Unlocking his humanity could shatter her heart.
For witch Constance Voyante, her second sight is more a curse than a gift. Alone and outcast, she survives by trading her healing skills, clinging to a vision of a life as the mate of Langeais’ Black Wolf. Until she discovers the Black Wolf has found his mate. And it’s not her.
When a wild and damaged werewolf appears at the d’Louncrais keep with knowledge of the pack’s traitor locked inside his tortured mind, it’s Constance the Langeais wolves turn to. If anyone can help him, it’s her. No one knows their lore better than she does. Resigned to her solitary life, Constance is unprepared for what awaits her. Another black wolf.
Struck down on a battlefield by one of their own, D’Artagnon d’Louncrais shifted into wolf form and fled, leaving behind his pack and his brother. Presumed dead, he’s returned to take his vengeance, but he has no plans to return to his human form. Not for his brother. Not even for the witch who makes him yearn for something he’s long forsaken. A mate.
Constance is the key to unlocking D’Artagnon’s humanity. D’Artagnon is determined to remain a wolf. Helping him shift could destroy everything Constance has always dreamed of.
General Release Date: 16th September 2025
Constance closed the big book shut on the page dedicated to the Black Wolf and swallowed the lump in her throat. Her mother had warned her about the heartache she could bring upon herself, but she had not listened. Her mother had not the gift of sight. How could Helene have possibly understood the deep, unshakable belief that accompanied her visions? Constance had cast aside her mother’s words of wisdom, trusted in her own truth, and paid the price for her foolishness.
She rubbed her hand across the book’s worn binding. The Black Wolf had come. He had needed her. She had opened the door to him and the love and longing in his dark eyes had been everything she had hoped for. Everything she had envisioned. Only… She heaved out a sigh. It had been for the woman in his arms. For Erin. Not for her. A woman far from her own time, wounded and in the throes of a turning. His mate.
The Black Wolf had needed Constance’s skills as a healer and her knowledge of his kind. Nothing more. The flame of hope that had sustained her through long years of solitude had been snuffed out in an instant. The one vision she had hoped above all was true, and it was but a delusion of her childish dreams.
Constance set the book aside. There was naught she could do to change it. Naught she would do. Only a fool would attempt to separate a wolf and his mate. What she should spend her time on was helping the Dufont boy, and perhaps save his life.
She assembled the ingredients she would need on the table—garlic, rosemary, horse chestnut, horsetail and honey—and set about grinding them into a sticky paste. She would make the journey into the village at first light, give them the remedy and impress on the boy, and his mother, the importance of following her instructions closely. With any luck, they would journey to meet her, and she would encounter them part way on the path. Then she would have no need to spend a night in an empty stable stall with naught but a rough horse blanket for warmth.
A sennight ago, Madame Dufont had sought her services for her son’s cough. Constance’s most recent vision told her the foolish boy had gone swimming in the millpond against her advice, though he had not confessed such to his mother. Now he was wheezing, and Constance suspected his lungs were filling with fluid. If the boy were to die… Well, Constance had experienced such circumstances before, and it would not be the boy’s disregard for his own health the villagers would lay the blame on.
It had been many years since villagers had last forced her from her home, but the memories remained. Of their angry faces and the taunts of ‘witch’. The village aumônier knocking on their door. Their frantic packing to save what they could before someone set fire to their humble home. At least now, she would have somewhere to go. Someone to turn to. The Black Wolf. Constance would call on him if she had a need, but bearing witness to the bond between him and his new mate would be almost too much to bear.
She paused in her grinding. Enough wallowing, Constance. You should be grateful.
Her reconnection with the wolves of Langeais was not without benefit. Having a wolf in her home for a time had ensured a ready supply of meat. That the wolf was Seigneur Gaharet d’Louncrais, the alpha of the pack, had afforded her much more. Luxuries she had never known until now. Though he had forsaken his title, his estate, and had fled the Comte de Anjou, he had support still. He had seen to it Constance had everything she could need.
She ran her hand down the bodice of her new dress. A lovely deep blue and of fine, soft wool, unmarred by constant darning and patching. Another two of similar quality lay folded neatly near her sleeping cot. Her baskets of vegetables and fruits and her salt pot were all full. The barrel of mead nudging the wall beneath her shelves was rich and strong, unlike the watered-down wine she had exchanged for healing the merchant’s sleeplessness. On the table, several new knives gleamed, their edges sharp and their elaborate handles beautiful beside her plain and well-worn ones.
She had stores of dried and salted meat, a pot full of venison and a deer hide and horns to trade with. She could not remember living so well. Yet one thing had not changed. Constance was still alone and still an outcast.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them back, taking in her little hut. The slab table with its nicks and stains, the dirt floor she swept daily, her pots of herbs, her collection of pretty rocks and feathers she had started as a child—they held so many memories. Good and bad. For nearly a half score years she had called this place home. Eight of those years she had lived here alone, her mother gone. Yet it had never felt more empty than since her reconnection with the Langeais wolves.
A tingling up her spine and a pounding of hooves from approaching horses snapped her from her melancholy. Someone had crossed her warning ward beyond her clearing. Villagers rarely approached on horseback. The Dufonts did not own one. Nor their neighbors, and she had received no other vision of a sick child, or a villager in need of care.
