Christophe took his time unpacking, grateful that the resort didn’t stint on drawer space or hangers. Had he overpacked? Of course he had. He always did. As he hung his shirts, his suit for the wedding, and his half-dozen other jackets, he smiled, remembering Trent’s annoyance at how long it had taken him to undress. Ah, cher, haven’t you heard? Clothes make the man—and for me, that is literally the case.
When he finished arranging the last of his socks in the drawer, he wandered into the main room and saw that he’d missed several more messages from François.
Stalling, as requested. Lunch. Store.
And then Lube, accompanied by an evil grin emoticon, the cheeky devil.
Christophe chuckled, astonished at the lightness of his heart. The usual dread that filled his belly whenever he faced a shift was tempered today by the anticipation of being with his lover again tonight. Nothing like a carrot to make getting beaten bloody with the stick easier to bear. He laughed, imagining what Trent’s response would have been to that particular thought. No doubt he would have made a rude joke. Trent’s carefree lack of deference was one of his most appealing qualities.
If he were to tell Trent the truth, would that change? Time enough to test that later, after we’ve had the chance to cement what we have. He could afford no complications tonight, so after he returned to himself and was as human as he ever was, he’d do everything—short of telling the whole truth—to convince Trent they belonged together.
He sat at the desk to write a note for Trent—apologies for not being there when he arrived, carte blanche to the hotel’s amenities and entertainment options.
Entertainment.
A jolt of heat rocked his balls, and his cock rose as he wrote a few instructions that he hoped Trent would follow. Jesu, that would get Christophe through this evening with better grace than usual, although he definitely wouldn’t be tarrying in the forest.
A brief knock fell on the door and Anton walked in, checking his watch. “I apologize for the delay. I had to sort out an issue for the company.”
“The Portuguese deal again?”
“Something like that. Ready?”
“Just now.”
Anton glanced around the room, his lips pursed. “I hoped perhaps your room might be less . . . rustic than mine.”
“Really? I find it rather charming.”
“Ah well. Log cabins have never been my preference.”
“No,” Christophe teased as he slipped his jacket on, “you prefer St. Moritz and Monaco.”
Anton shrugged. “You can’t blame me. What is wealth for, if you can’t enjoy it?”
Christophe gestured for Anton to precede him outside and pocketed his key. “Perhaps for doing a bit of good?”
“Always the crusader, Christo. Are you ready to go? The sooner we leave, the sooner you’ll be able to relax.”
Christophe grinned. “Lead on. I can’t wait.”
“Is that so?” Anton’s eyebrows rose. “That’s . . . certainly a new attitude for you. Come. I parked the car on a service road.”
“Trust you to find the most expedient way to get the job done.”
“I have a lot of practice,” Anton said dryly.
“That must be why you’re so good at it.” Christophe draped an arm across Anton’s shoulders and gave him a half hug.
“Ah, give over, Christo, do.” Anton batted him away.
Christophe laughed and climbed into the passenger seat. “If you insist on being so helpful, you must learn to take thanks for it and accept the honors that you’re due.”
Anton backed the car down the unpaved road. “That’s usually not a problem with Papa.”
Christophe’s elation dimmed a little. “You must give Papa time.”
“He’s had my whole life.”
“I mean after I tell him of my decision. Then he’ll be forced to recognize what you’ve done for him, for the company, and you’ll be rewarded as you deserve.”
“That will be a landmark day for certain.”
“It will. For each of us. A new era for Clavret et Cie. A new future for your children.”
“Mmmhph.”
Christophe let it be. No doubt their father would take some convincing, but Anton’s record was exemplary. Papa would be a fool not to give him in title what he’d been doing in practice for years. He gazed out the window at the passing forest. “How far?”
“Several miles. We can’t drive all the way to the spot I’ve got in mind. But we should be there within half an hour.”
“A hike, eh? I should have worn different shoes.”
Anton glanced down at Christophe’s Italian loafers. “I’m surprised you didn’t wear your boots.”
