Cry Wolf
Chapter SIX

"He likes you," Charles said, folding up the map.
"How do you know that?" she asked.
"People he doesn't like, he doesn't talk to." He started to say something else but lifted his head and stared at the door with a frown instead. "I wonder what he wants?"
Once he drew her attention to it, she heard the car drive up, too.
"Who?" she asked, but he didn't answer, just stalked out to the living room, leaving her to follow hesitantly.
Charles jerked open the door, revealing the wolf from the funeral. Asil. He had one hand raised to knock on the door. In the other he had a bouquet of flowers, mostly yellow roses, but there were a few purple daisy-looking things, too.
Asil adjusted to the reordering of his entrance smoothly, gifting Anna with a smile while avoiding Charles's gaze. It might have been the proper and right response to an obviously irritated wolf who was more dominant-except that his eyes were boldly locked on Anna's.
"I brought an apology," he said. "For the lady." He was, Anna noticed, almost a foot shorter than Charles, just an inch or two taller than she was.
Standing next to Charles, she could see that their coloring was similar, dark skin and darker eyes and hair-black in artificial light. But the skin tone was different and Asil's features were sharper, Middle Eastern rather than Native American.
"For my lady," said Charles, slowly, with a growl in his voice.
Asil smiled brilliantly, the wolf apparent in his face for an instant before it faded. "For your lady, of course. Of course." He handed the flowers to Charles, then said silkily, "She doesn't carry your scent, Charles. Which is why I made the mistake." He glanced up at Charles slyly, smiled again, then turned on his heel and all but ran back out to his car, which was still idling.
Anna hugged herself against the rage that she sensed sweeping through Charles, though she didn't understand why Asil's last words had made him so angry.
Charles shut the door and silently held out the flowers. But there was a savageness in the tension of his shoulders and body language that made Anna put her hands behind her and take a step back. She didn't want anything to do with Asil's flowers if they made Charles so angry.
He looked at her then, instead of through her, and something tightened further in the muscles of his face.
"I'm not Leo or Justin, Anna. These are yours. They're pretty, and they smell good, better than most flowers. Asil has a hothouse, and he seldom cuts the blooms from his plants. He was grateful for your help this morning, or he wouldn't have done it. That he could goad me when he gave them to you just made him a little happier. You should enjoy them."
His words didn't match the fury she could smell-and even though Charles thought she didn't use her nose very effectively, she had learned to believe it over her ears.
She couldn't manage to meet his eyes, but she did take the flowers and walk into the kitchen, where she stopped. She had no idea where she could find a vase. She heard a noise behind her, and he set down on the counter one of the pottery jars from the living room.
"This should be about the right size," he said. When she just stood there, he filled the jar with water himself. Slowly-so not to spook her, she thought-he took the bouquet, trimmed the ends of the flowers, and arranged them with more expedience than art.
The sudden shock of fear, followed by shame for her cowardice, took her a while to work through. And she didn't want to compound matters by saying the wrong thing. Or doing the wrong thing.
"I'm sorry," she said. Her stomach was so tight it was hard to breathe. "I don't know why I get so stupid."
He stopped fussing with the last flower, a purple one. Slowly, so she had plenty of time to back away, he put a finger under her chin and tilted it up. "You've known me less than a week," he told her. "No matter how it sometimes feels. Not nearly enough time to learn to trust. It's all right, Anna. I am patient. And I won't hurt you if I can help it."
She looked up, expecting black eyes and met golden instead. But his hand on her was still gentle, even with the wolf so close.
"It is I who am sorry," he said. Apologizing, she thought, as much for the wolf as for his brief display of temper. "This is new to me as well." He grinned at her, a flash and gone. The oddly boyish expression managed to make him look sheepish despite a certain sharp edge. "I'm not used to being jealous, or having so little control. It's not just the bullet wounds, though they don't help."
They stood there for a while more, his hand under her chin. Anna was afraid to move for fear she would provoke the rage that kept his eyes wolf yellow or do something that might hurt him the way she'd hurt him with her flinch. She didn't know what Charles was waiting for.
He spoke first.
"My father told me that there was something bothering you when you left the church this morning. Was it Asil? Or was it something else?"