Unease prickled up her skin. Seigneur Gaharet had warned her to be wary. Could this be the unknown presence from the night of the storm? The night Seigneur Ulrik and his mate had sought her out? The one who had crossed her ward, yet not revealed themselves?
Her gaze skipped to the length of timber resting beside the door. L’enfer. With wolves beneath her roof, she had gotten into the habit of not barricading her door. Nor had she resumed her practice of replenishing the protection spell over it every morning. She swiftly hoisted the block of wood across it, headless of splinters, and slammed it into its slot. It would hold, but not forever. There was no time to compose a spell. She skirted the table, putting it between herself and the door, and grabbed one of her new knives. With it hidden in the volumes of her skirt, she faced the entrance and waited.
The rider dismounted, and footsteps approached. Her heart thudded in her chest and her hand, gripped around the knife, grew slick with sweat. Was it the keep guard? Or others of Seigneur Gaharet’s pack?
A heavy fist pounded on the door. “Constance.”
Her body trembled, but she stood resolute. For all that it was not much of a life, and lonely living out here in the forest, she had no wish to die today.
“Constance.” The man banged on the door again. “I know you are in there.”
Her grip on the knife tightened. He could smell her. It could only mean one thing. A wolf was at her door. One she could trust? Or one she could not?
Her bottom lip quivered. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“It is I, Aimon. The white wolf.”
Was it truly the young white wolf, so loyal and dedicated?
Oh, where is my second sight now? What use is it if it does not warn me of danger? If it helps everyone but me?
“I am sorry I have frightened you, Constance, but Gaharet has sent me to fetch you.”
Constance wavered. His voice did sound familiar. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
Seigneur Gaharet was in hiding from his own pack. Two wolves had tracked Seigneur Ulrik through the storm.
“Do you remember when we first met? When you found me slouched in the grass watching your cottage? I had hidden myself at the edge of the forest, but you found me all the same. As though you sensed I was there.”
She remembered. A white wolf with bright blue eyes. He had followed Seigneur Gaharet. A protector, bound to his maker by a bond of blood and teeth only death could break.
“Do you remember what you said to me that night? You said, ‘Heed my words, wolf. That which was thought lost you will find. Hidden in plain sight, it is time for its presence to be felt. Guard it well and the reward shall be yours.’” He chuckled. “I dismissed your words as some nonsensical riddle. But you were right, Constance. I found that which was lost. It was Kathryn. A she-wolf unknown to us. My mate.”
Another wolf had found his mate? Yes, she could sense it around him now, and it only added to the deep knot of misery sitting heavy in her chest. Yet, he had spoken true. She had predicted it. The man who stood on the other side of her door was Monsieur Aimon, the white wolf.
Constance set the knife down, removed the wooden barricade and opened the door. Blue eyes framed by white-blond hair stared down at her.
“Gaharet has requested your presence at the d’Louncrais Keep,” said Aimon. “We have need of your skills.”
“Seigneur Gaharet has returned to his keep?”
“Yes. Much has changed since we last met.” Concern flickered in his eyes. “Will you come, Constance?”
“Of course I will come, but is there not a healer in the d’Louncrais village? It is quite a journey from here.”
“No other healer will suffice. We need your particular skills, and your knowledge of us.”
Oh. Constance stepped away from the door. “Come in. Let me set you some food and drink while I collect my things.”
With Monsieur Aimon seated at her table, a bowl of venison stew and a mug of mead in front of him, Constance grabbed a small sack from a hook on the wall. “Tell me of the injury or illness so that I may bring the correct herbs?”
“It is not an injury of body, but…”
She raised her eyebrows. “Another turning?”
She had received no vision of it. She had already prepared an herbal potion for Seigneur Ulrik’s mate, Rebekah’s turning, when a d’Louncrais’ servant had arrived requesting one, but they had not asked her to deliver it in person.
Constance collected the herb pots she would need, wrapped them in cloth and placed them carefully in her sack along with the preparation for the Dufont boy. They would pass through Langeais Village, and she could deliver it then. She put out the fire and grabbed her cloak. From memory, the d’Louncrais keep was a half day’s ride.
Monsieur Aimon shook his head. “It is not a turning. It is…” His forehead settled into a frown. “Best you see for yourself.”
“Oh.” Her gaze darted to her grimoire. “I shall bring this then.”
Constance scooped up the book and cradled it against her chest. She had a feeling she was going to need it.
K.E Turner can't remember a time when she wasn't writing stories or reading books—as a teenager in class instead of doing math, in her lunch break at work, or at home when there's housework to be done. With a love of history, mystery, suspense, paranormal, and romance, she likes combining more than one element in her stories.
An award winning author, she writes spicy paranormal romances and romantic suspense, with strong but good hearted heroes, smart, sassy heroines and an often unexpected villain or two, to shake things up.
A Western Australian based author, she lives with her husband, two dogs, two cats and a menagerie of farm animals on their property in the southern region of the state. A hopeless romantic, she enjoys beach sunsets, sitting by the wood fire with a good book, a nice shiraz and good food.
Find K.E. Turner at her website, on Instagram and on BookBub.
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