“They needed to be cleaned, and I didn’t have time. Foolish of me not to realize we wouldn’t simply be able to drive up to the wilderness and park, eh?”
“Well, it’s not like you can’t afford new shoes.”
“Yes, but these are my favorites.”
“I’m sure they’ll be as much use to you afterward as they are now.” He pulled the car over. “We walk from here.”
Christophe followed Anton up a steep path, winding through the trees, skirting a small clearing that was scattered with boulders as if a giant child had tired of his blocks and flung them to the ground. The path was damp but not muddy, and the going not difficult, although Christophe’s smooth-soled shoes slipped on the steeper areas. At the foot of a rocky outcropping, Anton stopped.
“Up there. There’s a cave where you can undress and shift.”
Christophe eyed the nearly vertical hillside with its thickets of blackberry brambles. “Mother of God, Anton. How did you find this place?”
“Do you imagine that I’d have difficulty locating a simple cave? I handle the logistics for our entire firm. Besides, you can find anything on the internet these days.”
“Ah. Of course. But you are truly challenging me today. I think I’d have an easier time scaling this mountain in bare feet than with these shoes.”
“Don’t exaggerate. It’s a little incline. On the other side, it’s an easier ascent, almost like a staircase.”
“A staircase with a thorn hedge.”
Anton glared at him. “Do you want to scout out a different location?”
“No. Forgive me.” He picked his way up the hill, the brambles catching at his clothing. When he reached the ledge, however, he conceded that Anton had chosen perfectly. The spot had a greater than one-hundred-eighty-degree view, since this hillock broke the tree line for over a hundred yards. The vista spread across a gully into the forest, the mountain rearing behind it, and on the other side, a wide swath of pasture beyond the trees. “What’s that? It looks man-maintained.”
“More like sheep-maintained. It’s a ranch.”
Christophe shot a glance at Anton. “So near? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Why, do you have a taste for mutton?”
“Not for the sheep, you arse. I would never kill domestic livestock. But Oregon ranchers aren’t proscribed from shooting wolves who they suspect of predation, now that wolves aren’t on the endangered list in the state anymore.”
“As long as you stay within the bounds of the forest, you’ll be fine. Go south and west, not north and east.”
“Understood.” He hoped his wolf would remember. I’ll make it remember. For such a short time, surely the mind of the man could retain ascendency over the mind of the wolf.
He ducked into the cave at the back of the ledge. It was shallow, its mouth wide so light filtered in from outside. Anton had clearly been here earlier, because he’d already laid a tarp out for Christophe’s clothes.
As he took off his jacket, he marveled anew at his brother’s efficiency. He’s wasted as logistics officer. He should be CEO. Though even CEO was a poor match, nothing but negotiations and meetings. Anton knew how to get things done. Chief operating officer. That was a better fit. Christophe must remember to mention that to his father when they had their little . . . chat.
He finished undressing, folding his clothes neatly atop the tarp. As he removed his watch, he smiled, thinking again of Trent and his likely reaction to the pristine pile. Perhaps he should have flung his clothes about instead. But that would make returning to human difficult. The more articles of clothing he could make contact with, the more readily he’d be able to launch the transition. Not to mention Anton would probably feel compelled to straighten up after him. My brother has spent too much of his life cleaning up for me. That stops soon. After the wedding. After the weekend with Trent. Then I’ll get it sorted.
He drew off his signet ring—traditionally the last item removed before a shift—and held it in his palm for a moment. What had his long-ago ancestor done to bring this curse down on himself and his family? Perhaps he’d chosen it freely. They’d never know for certain. Their stories, their legends, didn’t contain any of the why, only the what and the how, along with the cautionary tales of marital infidelity and betrayal.
He placed the ring on the top of the pile, more convinced than ever that he was making the right decision to end their line with him.
Once the ring was off his hand, he moved away from the tarp and hunkered down, head bowed. He breathed deeply, letting the scents of the woods, the sounds of the myriad lives that teemed beneath the notice of humans fill his senses.