She took a step sideways. He let her go, but his hand slid from her face to her shoulder, and she couldn't make herself take another step and lose that touch. He was going to think she was a neurotic idiot if she didn't get a better grip on herself. "Nothing was bothering me. I'm fine."
He sighed. "Six words and two lies. Anna, I'm going to have to teach you how to smell a lie, then you won't try them with me." He pulled his hand back, and she could have cried out at the loss-even though part of her wanted nothing to do with him. "You can just tell me you don't want to talk about it."
Tired of herself, Anna rubbed her face, puffed out her cheeks, then blew like a winded horse. Finally, she lifted her gaze and met his again. "I'm a mess," she told him. "Mostly I don't know what I'm feeling or why-and I don't want to talk about the rest yet." Or ever. To anyone. She was a stupid coward and had gotten herself into a situation in which she was helpless. When they got back from the mountains, she would find a job. With money in the bank and something constructive to do, she could get her bearings.
He tilted his head. "I can understand that. You've been uprooted from everything you know, dumped among strangers, and had all the rules you knew pulled out from under your feet. It's going to take some time to get used to. If you have questions about anything, just ask. If you don't want to talk to me, you can catch my father or...Sage? You liked Sage?"
"I liked Sage." Did she have any questions? Her irritation at herself transferred to him just fine, even though she could tell he didn't mean to treat her like a child. He wasn't trying to be patronizing, only trying to help. It wasn't his fault that his soothing tone put her teeth on edge-especially when she could tell he was still angry about something. Did she like Sage? As if he had to go out and find friends for her.
She was tired of being afraid and uncertain. He wanted questions. She'd been taught not to ask-werewolves keep secrets as if they were gold in a vault. Fine.
"What was it that Asil said that pushed you from irritated to enraged?"
"He threatened to try to take you from me," he told her.
She thought over the conversation, but didn't see it. "When?"
"It takes more than this attraction between us to seal us together as a mated pair. When he told me that you didn't smell of me, he was telling me he knew we haven't completed the mating-and that he considered you fair game."
She frowned at him.
"We haven't made love," he told her. "And there's a formal ceremony under the full moon that cements our bonds-a wedding. Without those, Asil can still make a play for you without retaliation."
Yet another thing she'd never heard before. If she had been ten years younger, she'd have stamped her foot. "Is there a book?" she demanded hotly. "Something I can look up all this stuff in?"
"You could write one," he suggested. If she hadn't been watching his mouth she'd never have seen the flash of humor. He thought she was funny.
"Maybe I will," she said darkly, and turned on her heel- except there was nowhere to go. His bedroom?
She shut herself in the bathroom and turned on the shower to hide any sounds she made, a second barrier because the door she'd locked behind her wasn't enough.
She stared at herself in the mirror, which was beginning to fog. The blurring reflection only enhanced the illusion that she was looking at a stranger-someone she despised for cowardice and uncertainty, who was good for nothing except waiting tables. But that was nothing new; she'd hated herself ever since she'd been turned into this...this monster.
A pathetic monster at that.
Her eyes looked bruised, her cheeks pale. She remembered her panicked retreat from Charles's brief show of temper, how she'd helplessly apologized for forcing her company upon him in this expedition. And she despised herself even more. She didn't used to be like this.
It wasn't Charles's fault.
So why was she so angry with him?
Viciously, she stripped out of her clothes and stepped into the steaming shower, feeling some relief as the pain from too-hot water sliced through the stupid tangle of emotion she was wallowing in.
And in that moment of clarity she understood why she'd been so upset by the end of the funeral-and why she was so upset with Charles in particular.
She hadn't realized how much she wanted to be human again. She knew it was impossible, knew nothing could undo the magic that had been forced upon her. But that didn't mean she didn't want it.
For three years she'd lived with monsters, had been one of them. Then Charles had come. He was so different from them; he'd given her hope.
But that wasn't fair. It wasn't his fault part of her had decided that she wasn't just leaving her pack, she was leaving the monsters behind.
He'd never lied to her. He'd told her he was his father's enforcer, and she hadn't doubted it. She'd seen him fight, seen him kill. Even so, somehow she'd managed to convince herself that Montana would be different. That she could be normal, could be human, every day except for the full moon-and even that would be different here, where there was room to run without hurting anyone.
