He tried not to pay attention to what Samuel was doing, but it was impossible to ignore his running commentary completely. When Samuel shot saline solution through the wound, every muscle in his body tightened in protest, and he hissed.
But-"Sorry, old man, there's some still in there." And it was back to probe and cut. He wouldn't let himself cry out, but he couldn't stop the wolf-whine as Samuel flushed the wound with another round of saline-or the groan of relief when Samuel started bandaging, signaling the end of the torture.
While Charles was still down and out, trying to relearn how to breathe, Samuel said, "I'm not staying here, Da."
Charles quit worrying about his leg and watched Samuel's face. Samuel wasn't in any shape to be off on his own again. He assumed his father knew that-Bran was better with people than Charles was.
Bran didn't reply, just spun himself slowly, around and around on the little stool in the corner of the room.
Eventually, Samuel was driven to continue-doubtless just as Bran intended. "I can't stay. Too many people who expect too much here. I don't want to be pack."
Bran continued spinning himself around. "So what are you going to do?"
Samuel smiled, a quick flash that made Charles's heart hurt with the lack of genuine feeling behind the expression. Whatever had happened to his brother in the years he'd gone off on his own had changed him, and Charles worried that the change was irrevocable. "I thought I'd go tease Mercy for a while more."
His voice and his face said casual, but his body was tense, giving away how much this mattered to him.
Maybe Da hadn't been crazy when he pushed Samuel and Mercy together-though in Charles's experience, romance was neither painless nor restful. Maybe painless and restful weren't what Samuel needed.
"What about Adam?" asked Charles reluctantly. Mercy lived in the Tri-Cities of Washington state, and the Columbia Basin Pack Alpha wasn't dominant enough to hold his pack with Samuel in it-and Adam had been Alpha too long to adjust to another in that position.
"I already talked to him," Samuel answered quickly.
"He's all right with you taking over?" Charles couldn't see it. Another wolf maybe, but not Adam.
Samuel relaxed against the counter and grinned. "I'm not taking over his pack, old man. Just coming into his territory like any other lone wolf. He said he was all right with it."
The Marrok's face was carefully neutral-and Charles knew what was bothering him. There had been nights that Samuel had to lean pretty hard on pack for stability the past two years, since he'd gotten back from Texas, and a lone wolf had no pack to lean on.
Samuel, like his father-and Asil-was old. Old was dangerous for werewolves. Age had never seemed to touch Samuel much-until he'd come back a few years ago after being gone on his own for over a decade.
"Of course," continued Samuel, "he doesn't know I'm moving in with Mercy."
Adam had a thing for their little coyote, too, Charles suddenly remembered. "So Mercedes decided to forgive you?"
"Mercy?" Samuel's eyes climbed to the top of his forehead, but for the first time in a long time the shadows left his eyes. "Our Mercy, who never gets mad when she can get even? Of course not."
"So how did you get her to agree to you moving in?"
"She hasn't yet," he said confidently. "But she will." Whatever scheme he had in mind brightened his eyes with their old joie de vivre. His father saw it, too. Charles could see him come to a sudden decision.
"All right," said Bran abruptly. "All right. Yes, go. I think it might be best."
Whatever was wrong with Samuel, being back in Aspen Creek hadn't improved it any. Maybe Mercedes would have better luck. If she didn't kill Samuel-or his father, for that matter, for putting her in the line of fire.
Charles, tired of lying on his face in his underwear, sat up and fought the ringing in his ears that threatened to send him right back down.
"How's it feel?" Samuel asked, back in doctor mode.
Charles closed his eyes and took inventory. "I don't feel like tearing down the door and leaving anymore, but that might just be because you've already done your worst."
Samuel grinned. "Nah. I could torture you for a while longer if I wanted to."
Charles gave him a look. "I am doing much better, thank you." He hurt, but felt more himself than he had since he'd been shot. He wondered why the silver poisoning had made him so protective of Anna. He'd never felt anything like it.
"All right." Samuel looked at Da. "Not tomorrow or the next day. If he were anyone else, I'd tell you ten days at least, but he's not stupid and he's tough. With the silver gone, he'll heal almost as fast as usual. After Wednesday strangers won't be able to tell there's anything wrong, so he won't be in danger of being attacked because some idiot thinks he can take him. But if you're sending him out to take on a pack by himself, you'll need to send some muscle with him for a couple of weeks yet."
