Mother of God, how stupid am I? Christophe struggled to his feet, bathwater sluicing off his body, and fumbled for his towel, only to drop it in the tub. Shite. The only other dry towel was across the room. No time. He stepped onto the mat and hurried out the bathroom door, dripping on the Berber carpet, which was guaranteed to bring the ire of his housekeeper down on him.

Trent wasn’t in the bedroom. Curse his easy-on/easy-off clothing. Christophe hurried down the hallway, gooseflesh rising on his arms and legs as the cooler air hit his wet body.

Trent was sitting on the floor by the front door, putting on his trainers.

“Trent. Please don’t go. I didn’t mean it how it sounded.”

“Know what? Maybe you should have.”

“What?”

“I need to quit depending on other people to clean up my shit, Christophe. But if I stop expecting them to be my training wheels, they can’t expect blind obedience from me.” He stood. “I’ve been in treatment for seven months. I’ve got the tools. Today I’m twenty or twenty-seven. It’s time I learned how to deal on my own.”

He opened the door, and Christophe darted across the room, heedless of his nakedness.

“I know you’re capable. But you shouldn’t have to do this alone. No one should.”

Trent bowed his head, leaning his forehead against the doorjamb. “Yeah, well, know what I’ve learned? Life sucks, and then you die. And die. And die. Then you come back, and life still sucks. Guess I need to get over it.”

Trent strode into the hallway. At once, the burn started in Christophe’s fingertips, in his jaw, as his wolf objected. He shouldn’t leave. He should stay here. Stop him. Bite his neck. Claim him! He belongs to you. To us.

Christophe clutched the edge of the door, breathing deeply as color faded from his vision. Stop it. Back down. Shite, he’d already bollixed up the morning. Remain civilized. Or at least human. “Please, Trent. Let me drive you to your hotel.”

“No need. I’ll run.”

“But—”

“It’s what I do. But you know what? Maybe I ought to stop. See you.” He punched the elevator and cast a glance at Christophe over his shoulder. “So will everyone else at this rate. Go inside, Christophe, and put on all seventy-two layers of your clothing.”

Trent pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up and shoved his hands in his pockets as the doors slid open. He disappeared inside the elevator, sidestepping another man who emerged carrying a takeaway coffee cup and a bag from the downstairs bakery.

The burn intensified, shooting down Christophe’s spine to his tailbone. His nose twitched—the other . . . his scent . . . familiar? Irrelevant. Another male near his mate? Almost touching his mate? Intolerable! The hair on his neck rose, and he bared his teeth in a snarl.

The man stopped in the middle of the hallway, the bag falling from his hand. “Holy Mother.”

Christophe bared his teeth. Attack the intruder for his insolence? He poised himself to spring, but caught whiff of something else. A different challenge. Must protect my territory.

He whirled and strode back inside, deep into his lair, where the scent of his mate lingered. He prowled the room, touching each place his mate had lain, sniffing the air, seeking the threat.

Danger. He was sure of it. To him, to his mate. But what? Where?

The agony in his spine—he could scarcely remain upright. But why would he? Not natural. His hands. His feet. Pain. Tendons stretching. Bones stressed to near breaking. And there. The band of metal, winking gold, cutting into his flesh, as if his paw were caught in a trap. Take it off. Bite it off.

Suddenly cold water drenched him from head to foot. He howled and shook his head, spattering drops across the walls.

“Christophe Augustin Bonfils Clavret. Arrête!”

Christophe blinked the water from his eyes as the pain in his back receded slightly, the burn in his extremities easing. “Anton?” he croaked.

“Put this on.” Anton flung a white cloth at him, and Christophe caught it reflexively. Undershirt. With shaking hands, he pulled it over his head. At once, the pain diminished further.

What had he done? His wolf had nearly overpowered him—not only his body but his consciousness, and that never happened. The mind of the man was always dominant over the wolf. Always.

Until now. Until Trent.

Anton tossed him a pair of briefs. “And these.” Then a shirt. Pants.

With every piece of clothing he donned, his humanity returned. Mother of God, I almost shifted. Here. In my own home. I was within seconds of attacking my brother, for nothing more than proximity to a man who may no longer wish to speak to me.

Christophe knees gave way and he dropped to the floor, his back to the bed and his face in his hands.

“Merciful God, Christo, what happened? Did that man do something to set you off?”

“Yes.” But not in a way I can explain.

“If you troll for sex outside our echelon, you must expect unpleasantness. But there are agencies that specialize in such things. I can—”

“Stop.” His muscles clenched, the burn starting in his fingers again, firing the danger signals in his brain. He’s insulting my mate. “I don’t need you to pimp for me.”

“I—I didn’t mean—”

Christophe raised his head. Shite. Anton’s face held the same expression it had when their father belittled him. What is wrong with me? Are my instincts so cross-wired by this delayed shift that they violate everything I know?