She should have known better. She did know better.
It wasn't Charles's fault that he was a monster, too.
It had been easy to lay the destruction of the Chicago pack's holding cell on the silver poisoning. But tonight, confronting Asil, he'd shown her that he wasn't any different than any other male werewolf: angry, possessive, and dangerous.
She'd allowed herself to believe that it was just the Chicago pack. That the mess Leo and his mate had created was the reason for the terrible thing the pack had been.
She'd wanted a knight in shining armor. A voice of reason in the madness, and Charles had provided it for her. Did he know that was what she'd been looking for? Had he done it deliberately?
As the water matted her hair and ran into her eyes and over her cheeks like tears, her last question clarified and answered her greatest fear: of course Charles hadn't set out to be her knight deliberately, that was just who he was.
He was a werewolf dominant enough to back down the Alpha of a pack without the resources an Alpha could draw on. He was his father's hit man, an assassin feared even by other members of his own pack. He could have been like Justin: ravening and cruel.
Instead, he knew the madness of what they were and managed, not just to overcome it, but to use it, to make something better. She had the sudden picture of his beautiful hands gently arranging flowers while his wolf craved violence in the worst way.
Charles was a monster. His father's assassin. She wouldn't allow herself to believe a lie again. If Bran had told him to, he would have killed Jack. Killed him knowing that the human was only a victim, that he was probably a good man. But it wouldn't have been casual. She'd seen the relief that had flowed over him when Bran had found an alternative to killing the human.
Her mate was a killer, but he didn't enjoy it. Looking at it clearly, she was a little awed at how he'd managed to be so civilized and still meet the demands of who and what he was required to be.
The water was cooling off.
She shampooed her hair, enjoying the way the soap rinsed away so easily; Chicago water was much softer. She conditioned her hair with something that smelled of herbs and mint, recognizing the scent from Charles's hair. By that time, the water was starting to become uncomfortably cold.
She took a long time combing out the tangles without looking at the mirror and concentrated on feeling nothing. She was good at that, having perfected it over the past three years. When she faced him again, she didn't want to be a whiney, scared-of-herself nitwit again. So she needed to control her fear.
She knew one way to do that. It was a cheat, but she gave herself permission, if only for tonight because she'd made such a fool of herself by hiding in the bathroom.
She stared at herself in the mirror and watched her brown eyes pale to silvery blue and back. So much and no more. The strength and fearlessness of the wolf wrapped around her and gave her calm acceptance. Whatever happened, she would survive. She had before.
If Charles was a monster, it was by necessity rather than choice.
She dressed in the yellow shirt and jeans, then opened the bathroom door slowly.
Charles was leaning, still golden-eyed, against the wall opposite the door. Other than his eyes, he was the epitome of relaxation-but she knew to believe the eyes.
She'd checked her own with a glance at the mirror before she'd opened the door.
"I've decided you need to know about Asil," he told her as if there had been no break in their conversation.
"All right." She stayed in the doorway, the steamy room warm at her back.
He spoke slowly and distinctly, as if he were pulling his words out from between his teeth. "Asil's not really his name, though it's what most people call him. They also call him the Moor."
She stiffened. Uneducated about her own kind she might be, but she'd heard of the Moor. Not a wolf to mess with.
He saw her reaction, and his eyes narrowed. "If there is a wolf in this world older than my father, it might be Asil."
He seemed to be waiting for her to comment, so she finally asked, "You don't know how old Asil is?"
"I know how old he is. Asil was born just before Charles Martel, Charlemagne's grandfather, defeated the Moors at the Battle of Tours."
She must have looked blank.
"Eighth century A.D."
"That would make him..."
"About thirteen hundred years old."
She leaned against the wall herself. She'd seen the weight of age on him, but she'd never have guessed how many years.
"So, the one you're not sure of is your father?" Thirteen hundred years was a long time.
He shrugged, the answer clearly didn't matter to him. "Da's old." He turned his amber eyes away from her face.
"Asil came here a while ago, fourteen-fifteen years, to ask my father to kill him. He settled for the promise of death instead-as soon as my father determines that he really is crazy."
