Anna hadn't undressed, so she ran her fingers through her hair and started toward the door. Charles moved in front of her and dropped the towel he held to the floor.

"No," he said.

She rolled her eyes, but said, "Fine. I'll wait for you."

He dressed quickly without apparently rushing while she watched him. Watching Charles dress and undress was one of her favorite things to do - better than wrapping and unwrapping Christmas presents. Werewolves were, as a whole, young, healthy, and muscled - which were attractive characteristics. But they all weren't Charles. His shoulders were wide and his dark skin had a silklike sheen that invited her fingers to touch. His long, black-as-midnight hair smelled -

"If you don't stop that," he said mildly, though he paused with his shirt just over his shoulders so she could see the way the smooth muscles of his back slid down into well-fitted jeans, "our gentleman caller might have to wait awhile longer."

Anna smiled and reached out to run a finger down his backbone. She pressed her face against his cotton T-shirt and inhaled. "I missed you," she confessed.

"Yes?" he said, his voice soft. It got even softer when he said, "I'm not fixed yet."

"Broken or whole," she told him, her voice dropping to a growl, "you're mine. Better not forget that again."

Charles laughed - a small, happy sound. "All right. I surrender. Just don't go after me with that rolling pin."

Anna tugged the shirt down and smoothed it. "Then don't do anything to deserve it." She smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "That's for disrespecting my grandmother's rolling pin."

He turned around to face her, wet hair in a tangled mess around his shoulders. Eyes serious, though his mouth was curved up, he said, "I would never disrespect your grandmother's rolling pin. Your old pack did everything in their power to turn you into a victim, and when that crazy wolf started for me, you still grabbed the rolling pin to defend me from him, even though you were terrified of him. I think it is the bravest thing I have ever seen. And possibly the only time anyone has tried to defend me since I reached adulthood."

He touched her nose, bent down -

The doorbell rang, an extended buzz, as if someone was getting impatient.

Eyes at half-mast, Charles looked at the front door the same way he would a grizzly or a raccoon that had interfered with his hunt.

"I love you, too," murmured Anna, though she found herself at least as grumpy about the interruption as Charles could possibly be. "Let's go see what Lizzie's father has to say."

The doorbell rang again.

Charles sucked in a breath of air, ran his fingers through his wet hair to get rid of the worst of the tangles, glanced in the mirror on the wall, and froze.

"Charles?"

His side of their bond slammed down so fast she couldn't help a faint gasp, but not so quickly that she didn't see that his motivation was singular and huge: he wanted to protect her. Charles didn't look at her, and when the doorbell rang again, he stalked out of the bedroom.

She stood where he had, in front of the mirror, and tried to see what it was that had disturbed him so much. Men's voices and a woman's rushed past her ears. The mirror was beveled, set in a plain but well-made frame, and in it she saw herself and a reflection of the walls of the room behind her. There was an original oil painting of a mountain on the wall to the right of her, next to the door to the bathroom. Directly behind her, cream-colored lace curtains hung over the window, still dark with night's reign.

What had he seen that he wanted to protect her from?

By the time she got out to the living room, Alistair Beauclaire was already inside the condo - and so were Special Agents Fisher and Goldstein.

"I thought," Beauclaire was saying, "it would save time to have us all meet together and put all the cards on the table. My daughter's life is more important than politics and secrets." It was, from a fae, a shocking move. Anna hadn't had much to do with fae, but even she knew that they never gave a shred of information to anyone if they could help it.

Beauclaire looked at Charles; he had to look up.

"I know who you are," the fae told Charles. "You just might have a chance of finding her, but not if we're all tripping over the secrets we cannot tell." He glanced over to pull the FBI agents into the conversation. "If you withhold something that would have allowed us to find Elizabeth one minute sooner, you will regret it. We will talk this morning about things that outsiders do not know - trusting you to use this to stop the killer."

Leslie's eyes tightened at the threat, but Goldstein absorbed it without a reaction, not even an increase in heartbeat: he just looked tired and more frail than the last time Anna had seen him.

"I assure you," Goldstein told Beauclaire, "that it is our mission to see that your daughter is found quickly. If we didn't agree with you, we wouldn't be here. No matter what favors you called in."

Anna wondered how the FBI or Beauclaire had figured out where she and Charles were staying. The condo belonged to a small company that was wholly owned by a larger company, and so on ad infinitum. The whole thing was owned in turn by Aspen Creek, Inc., which was the Marrok.

Appearing unannounced was a power move, saying You can't hide from us. It seemed a little too aggressive for the FBI: she and Charles weren't suspects. Anna thought it was more likely that Beauclaire was responsible for the early-morning visit, looking to establish dominance with his unannounced invasion of their territory - claiming the point position on the hunt for his daughter. She could see what he was trying to do, but it wouldn't work on Charles, though it might make her mate more dangerous if he decided to take offense. Charles's public face was too good for her to read right now, which told her that he was feeling a whole lot of things he didn't want her to know about.

He'd closed their bond to protect her.

Anna tried to get mad about it, so she wouldn't have to be worried or hurt, but he was a dominant wolf and part of being dominant was taking care of what was his. His wife, his mate, headed that list. So Charles would protect her from whatever he thought would attack her through their connection.

But he had forgotten something along the way. He was hers. Hers. He was hurting himself to protect her and she was going to put a stop to it - but not now. Not in public. A good hunter is patient.