She had said he did deserve her. That they deserved each other. He would spend the rest of his life proving it to her.

With one last look at Rebekah sleeping peacefully, Ulrik slipped from their bedchamber. Three days he had stayed by her side, spooning more of Constance’s ghastly concoction between her lips, feeding her slices of raw and bloody meat, washing her down with a damp cloth and holding her in his arms as her body transformed. She had awoken, a fully transitioned werewolf, and they had spent three more days in bed wrapped in each other’s arms, only leaving it to eat

He grinned. If he’d been worried about how his mate would handle her new body, he should have known better. Rebekah had wanted to test her newfound abilities straight away. He had convinced her a bath and rest were more important, and soon fatigue had pulled at her. After he had assured her this was normal, that Aimon had spent the first week mostly sleeping, she had returned to bed. Soon, he would begin her training. His cock surged, pushing at his breeches. Training between mates, he had heard, often led to sex. Sex with Rebekah was something he would never get enough of.

He stood in the doorway watching her—the steady rise and fall of her chest, the smile tugging at her lips as she dreamed. He had never felt so blessed, and yet the situation he was bringing his newly turned mate into concerned him. For all that three of the pack had found their mates, they had never been more at risk than they were now. Never had their kind, their very existence, been more vulnerable or faced so many threats.

Renaud was dead and they had appeased Lothair—for now—but the fact remained, they still had a traitor amongst them. Did Godfrey’s absence speak to his guilt? Or was Gaharet right to be cautious of Lance? And what of this new threat? Eveque Faucher? The witch hunter. For what reason had he come? From what Edmond had said, it was unlikely Renaud had sent for him. So who had?

He took the stairs down to the hall, following the echo of voices. Anne, Gaharet, Erin and Farren stood around the central fire pit. Erin’s shoulders drooped and her face was pale beneath her the veil of her blonde hair. She rubbed her hand over her stomach. Gaharet paced, agitated steps backward and forward as he tugged at his beard. Anne, her expression darker than an autumn thundercloud, glared at Gaharet. Farren cupped his hand over his mouth, amusement twinkling in his hazel eyes.

“I had a colleague who had morning sickness for nine months. Morning, noon and night,” said Erin, swallowing hard, as though just the thought of being sick churned her stomach. “So, excuse me , if I’m not feeling super excited about being pregnant right now.”

Gaharet halted in his pacing. “Nine months!” He shot a concerned look at Anne. “Surely werewolf blood would cure this?”

Anne snorted. “Pregnancy is not a wound or a disease to be cured, Gaharet. It is a natural bodily function. A woman’s body, whether human or werewolf, goes through many changes during a pregnancy. If I remember correctly, your mother was ill for a time when she carried both you and D’Artagnon.”

“How long was my mother ill for?”

Anne levied a flat look at Gaharet. “Three months or so.”

“Three months!”

The look Anne sent Gaharet had Ulrik backing away. His friend was on his own.

“I am beginning to understand Erin’s less than enthusiastic response,” Gaharet muttered.

Ulrik pursed his lips and tried to quell his amusement. The old cook’s whole body vibrated with her displeasure. Gaharet was a wise alpha, and usually an astute one. Clearly his instincts were failing him now.

Anne fisted her hands on her ample hips and arched an eyebrow. “Now I am sure your concern is for your mate, not for the lack of what is happening in the bedchamber.”

Gaharet’s face flushed and Anne’s eyebrows descended into a frown.

“I taught you better than that, boy. You will be looking after this lovely mate of yours properly, or you will answer to Old Anne. Now, dear,” she put her hand on Erin’s shoulder, “ginger brew will help with the queasiness.”

“Ginger brew, Anne,” agreed Gaharet. “Lots of it. As much as Erin can bear.”

She grunted at him. “Just like your father.”

Gaharet glared at him. “Do not laugh, Ulrik. It will be your turn soon enough.”

Ulrik looked away, stifling his mirth, and spotted Gascon standing in the doorway. Gascon blinked, blinked again and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

Ulrik stepped toward him, a familiar scent tickling his nose. He called his wolf to the surface, the hackles on his neck rising. “Gascon? Is there a problem?”

“Forgive the intrusion, Mon Seigneur Ulrik, but there is someone here I think you should all see.”

Gascon stepped aside.

A big black wolf, heavily scarred, padded through the doorway. Long thought dead, staring at them with his one good eye, stood D’Artagnon. Gaharet’s younger brother was alive.