Charles gave her a small smile. "Asil didn't have any problem with my father being his Alpha. But he had a problem with me being more dominant-which is why I think Da might be older than Asil. My relative youth is a thorn in his paw."
Anna worked it out in her head. "Didn't he talk about his Alpha in Europe? And I don't remember him being an Alpha in any of the stories about him." There were a lot of stories about the Moor. He was almost a folk hero-or villain-among the wolves.
"Being an Alpha isn't easy," Charles said. "It's a lot of responsibility, a lot of work. Some of the older wolves get pretty good at concealing what they are from others-that's one of the reasons Alphas don't like old wolves moving into their packs. Asil's plenty dominant." He smiled again, but this time it was more a baring of teeth. "He'd been here a couple of months when I stepped between him and one of our nonwolf residents. He wasn't amused to find out that I really was more dominant than him."
"He could submit to your father because he is older, to his other Alphas-because he wasn't really submitting. But, to have to obey you when you are so much younger and not even an Alpha..."
Charles nodded. "So he digs at me, and I ignore him. Then he digs harder."
"That's what tonight was?" Anna could see it. "He was using me to dig at you."
Charles tilted his head in a gesture that was more wolf than human. "Not entirely. The Moor had a mate, but he lost her a couple of hundred years ago. She died before my time, so I never met her, but she was supposed to have been an Omega, like you." He shrugged. "He has never said so in my hearing, nor has my father. There are a lot of stories about the Moor, and until I saw his reaction to you at Doc's funeral, I'd put that one down to pure hype along with a lot of other legends connected to his name."
The warmth from her shower was gone, and the coolness of the water it left behind was chilly-or maybe it was recalling the way the old wolf had stared into her eyes in the church. "Why did his reaction make you rethink it?"
She could tell from Charles's nod that she'd asked the right question. "Because when he noticed what you are, he stopped bothering you to get to me-and became interested in you." He took a deep breath. "That's why he brought you flowers. That's why, when he threatened to try to woo you away from me, I had such a hard time controlling myself-because I knew he really meant it."
She decided to think about that later and keep her attention on the conversation so she didn't push him inadvertently. "Why are you telling me about Asil? Is this a warning?"
He looked away, his face back in its blank mask. "No." He hesitated, then said in a softer voice, "I don't think so. Did you feel as if it was a warning?"
"No," she said finally, as frustrated by the careful information that avoided something she could almost sense-the something that was keeping his wolf so close.
Before she could ask what was troubling him, he told her, face averted, as fast as he could get the words out. "He wanted you to know that if, in the time before the first full moon, you decide not to have me-you could pick him instead. " Even with his head turned away, she could see the edge of his bitter smile. "And he knew he could force me to tell you so."
"Why did you tell me?" Her voice was soft.
He turned back to her. "It is your right to know that although we are compatible, you can still refuse me."
"Can you refuse me?"
"I don't know. I've never heard of a binding happening backwards like ours-Brother Wolf chose you, chose your wolf and left me to follow him. But it doesn't matter-I don't want to refuse you."
The wolf gave her a clearer head in some things, but her wolf had chosen this man and made no bones about what she thought of choosing another. She was forced to push her back a little so she could get a clear sense of what he was trying to tell her.
"And I would do this why?"
Did he want her to refuse him?
Her throat was dry as dust. She, human and wolf both, craved him like a junkie just as she craved all the things he seemed to promise: safety, love, hope-a place to belong. She rubbed nervous hands on her thighs as if that would soothe her tension away.
He whispered, "I hope you don't. But you need to be told of your options." His hands were fisted on his thighs.
She smelled something sharp in his scent that she hadn't before. Damn Leo that he'd left her crippled by ignorance. She'd give her right hand to know what Charles was feeling, to know when he was telling the truth-and when he was just trying not to hurt her.
He was waiting for her answer, but she didn't know what to say.
"Options." She tried for neutrality. What did he want of her?
Evidently not neutrality. His fists opened and closed twice. Nostrils flared wide, he looked at her with hot yellow eyes.
"Options," he growled, his voice dropping so that she felt the rumble of it in her chest. "Asil will spread the word, and you'll be buried in wolves who would be pleased to lay their lives down for the chance of being your mate."
His whole body was shaking, and he leaned harder against the wall as if he were afraid he was going to try to tackle her.
