Charles didn’t notice when she got on the bed with him. She put her head next to his on the pillow and listened to him breathe.
HE didn’t wake quietly. One moment he was limp and the next he’d exploded to his feet. She’d never watched him shift and, although she knew his change was miraculously swift, she hadn’t known it was beautiful. It started with his feet, then like a blanket of red fur the change rolled up his body, leaving behind it a malevolent, very angry werewolf dripping blood and bandages.
Bright yellow eyes glanced around the room, taking in the closed door, the bars on the windows, and then her.
She lay very still, letting him absorb his surroundings and see there was no threat. When he looked at her a second time, she sat up and went to work on his bandages.
He growled at her, and she tapped his nose gently. “You’ve lost enough blood today. The bandages don’t advertise your weakness any more than bleeding all over would. At least this way, you aren’t going to ruin the carpet.”
When she finished, she threaded her fingers through the ruff of fur around his neck and bent her head to his.
“I thought I had lost you.”
He stood for her embrace for a minute before wriggling free. He got off the bed and stalked to the door.
“It’s bolted,” she told him, hopping off the bed and padding after him.
He gave her a patient look.
There was a click and the door was opened by a slender, unremarkable-looking man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He crouched on his heels and stared Charles in the face before glancing up at her.
The force of personality in his eyes hit her like a blow to the stomach, so she wasn’t entirely surprised when she recognized his voice.
“Shot three times in one day,” the Marrok murmured. “I think Chicago has been harder on you than usual, my son. I’d best take you home, don’t you think?”
She didn’t know what to say so she didn’t say anything. She put her hand on Charles’s back and swallowed.
Charles looked at his father.
“Have you asked her?”
Charles growled low in his chest.
The Marrok laughed and stood up. “Nevertheless, I will ask. You are Anna?” It wasn’t quite a question.
Her throat was too dry to say anything, so she nodded.
“My son would like you to accompany us to Montana. I assure you that if anything is not to your liking, I’ll see to it that you can relocate to wherever suits you better.”
Charles growled and Bran raised an eyebrow as he looked at him. “I am the Marrok, Charles. If the child wants to go elsewhere, she can.”
Anna leaned against Charles’s hip. “I think I’d like to see Montana,” she said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patricia Briggs lives in Washington state with her husband, children, and a small herd of horses. Visit her website at www.patriciabriggs.com.
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