Fair Game

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 tosee 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.
    Charles glanced at Anna, and she narrowed her eyes to tell him that the anger he sensed from her was aimed at him. He raised an eyebrow and she raised her chin.
    Redirecting his attention to the intruders, Charles soundlessly gesturedeveryone to the big sectional sofa in front of the TV. He pulled a hardwood chair away from the dining table for himself and set it to face them over the coffee table.
    The FBI agents perched on the edge of the sofa. Goldstein appeared more tired than interested, but Leslie Fisher watched Charles intently, not looking him in the eyes, not challenging him, just cataloging. Such intent interest would have put Anna on edge except there was no heat in Leslie’s gaze. It was more of an “observing the subject in his native habitat” than a “he’s really hot” kind of thing.
    Beauclaire, for his part, sank back in the soft material of the couch as if the thought that it would impede him should he have to move quickly had never occurred to him.
I’m not afraid of anyone here,
his body posture said. Charles’s—relaxed, arms folded loosely, chin slightly tilted—said,
You’re boring me; either fight and die—or back off.
    Anna grabbed another of the hardwood chairs and parked it next to Charles, then sat down. “All right,” she said, to break the testosterone fest before it could really get going. “Who goes first?”
    Charles looked at Beauclaire. “Do the fae know that there’s been someone hunting them since the eighties?”
    “We are here to share information,” Beauclaire said, spreading his hand magnanimously. “I am happy to begin. Yes, of course we knew. But he’s only been hunting the nobodies, the half-bloods, the solitary fae. No one with family to protect them. No one of real power.” His voice was cool.
    “No one worth putting themselves at risk for,” said Charles.
    Beauclaire gave Charles a polite look that was as clear as any adolescent raising his middle finger. “We are not pack. We are not all good friends. Mostly we are polite enemies. When a fae dies, if it is not one of power—who are