This was always the point he hated the most: when he had nothing between himself and the transition, no reason for control other than his soul-deep hatred of what he was. Knowing what awaited, he had to force himself to let go of his human sensibilities, to allow the wolf dominance for long enough to transform.
Tonight, however, he wanted the change to take him quickly, the sooner to get it behind him. He tensed, though, anticipating the pain to come.
Let it go. Yes, it hurts. Yes, it’s humiliating to be reduced from man to beast. But tonight you have a reason to get it done.
As soon as he thought about that reason—Trent, naked and willing—the burn in his fingertips and spine welled and spiked. This time, he didn’t fight it, huddling on hands and knees, panting through the agony as his spine reformed. His scream morphed into a yelp as his larynx warped, his jaw distending and narrowing, teeth popping out of his gums where none had been. He whined helplessly as the bones in his hands contorted into paws, as his ears lengthened and reoriented, at the million flares of pain as fur burst through his skin. Then his tail sprouted, and he howled until his breath gave out.
When it was finally over, he lay on his side in the dirt, whimpers vibrating his throat. As the pain receded, it was replaced by unease. Something is not right. His hackles rose and he rolled to his paws, sniffing the air. Mice. Raccoons. Voles. He paced to the mouth of the cave.
Rabbit. Deer. Wait. Was that . . . wolf?
A growl rumbled in his chest, and he lifted his nose, casting for the scent, but it was faint, like a memory.
“Christo.”
He whirled, crouching. Man. Brother. Safe. He circled Anton, sniffing at his trousers. Was the wolf memory here? He started to lift his leg, to mark his territory so the other wolf wouldn’t dare to—
Anton clapped his hands. “Oi. Don’t even think of it.”
Christophe huffed, but the maddening scent lingered. He growled again and shoved his nose against Anton’s leg.
“Shite, Christo. What’s the— Oh. You’re scenting Melion, aren’t you? I wore these pants yesterday, in the meeting with him and the Merricks.”
Christophe bared his teeth. His wolf hated Etienne’s wolf as much as Christophe hated the man.
“Go. Run. I’ll take care of your clothing.”
Christophe shook himself. Yes, he needed to get this over with, but had he remembered to tell Anton he wanted to be back at the resort by nine? He must have. Anton never forgot to verify such details.
Christophe turned and leaped down the hill in two bounds. For some things, the wolf is far more suited than the man. He raced off into the trees.
Trent was proud that he hadn’t freaked the fuck out when François pulled into the parking lot of the resort. Bad enough that the trees had loomed on either side of the road for the last gajillion miles, but seriously—this parking lot? It was only one car deep, just a narrow strip of gravel keeping the trees at bay. Trent had seen a special on TV once about how quickly nature would take over again if humans suddenly vanished from the planet. This parking lot would be the first to go.
François stopped the car in front of the lodge doors. “Monsieur Clavret has left for you a key.”
“Cool. I can handle it from here. Thanks a lot, François, for the lunch and the company and, you know, picking me up off the street.”
“The pleasure was mine.” He popped the trunk and trotted to the rear of the car.
Trent grabbed his backpack and followed. A bellman approached from the lodge doors, and François handed him Trent’s overstuffed duffel. Then he removed a garment bag and handed it over too.
“Wait. That’s not mine. Is it for Christophe?”
“No, monsieur. For you. Un cadeau. From Monsieur Clavret.” He touched the brim of his cap. “Bon anniversaires.”
“Thanks.” For a moment, Trent was annoyed that Christophe would think he couldn’t afford his own suit, but then— Oh yeah. At the moment, I can’t. Besides, considering his wardrobe choices while they’d been together, Christophe would be totally justified in thinking Trent didn’t own anything without holes or a graphic.
“Well. Thanks again. See you around?”
“Certainement. Au revoir.”
“Yeah. You too.”
Trent followed the bellman into the lobby. Nice. Lumberjack chic done right. He approached the desk and smiled at the clerk. “Hey.”
“Good afternoon. Are you here for the wedding?”