She was failing him. He was losing control, and she wasn't helping, didn't know how to help.
She sucked in another deep breath and tried to let it wash away all of her insecurities. This was not a man who wanted to give up his mate. This was a man trying to do the honorable thing-and give her a choice, no matter how much it cost him. That was right, and the knowledge steadied her, and she let her wolf come back and give her the confidence she needed.
For her he shook like an alcoholic in need of his gin, because he felt she needed to know her options, no matter how his wolf felt about losing his mate. Her knight, indeed.
Her wolf didn't like seeing his unhappiness, wanted to bind him to her, to them, with chains and love until he could never think of leaving them again.
"Well then," she said as briskly as she could manage under the weight of that revelation, a weight that made her feel warm and safe while her eyes burned with tears. Mostly her voice just sounded husky. "It's a good thing there's something we can do to fix that little loophole right now."
He stared at her, as if it was taking him a while to process what she had said. His pupils contracted, and his nostrils flared wide.
Then he launched himself off the wall and was on her, his big body pushing her with frightening intensity against the door frame. His mouth was nipping frantically on her neck. He hit a nerve that sent lightning down her spine, and her knees buckled.
As a rich musky scent rose from his skin, he lifted her into his arms in a jerky, uncoordinated move that banged one of her shoulders painfully against the door. She kept still as he stalked down the hallway with her; she'd seen a wolf in rut before and knew better than to do anything but meekly submit.
Except, she couldn't help touching his face to see if the ruddy tinge on the edge of his cheekbones was warmer than the rest of him. And then her fingers had to linger on the corner of his mouth, where a small quirk so often betrayed the amusement he otherwise kept hidden.
He turned his head a little and closed his teeth on her thumb, hard enough she felt it, but not so hard that it hurt. Maybe, she thought, as he opened his mouth and released her thumb only to move his head and catch her ear in the same light nip that sent a wave of heat from her earlobe that scorched unexpected places, maybe she was in rut, too. She certainly had never felt like this before.
Even though there was no one else in the house, he closed the door with a foot, enclosing them in the dark warmth of his bedroom.
Their bedroom.
He didn't so much set her down on the bed as fall down with her, making urgent sounds that were more wolf than human while he did so. Or maybe it was her making the noise.
He ripped her jeans, getting them off, and she returned the favor. Feeling the heavy cloth part under her hands was satisfying. More satisfying was the warm silk of his skin under her fingers. His hands were callused, and though he was obviously doing his best to be gentle, they sometimes bit in as he struggled to move her where he wanted without lifting himself off of her.
With her wolf in ascendance, he didn't frighten her in the least. The wolf knew he would never hurt her.
She understood his passion because she felt the same way: as if nothing was more important than the touch of her skin to his, as if she'd die if he left her. The fear and her usual distaste of sex-even the wolf wasn't bestial enough to do more than endure what those others had done-was so far gone it wasn't even a memory.
"Yes," he told her. "Soon."
"Now," she ordered him sharply, though she wasn't sure exactly what she wanted him to do.
He laughed, and it rattled rustily in his chest. "Patience. "
Her shirt ripped and her bra soon followed it, then it was her naked skin against his flannel shirt. Frantically, she tugged and pulled at it, popping buttons and half-choking him before she got it off. Her urgency seemed to inflame him, and his hands jerked her hips into position.
She hissed as he came into her carefully, and far too slowly. She bit him on the shoulder for the care he took. He growled something thickly that might have been words-or might not have. But only when he was satisfied that she was ready did he release the control he'd been holding on to by fingertips ever since Asil had left.
The first time was fast and hard, but not too fast for her. They'd barely finished when he began again. This time he set the pace and held her back when she would have forced him to speed up.
She'd never felt anything like it, or like the satisfied peace that followed her into sleep. She could get used to feeling like this.
* * * *
She woke up in the middle of the night to the unfamiliar sound of the furnace turning on. Sometime in her sleep, she'd rolled away from him. He lay on the other side of the bed, his face relaxed. He was snoring lightly, almost a purr, and it made her smile.
She reached a hand toward him. Then stopped. What if she woke him up, and he was angry with her for disturbing his sleep?
