TOUCH OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

So it began—Stefan’s first attempt to provoke Braden into anger. But Braden wouldn’t give the Russian that much advantage. As long as he remained unshakably in control, he held the upper hand as his grandfather’s heir and leader of the Convocation. It was a primal game of thrust and parry born long before man used edged weapons in battle—just as deadly, but played as much with the mind and will as with tooth and claw.

“I hear you’ve a new addition to the family,” Stefan continued. “An American cousin—lovely and inexperienced, I’m told, but delectable. Cassidy… most unusual. I am eager to make her acquaintance.”

Braden stopped himself from taking the Russians bait. If Stefan knew of Cassidy, he had been watching the Forsters for many days—possibly in London as well as at Greyburn.

“Miss Holt,” Braden said carefully, “is in seclusion. She will not take part in this Convocation.”

“A pity. I shall hope that changes before this meeting is over. And now, if you will be so kind, we should like to be shown our rooms.”

The only alternative to acquiescence was open challenge. Braden gestured to Aynsley, who was ready with footmen to assist the Russian servants with the Boroskovs luggage. The Russians didn’t travel light, and though the days of serfs were past, the count delighted in a large retinue of obsequious human underlings.

Braden had arranged to put the Russians in a suite of rooms as far as possible from the other guests—and from the family wing. Well-placed footmen would report immediately if either Stefan or his brother ventured where they should not go. Braden himself escorted the Russians up to their suite, Quentin at his side for good measure. Beyond such precautions, there was little to do but wait.

But Stefan, it seemed, had no interest in waiting. After a brief inspection of his suite, he made clear that he and his relatives wished to join the other guests as soon as possible. “Rest can come later,” he said. “It has been long since we walked among our own kind beyond the borders of Russia. I do not intend to miss a moment of this delightful company. Come, Tasya; Fedor will see to the servants.”

The small hairs stood erect along the back of Braden’s neck as he and Quentin led the two Russians to the drawing room. Instinctively he listened for the sound of Cassidy’s voice, or the drift of her unique scent—anything that would betray her presence. But she was safe in her room, with Telford himself guarding her door, and Stefan descended the stairs without showing undue interest in the family wing.

Stefan Boroskov would not touch the tip of Cassidy’s smallest finger unless it was over Braden’s shattered body.

Thirteen

Cassidy lassoed the chair by the fireplace for the hundredth time, pulled the noose tight and let the rope fall, listening once again for the distant voices and music echoing up from the drawing room.

Since the first werewolf guests had arrived at Greyburn several hours ago, she’d been a virtual prisoner. She hadn’t spoken to or seen Braden after their last conversation in the library; he’d conveyed his “wishes” that she remain in her room via Telford, who still lingered in the corridor outside like a jailer. Even Isabelle was confined to her new room down the corridor, permitted to stay only on condition of complete isolation from the loups-garous at Greyburn.

From her window facing the drive, Cassidy had watched the third set of guests arrive—the pale-haired man, his darker male companion, and the not-young, not-old woman accompanying them. Though Cassidy hadn’t been able to hear the brief conversation between Braden and the newcomers, she’d known immediately that something was very wrong. The stance of Braden’s body, the way the pale-haired man looked at him… the blatant hostility sent shivers racing up her spine. She’d almost flung open the window and shouted to Braden to watch out for the attack she was sure must come at any moment.

But she hadn’t. Braden would not have thanked her. He didn’t want her among the delegates. He had agreed to give Isabelle a chance, but not her. She still wasn’t part of his Cause.

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