Charles looked at his father and waited for his judgment. Running around the Cabinets in the middle of winter wasn't his favorite thing-those mountains didn't like travelers much. Still, he could do it better than anyone else his father could call upon here, wounded or not, especially if it wasn't just some rogue wolf but an attack on his father's territory.
Finally, Bran nodded. "I need you more than I need speed. It'll keep a week."
"What are you going to do about Asil?" asked Charles. "Despite the best efforts of the Reverend Mitchell, Samuel, and Doc Wallace, himself-the pack is pretty ugly right now. If you have to kill him, there will be consequences with the pack."
Bran smiled faintly. "I know. Asil came to me a month ago complaining about his dreams and started asking me to put him out of his misery again. Not something I'd normally worry about, but this is the Moor."
"Who is he dreaming of?" Samuel asked.
"His dead mate," Bran said. "She was tortured to death. He won't speak of it, though I know he feels guilty because he'd been traveling when it happened. He told me he'd quit dreaming of it when he joined our pack-but it started again last month. He wakes up disoriented and...sometimes not where he went to sleep."
Dangerous, thought Charles, to have a wolf of the Moor's powers out and about under its own direction.
"You think his death can wait?" asked Samuel.
Bran smiled, a real smile. "I think it can wait. We have an Omega to help him." His father looked at Charles, and the smile broadened to a grin. "She's not going to leave you for him, Charles, no matter what Asil says to tweak your tail."
* * * *
Charles's living room, though expensively decorated, was still warm and homey, Anna decided. It just wasn't her home. She wandered restlessly through the rooms before she finally settled in the bedroom, sitting in a corner on the floor with her legs pulled up, hugging herself. She refused to cry. She was just being stupid: she didn't even really know why she was so upset.
It had bothered her to be sent away-and at the same time she'd felt a rush of relief when she was alone in the truck.
Werewolves and violence, werewolves and death: they went together like bananas and peanut butter. It was better hidden here, perhaps, than it had been in Chicago, but they were all monsters.
It wasn't their fault, the wolves here; they were just trying to live as best they could with this curse that turned them into ravening beasts. Even Charles. Even the Marrok. Even her. There were rules to being a werewolf: sometimes a man had to kill his best friend for the good of all. Human mates grew old while the werewolves stayed young. Wolves like Asil tried to force others to attack them because they wanted to die...or to kill.
She drew in a shaky breath. If someone had killed Leo and his mate years ago, a lot of people would still be alive- and she'd be a senior at Northwestern with most of a degree in music theory instead of a...a what?
She needed to find a job, something to give her a purpose and a life outside of being a werewolf. Waitressing at Scorci's had saved her in more ways than just providing a paycheck. It's hard to wallow in self-pity while you were working your socks off eight to ten hours a day. Somehow, though, she doubted there was a job here for a waitress.
The doorbell rang.
She hopped up and rubbed her cheeks briskly-but her face was dry. The doorbell rang again, so she hurried out to answer the front door. Contrary, she told herself. She'd been so glad to get a few minutes alone, and now all she wanted was a distraction.
She glimpsed a gunmetal gray Lexus before her attention was captured by the woman who stood on the porch. Her expression was good-natured and friendly. She had dark blond hair neatly French braided and nearly as long as Charles's.
Werewolf, Anna's nose told her.
The woman smiled and held out her hand, "I'm Leah," she said. "The Marrok's wife."
Anna took her hand and released it quickly.
"Let's go in and chat, shall we?" said the woman pleasantly.
Anna knew Charles didn't like his stepmother-or airplanes, cars, or cell phones for that matter. Other than that, there was no reason for her unease. More to the point, there was no way to refuse her without giving offense.
"Come in," she invited politely, stepping back.
The Marrok's wife walked briskly past her and into the living room. Once inside, she slowed down, giving the room her entire attention, as if she hadn't seen it before. Anna had the uncomfortable feeling that she was making a mistake, letting the woman in. Maybe Charles didn't let her into his house-she couldn't think of anything else that would account for Leah's fascination with Charles's furnishings.
Unless the whole examination was just a power play designed to make it clear that Anna wasn't nearly as interesting as the room. As Leah explored, Anna settled on the latter explanation-it wasn't a big enough room to demand so much time.
"You aren't what I expected," Leah murmured finally. She had stopped in front of a handmade guitar that hung on the wall far enough from the fireplace so that the wood would take no damage from the heat. It might have been an ornament, except the fretboard was worn with playing.