On the Prowl

it. As his father’s executioner, he’d long ago learned not to get close to anyone he might someday have to kill—which made his circle of friends very small: his father and his brother for the most part.
    Anna stood up and returned Isabelle’s smile with a shy one of her own, though he could tell she was still shaken. To his surprise, though, she said, “Yes. There was something very interesting going on. Come in anyway.”
    Once the invitation had been issued, Isabelle blew in like the March wind, as she usually did, simultaneously shutting the door and holding out a hand to Charles. “Charles, it is so good to see you.”
    He took her hand and bowed over it, kissing it lightly. It smelled of cinnamon and cloves. He’d forgotten that about her, that she used perfume with an eye toward the sharpness of werewolf senses. Just strong enough to mask herself and so give her some protection from the sharp noses of her fellow wolves. Unless she was extremely agitated, no one could tell how she felt from her scent.
    “You look beautiful,” he said, as he knew she expected. It was true enough.
    “I should be looking a nervous wreck,” she said, running the hand Charles had kissed through her airy, feathery cut hair that, combined with her fine features, made her look like a fairy princess. She was shorter than Anna and finer-boned, but Charles had never made the mistake of thinking of her as fragile. “Justin came boiling in with some nonsense about a meeting tonight. He was all but incoherent—why did you enrage the boy like that?—and I told Leo I’d drop by to see what you were doing.”
    This was why he didn’t make friends.
    “Leo received my message?” Charles asked.
    She nodded. “And looked quite frightened, which is not a good look for him, as I told him.” She leaned forward and put a too-familiar hand on his arm. “What has brought you to our territory, Charles?”
    He stepped back. He didn’t much like to touch or be touched—though he seemed to have largely forgotten that while he was around Anna.
    His Anna.
    Forcefully he brought his attention back to business. “I have come to meet with Leo tonight.”
    Isabelle’s usually cheerful face hardened, and he waited for her to blow up at him. Isabelle was as famous for her temper as she was for her charisma. She was one of the few people to blow up in the Marrok’s face and get away with it—Charles’s father liked Isabelle, too.
    But she didn’t say anything more to him. Instead she turned her head to glance at Anna, whom, he suddenly realized, she’d been pointedly ignoring up to that point. When she returned her gaze to Charles, she began speaking, but not to him.
    “What tales have you been carrying, Anna, my dear? Complaining about your place in the pack? Choose a mate, if you don’t like it. I’ve told you that before. Justin would take you, I’m sure.” There was no venom in her voice. Maybe if Charles hadn’t already met Justin, he’d have missed the way Anna’s face paled. Maybe he wouldn’t have heard the threat.
    Anna didn’t say anything.
    Isabelle continued to stare at Charles, though she was careful to keep from meeting his eyes. He thought she was studying his reactions, but he knew that his face gave nothing away—he’d been prepared for the way his brother wolf surged up in anger to defend Anna this time.
    “Are you sleeping with him?” Isabelle asked. “He’s a good lover, isn’t he?”
    Though Isabelle was mated, she had a wandering eye and Leo let her indulge herself as she pleased, a situation almost unique among werewolves. That didn’t mean she wasn’t jealous; Leo couldn’t so much as look at another woman. Charles always felt it was an odd relationship, but it had worked for them for a long time. When she’d made a play for him a few years ago, he’d allowed himself to be caught, knowing that there was nothing serious about her offer. He hadn’t been surprised when she’d tried to get him to talk his father into letting Leo expand his territory. She had taken his refusal in good humor, though.
    The sex had meant nothing to either of them—but it meant something to Anna. He’d have had to be human to miss the hurt and mistrust in her eyes at Isabelle’s thrust.
    “Play nicely, Isabelle,” he told her, abruptly impatient. He put a little force in his voice as he said, “Go home and tell Leo I’ll talk to him tonight.”
    Her eyes lit with rage and she drew herself up.
    “I am not