Shit. Probably the first time of many that I’ll get hit with that question. Probably more than once by Christophe. “Uh, no. But you’ve got a key for me.” He panicked for a moment. Under whose name? Then he snorted. How hard could it be? They had a choice of two. “Either Pielmeyer or Clavret. Or maybe both.”
She smiled brightly. “Oh yes. Here you are.” She handed him a key and nodded to the bellman. “Jeremy will take you down to the cabin. Please enjoy your stay.”
“Do my best. Thanks.”
He turned to follow Jeremy and came face-to-face with Logan. Shit.
Logan’s grin threatened to meet his ears. “You came.” He grabbed Trent in a hug that nearly squeezed the breath out of him. “I can’t believe it. I’m so glad.”
“Yeah, well, thing is, I might—”
“Hey, I want to introduce you to Riley. You still haven’t met him, right?” Logan let go of Trent and peered around the lobby. “He was here a minute ago, but Julie may have run off with him.” He faced Trent again. “You remember Julie from last October, don’t you?”
Trent swallowed, expecting the usual surge of panic that swamped him whenever he thought about that night, but surprisingly, it wasn’t bad. “Yeah. She’s with that show. The ghost one.”
“Yeah, but she’s trying to break out on her own as a producer. I think she’s practicing on us. She’s Riley’s best-man equivalent, and she’s got a mile-long list of things we’re supposed to do or not do because of wedding traditions.” Logan scowled. “That woman is a menace with a clipboard.”
“I . . . um . . . have to go.”
“Can’t you hang out for a minute? Maybe get a drink?”
Trent waved vaguely in the direction of the waiting bellman. “Gotta pee. And you know, unpack. All that shit.”
Logan’s face fell, and Trent immediately felt like a douche bag. “Got it.”
He clasped Logan’s biceps. Jesus, those hadn’t been this big seven years ago. “Listen. I’m happy for you, yeah? We’ll catch up sometime this weekend. Promise.” Liar, liar.
“Sure. Glad you could make it.”
Trent saluted and headed for the staircase in the middle of the lobby.
“Ah, sir?” Jeremy gestured to the terrace doors. “Your cabin is this way.”
Damn it, Jeremy led him out onto the deck, with a stellar view of more fucking forest than Trent ever wanted to see in his entire life. Then down a path that some idiot had laid out to make it appear as if the woods hadn’t been disturbed. Disturb them, damn it, and get them the hell away from me.
He pulled his hood up and hunched his shoulders, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, and dogged Jeremy down the path, wincing when the guy apologized for Trent stepping on his heels.
“Here you go. You’re lucky. These private cabins are hard to book. Everyone wants them because you really feel like you’re alone here in the woods.”
“Yeah,” Trent muttered. “Terrific.” He opened the door and Jeremy followed him inside. Shit. I need to tip the guy. I should have insisted on carrying my own damn luggage.
He fumbled with his wallet. Two ones was too cheap, but he only had thirty-seven dollars to his name. Gulping, he pulled out a five and handed it over.
Jeremy tucked the bill discreetly into the pocket of his uniform. “Thank you, sir. Please enjoy your stay, and if you need anything, dial seventeen on the house phone.”
Not fricking likely. “Sure. Thanks.”
He left, and Trent stared thoughtfully at the door for a moment. A five-dollar tip for toting a couple of bags down a trail. Maybe he could get a job at a hotel. He shuddered. Not out here, though. God no. Give me a nice, safe city.
He hauled his bags into the bedroom and hung his suit in the closet, chuckling when he saw how many clothes Christophe thought were necessary for a three-day stay. Then, because it was his birthday, goddamn it, he unzipped the garment bag.
Holy shit. This suit was awesome. He pulled the pants off their hanger and held them up. Should he try them on, check out the length? Nah. He’d gone commando again, so he didn’t feel up to the standard of the suit—not until he put on some underwear. And showered about three times.