He held out a hand to his brother. “Jesu, Anton. I am so very sorry.”

Anton smiled grimly and pulled Christophe to his feet. “If this doesn’t prove how necessary it is for you to shift this evening, I don’t know what will do it. You’ve never gone for me before. Was it because I didn’t bring you a coffee?”

Christophe shook his head. “No. I’ve made a mistake, that’s all. One I intend to rectify at my first opportunity.”

“You’ll need to table it, I’m afraid. I’ve arranged with François that we’ll be leaving for the resort shortly. You need to pack. Prepare to shut up the flat since you won’t be coming back—”

“Anton. We discussed this. I do not intend to return to Vienna. I’m staying in Portland.”

Anton set his coffee on the counter carefully, more carefully than need be unless he was trying to avoid slamming it down. “I’m not convinced this is the best course, Christo, either for the company, or our family, or for you.”

“That is your privilege. However, my mind is set on this.”

“Nevertheless, you owe it to Papa to have the conversation at home. Not over the phone, and not here.”

Christophe retrieved a towel from the bathroom and dried his hair. His clothes were clammy against his skin from Anton’s cold-water treatment. “I told you—”

Anton’s shoulders lifted and fell in a sigh. “Have it your way. You always do.”

Poor man. Between Christophe and their father, he had much to put up with. “You’re too good to me.”

“Enough.” Anton straightened. “Go lie down. Rest. I’ll pack for you.”

“You needn’t do that. I can—“

“Give over, Christo. You’re a bloody wreck. Or do you doubt I know your preferences?” Anton ticked off on his fingers. “At least five suits, fresh from the cleaners, enough underwear for your entire university rowing club on a two-week tour, all the—”

Christophe laughed shakily. “You’ve made your point. And I admit that a rest would be welcome.” He twisted the towel in his hands. “But while you’re doing that, I have an errand that I must run.”

“Be quick. François will be here to pick up the luggage soon.”

“No. I have another task for François. You and I shall rent a car and drive ourselves.”

Anton frowned. “Are you serious? You know how I hate American roads.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll drive.”

“In your state? That’s the most worrisome notion of all.” Anton muttered in French as he walked away down the hall.

Christophe picked up his jacket from the floor in the corner—really, what must his brother have thought of the state of his clothing?—and retrieved his cell phone from the pocket. He retreated to his study, allowing Anton free run of the bedroom and closet.

After texting his instructions to François, and leaving a very specific message for his tailor, he called Trent.

Voice mail. Only to be expected. Trent was either still running, or had learned enough about his phone to refuse Christophe’s call.

“Trent. I know you’re angry with me, and I don’t blame you. I expressed myself poorly, and what I said was not what I meant. You are strong, and brave, and everything I could want in a lover exactly as you are. I would dearly love to have your company at the resort this weekend. We could spend time together, even should you choose not to attend the wedding. I’ve left instructions with François to drive you there, if, as I hope, you change your mind. I’ll leave a key for you at the reception desk, since I may not arrive until late tonight. However,” he lowered his voice to a more suggestive register, “I hope to find you in my bed when I arrive.”

There. Now he could do nothing but hope.

Almost as soon as he hit the street, Trent regretted his over-the-top exit. Jesus fuck, once a drama queen, always a drama queen.

He needed to decompress before he shut himself back in his hotel room, so despite how his jeans chafed his thighs, he headed to Waterfront Park and ran along the river.

Had he overreacted? Maybe. Christophe had seemed to be spouting the old party line—Get over it, Trent. He’d gotten the same message, in hints from his mother, suggestions from his therapist, and flat-out orders from his father. He should be used to it by now.

Yeah, just like I got used to the noose, and the snap of my neck bones every night.

He slowed down under the Hawthorne Bridge and stretched out, any benefit from his earlier shower gone. He was a mess, stank like a locker room, and was seriously in need of food. He should have stopped for something before he turned himself into a sweat monster.

He jogged up to Second, where a little pod of early-opening food carts was doing a brisk trade, and bought himself a falafel sandwich. Not exactly breakfast food, but technically it was nearly lunchtime, so what the hell. He took it down by the river and sat on a bench while the Canada geese stalked past him on the grass like masked storm troopers.

What was he supposed to do with his life? Go back to Rhode Island and try to make peace with his dad? Not gonna work. The only reason he tolerates you in the house is because of the PR disaster it’d cause if he didn’t play the formerly bereaved father.

So that wasn’t happening. Besides, as he watched a dragon boat crew stroke by on the Willamette, he realized he’d missed Portland. He’d chosen PSU at random from schools that met two basic requirements: good value for his education dollars; minimum safe distance from his father. Dad’s not the only frugal Yankee in the family. But then he’d fallen in love with the city.