She knew, knew he wouldn't care. But her wolf, who'd helped her through all they had done to her, who had let her enjoy his touch, was sleeping, too. Anna curled up on her side of the bed, finally rolling until her back was toward him. Her restlessness must have disturbed him, because suddenly he surrounded her, spooning in behind her. The sharp alarm she felt at the suddenness of his move woke the wolf.
He threw one arm over her waist. "Go to sleep."
With the wolf to protect her, she could give herself over to the way his body heat made her muscles and bones relax into the rightness of his presence. She gripped his wrist with one hand and held it over her belly before letting sleep grab her in return. Hers.
* * * *
When he woke her up, it was still dark outside.
"Morning," he said, his voice a rumble under her ear. It felt so good that she pretended to still be asleep.
He wrapped his arms around her and rolled over quickly twice. She managed a squawk as they rolled right off the bed. She landed on top of him, and her hip on his belly vibrated with his silent laughter.
"Like that, is it?" she muttered, and, before she remembered his wound, touched her fingers into the muscle just under his ribs.
"Quit that," he mock growled, catching her hand so she couldn't tickle him again. He sounded amused, so she must not have hurt him. "We have a job to do, woman, and you're slowing us down."
"Hah," she said, and wiggled her hip a little, making them both very aware that he'd probably agree to a delay in getting ready. Then she wiggled a little more determinedly and slipped free of his hold.
"Morning," she told him. "Time to go." And she sauntered naked out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom.
* * * *
He watched her go with appreciation, aware of the spark of true happiness that lit his soul. She didn't look beaten at all this morning-and that little sashay of her hips told him that she was feeling pretty good.
He'd made her feel like that. How long had it been since he'd been the cause of someone else's happiness?
He lay back on the floor to enjoy it until his conscience kicked in. They had a job to do. The sooner they got out into the woods, the sooner they'd be back and free to play.
To that end, he tested out his wounds experimentally. They still hurt, and they'd slow him up a little-but as Samuel promised, he was feeling much better. And not just because of Anna.
He was dressed and collecting his winter gear from the closet-he'd have to find someplace else for all of it, so Anna could have half of the closet-when Anna came back in. She was wrapped in a bath sheet, having evidently lost some of her boldness while in the bathroom.
He decided to give her some space. "I'll fix breakfast while you get dressed."
Her eyes were on the floor as she skittered past him. If his ears hadn't been sharp, he wouldn't have heard her nervous "Okay."
But nothing would have kept the rank smell of fear from his nose. He froze where he stood and watched her keep her shoulders rounded in submission as she knelt on the floor by her box of clothes.
He tried to open the link between them...but it was no stronger than it had been yesterday or the day they'd first met.
He'd never been mated before, but he knew how it was supposed to work. Love and sex would bind human to human-then the wolf would choose, or not. Since their wolves had already clearly chosen, since he'd chosen, he'd been sure that their lovemaking would seal the bond.
He looked at her, the knobs of her spine and the sharp edges of her scapula showing clearly that she needed to gain some weight-a visible sign of the suffering that she'd endured in Leo's pack. The worst scars didn't show: werewolves seldom scar on the outside.
He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. He needed to think some things through before he even knew what to ask. Or of whom to ask it.
* * * *
He fed her breakfast, only a little closer to the answers he sought. But even distracted, it amused him how much satisfaction he got from watching her eat-even though she wouldn't look up at him.
"We're going to get a little later start than I expected," he said abruptly as he rinsed his pans and stored them in the dishwasher. "I've got a few things I'd like Heather to do-and I have another person I need to see."
She was still in the dining room, but her silence spoke for her. She was still too intimidated by him or by last night to ask. For which he was grateful. He had no intention of lying to her-but he didn't want to tell her who he was going to talk to, either.
"I can finish the dishes then," she offered.
"All right." He dried his hands and stopped to kiss the top of her head-a quick, passionless kiss that shouldn't add to her tension, but still enough for Brother Wolf to feel satisfied that she knew who he belonged to. He was hers, whether she wanted him or not.
Heather was still at his father's, sleeping in the room next to her partner's. Bleary-eyed and tired, she made some calls and some suggestions and arranged things to his satisfaction.
Which left him with only one more person to track down. Fortunately, he'd found that most people were easy to locate at five thirty in the morning.