He hung the pants back up carefully, in a way that would do Christophe proud, then eyed the jacket. Should I? Oh why the hell not? He lost the hoodie, dropping it by his feet, then carefully removed the jacket from its padded hanger. He pulled it on and it fit perfectly—across his shoulders, the length of the sleeves. Sweet. And it was cut close to his body too, not like the last suit he’d bought for his cousin’s debutante ball, back before he left for college. He slipped it off and hung it up reverently. Wait. There was a shirt in there too. No, two shirts. With French cuffs.
For a minute, he was a little insulted. Was Christophe trying to bring him up to scratch, so he wouldn’t feel embarrassed to be seen with him? Hello, sow’s ear. Meet silk purse.
Or maybe he’d only wanted to do something nice for Trent’s birthday, exactly as he’d said. Stop being so damn suspicious. Christophe had gone above and beyond in the short time they’d known one another, in ways that trumped the tangible shit. He’d encouraged Trent to put his own freaking issues aside long enough to share his only friend’s wedding day. No judgment. No pressure. Just options. Trent appreciated the choice more than anything. After seven years of having no choice whatsoever, it was nice. No, way beyond nice. Incredible.
Maybe Christophe had been a stranger three days ago, but now he was rapidly approaching being Trent’s favorite person ever. And not because he gave expensive gifts, but because he really thought about what Trent would need, what he would like. This wasn’t a guy who’d leave a headstone in place after his son returned from the dead, just because it was inconvenient to remove it.
Who among his family and erstwhile friends had made this much of an effort lately? Hell, who had ever made this much effort for him? Only his grandfather, who’d had his son’s number from birth, probably. He’d made sure to funnel a large part of his own fortune into Trent’s trust fund.
No wonder Dad doesn’t want to part with it. He always resented Grandfather for giving away an inheritance he’d counted as his own.
Suddenly, Trent’s ragged hoodie seemed disrespectful in these surroundings, especially given Christophe’s world-class thoughtfulness. He snatched it off the floor to stow it, but when he unzipped his duffel, its contents erupted like a clothes volcano. Jesus, he needed to do laundry, or at least sort out what was clean and what wasn’t.
Later.
He wandered into the other room. The French doors opposite the fireplace opened onto a flagstone patio and beyond that . . . woods. Of course. He closed the curtains.
A skylight over the kitchenette let in enough light for him to see the note propped against the phone. He’d thought it was some random welcome message from the resort, but the envelope had his name on it, in handwriting nearly as fancy as calligraphy.
Shit, what had they taught at that boarding school of Christophe’s besides every language in the world and apparently how to illuminate your own manuscripts? He opened the envelope.
Trent, mon cher.
You have made me so very happy by accepting my invitation. I am sorry I cannot be here for your arrival, but I trust François took excellent care of you on your journey. Please make yourself at home. If you’re hungry, order room service and charge it to the room. Also, I believe the resort entertainment center can provide a number of the type of films you enjoy.
I hope you liked your gift. Although it isn’t a bespoke suit, it’s nevertheless an excellent one, and the color will suit you admirably. Check in the desk drawer for two final gifts—one for you and one, if you permit, for me.
Trent opened the drawer. The little box tied with a dark-blue bow had a card that read Trent. He opened it. Cuff links in gold, set with lapis. He stroked the dark-blue stones. Gorgeous. He never thought he’d be interested in something this old-fashioned. Guess I was wrong.
The other thing in the drawer was a bag from Walgreens. He recognized it—François had tucked it discreetly under the driver’s seat when he’d returned to the car after lunch. How had he gotten into the cabin—and ahead of Trent, for that matter? Don’t question Oz, the Great and Powerful. The dude had skills, no doubt about it.
Trent checked the bag to see what rated François’s stealth mission, and barked out a laugh.
Lube and condoms.
Dude, that’s sooo a present for me too. He turned back to the note.
I expect to return by nine o’clock. If you would like to present my gift to me appropriately, be waiting in bed, naked, ready for me. Because I assure you, by the time I arrive, I shall be positively ravenous for you.
Yours,
C
Trent grinned and folded the note. Nine was a long way away, but he had a plan now. A movie. Dinner. Then a really long bath—maybe two. One before dinner and one after.
I’ll be ready. Oh hell yeah, will I be ready.