If he had a choice, he’d stay here again. See about getting readmitted to school, although the idea of stepping onstage made fresh sweat bead his forehead. If he didn’t get the trust fund money, though, that might be tougher.

Maybe his flippant remark to Christophe about begging a job from Logan hadn’t been that far-fetched. I’ve got at least one friend in town. That can’t be bad.

He took a moment to mourn the loss of his other contact—Christophe. He’d really felt like they’d had a chance. A real connection. But damn Christophe for going all paternalistic on his ass. That was not what he needed.

He tossed his trash in a nearby can and walked the couple of blocks to his hotel. When he arrived at his room, the DND sign was still hanging on his door, so the place was exactly as he’d left it. He stripped immediately, tossing his clothes in the pile, and then hit the shower. After he got cleaned up, he’d go see Logan. Maybe check on the employment possibilities.

Probably not the best move today. It’s the night before his wedding.

Trent froze in the act of scrubbing his chest. The night before Logan’s wedding. His own birthday, and here he was, spending it alone again, with no better prospect than another Marvel movie binge and room-service pizza.

“Happy fucking birthday to me.”

Once he’d dried off and dressed, he wrestled his cell phone out of the pocket of the filthy PSU hoodie and saw he’d missed a call. The message light on the hotel phone was blinking too. Birthday wishes from the management? Not likely. They could wait.

He sat on the bed, tailor-fashion, and tried to remember how to retrieve the messages from the fricking iPhone. If he poked that icon and this button then— “Abracadabra alakazam.” Ah. There.

The first message . . . God, from Christophe. He listened, his chest tightening. If he intended to crush his new plan, he needed to stay strong. Resist. Otherwise, how could he remake himself? New, improved, self-sufficient Trent! Sixty-two percent less pathetic and seventy-nine point nine percent less batshit crazy! Well, maybe only thirty-seven point two percent, because if he’d really thought he had a chance with someone like Christophe, he needed to check back into the psych ward, stat.

The temptation to respond to Christophe’s message with a hell fucking yeah was undeniable, though, nearly overwhelming. Being with him—the closeness, the acceptance, the touch—had felt so good. Maybe too good. Was wanting something this badly a reason not to do it?

No way. That was his Puritan New England ancestors and their whacked-out self-denial talking, not Trent Pielmeyer, hedonistic once and future college student. But hashing out whatever their relationship was in the sparkly glow of Logan’s happily-ever-after? No, thank you. He’d wait until Christophe got back to town. Then they’d talk.

Who are you kidding? You don’t want to talk. You want to fuck. Well, true on both points. But though he didn’t want to talk, he should. And if he intended to earn his twenty-seven-year-old cred, he’d better fricking do it. I can be responsible. I can have serious conversations. I can . . . do laundry?

He stared at the mound of clothes in the corner, which was threatening to take on a life of its own. But God he hated Laundromats. Maybe the hotel had a service, although for the size of Trent’s laundry monster, they’d probably charge as much as a semester’s tuition. Laundromat it was. But first, he’d be a mature adult and listen to his messages.

He peered at the instructions on the desk phone—which were a hell of a lot more straightforward than the iPhone, and not an icon or app in sight.

The message, though, was enough to freeze his balls off.

“Mr. Pielmeyer, this is the hotel manager. I regret to inform you that your credit card has been declined. Although your father has settled your bill, if you can’t provide another method of payment, we must ask you to check out by noon today.”

Goddamnitmotherfucker. His dad had stopped his credit card? Now there was a fricking awesome birthday gift. He’d worried about Bishop monitoring his purchases, but he’d forgotten his father could do the same thing. More easily too, since the account was in his fucking name.

He checked his wallet. Thirty-seven dollars and some change. Not enough to do squat, and with his only connections on the way out of town for the weekend, he had zero couch-surfing options.

Wait. He had one. He could take Christophe up on his offer. Call François. Be on the way to Mount Hood—Gah! Trees! Don’t think about them—before the management arrived to toss him out on his ear.

Jesus fuck, it was eleven forty-nine. He slung his duffel on the bed and stuffed armfuls of clothes, clean and dirty, into the thing, stuffing them down when they threatened to spill over. He’d sort them out later. He shoved his laptop in his backpack, checked under the bed—oops, underwear—and in the drawers for any last-minute stuff.

He called the number from Christophe’s message. “Hey, François. It’s Trent Pielmeyer. I . . . uh . . . I’ve decided to accept Christophe’s invitation. Could you pick me up at the hotel, like, now?”

“Oui, monsieur. I will be there within the half hour.”

“Awesome. Thanks.”

He grabbed his backpack and slung his duffel over his shoulder. As he let the door close behind him, the last thing he saw in the room was the clock. Eleven fifty-nine.

Hot damn. Nobody could say Trent Pielmeyer didn’t know how to time his exits.