Although the moon had never emerged from the clouds, Christophe’s wolf time-sense told him that it must be approaching nine o’clock. Although he normally ran himself to exhaustion, the better to extend the span between transformations, tonight he’d held back, preserving energy.

For Trent.

Trent mustn’t suspect how Christophe had spent his evening. Although who would suspect anything as outlandish as the truth?

He’d loped in a wide circle over the last few hours, keeping well inside the forest. Now he followed a creek back to where Anton would be waiting. Anticipation thrummed in his veins, and he sped up. Soon. Soon I will be a man once more. Soon I will be with my mate. Not much further. Just past that thicket of— Shite!

Christophe tried to stop his headlong rush, his paws scrabbling in the dirt and fir mulch, but to no avail. He crashed into a huge patch of Scotch broom, and pollen from the yellow flowers rained down on him like poisonous fairy dust.

He sneezed and sneezed again. He pawed at his nose, which was already clogging. His sense of smell would be bollixed completely until he could rid his fur of contamination. Shower. Yes. Thank God the man was less sensitive to the vile powder than the wolf.

Still sneezing, he bounded up the side of the hill to the rocky ledge and paced into the cave.

Empty.

No Anton, and what was more alarming, no clothing.

The fur on Christophe’s spine rose. Unless he could lie down on at least one article of clothing that held the essence of himself as a man—sweat, tears, semen, even something as elusive as a fresh, untainted scent—he’d be unable to change back.

He lowered his nose to the ground and investigated the cave. The dirt floor showed signs of a scuffle. Damn it to hell. He could barely smell a thing. Was that Anton’s scent? Was it overlaid with the taint of fear? He couldn’t tell. A growl took him, nearly vibrating his bones. If some intruder has hurt my brother . . .

Exactly what could he do? Without his clothing, he was trapped in his wolf form, and if Anton had run afoul of someone— No. Don’t think of that. Think instead of options.

Since Anton had driven him here, he had no scent to guide him back to the resort. Even when he found his way, how was he to get into his cabin without hands? He whined. Trent. Trent is there. He couldn’t bear to frighten him, but if Anton was in trouble—

Think of that later. For now, act.

Despite an impaired sense of smell, his wolf had a better notion of direction than he did as a human. He cast about until he oriented himself. There. North. He took off, racing flat out through the trees. His brother’s life could be at stake.

Whoever had dared to threaten him would pay.

Trent awoke on a scream, his throat raw and his neck aching from the rope. He sat up, drawing his knees to his chest, panting in the aftermath of the nightmare. What the fuck? After last night, he’d hoped he was free of it. Anyway, the nightmare never hit until midnight and it was—

Midnight, according to the bloody red digits on the bedside clock.

Shit. He’d fallen asleep after his second bath, feeling so decadent and naughty, naked between the sheets waiting for Christophe to return.

Yeah, how stupid does it feel to use that much lube and then not need it?

His hands still trembled; his breath continued to stutter. He wanted Christophe now, to make it better, to make it go away with his touch. Where the hell was he? Could something have happened to him? He hadn’t said what he was doing, after all. What if there’d been an accident? Would anyone know to tell Trent if there had been? Shit, the only person who knew he and Christophe were acquainted, let alone fucking, was Logan, and it wasn’t like anyone would notify him. He barely knew Christophe.

Trent struggled out of bed, the sheets having tangled around his legs as he’d thrashed in the throes of his nightmare. He flipped on the lights, blinking in the glare. Maybe Christophe had called or left a message and Trent hadn’t heard it.

He hurried into the other room where he’d left his cell phone on the desk. It was dead. Just freaking fabulous—he’d forgotten to charge it. He ran back to the bedroom, pawed through his backpack for the charger, and plugged it in next to the bed.

Since whatever the trouble was, he didn’t want to meet it naked, he grabbed the first reasonably clean T-shirt from his overflowing duffel and yanked it over his head. He snagged his jeans from earlier out of the bathroom and pulled them on—commando, because locating clean underwear was not on his timeline.

“Come on, come on, you fucking phone. Charge.” He fairly danced in place, his arms wrapped across his stomach. Damn it, it was fucking cold in here. He pulled on his previously scorned PSU hoodie. Jesus, it stank. He really needed to do laundry, or else buy a new sweatshirt.

Finally, the phone let him power it on, although he was tethered to the wall by the cord. He punched in Christophe’s number. It rang six times and went to voice mail.

“Damn it.” Trent hung up and dialed a second time. Same deal. He dialed again. And again. Fuck leaving a message. He needed to hear Christophe’s real voice. To know he was safe. He punched the number a fifth time, and on the fourth ring, it picked up.

Oh thank fuck. “Chr—”

“What is it? Why do you keep calling?”

The voice, deeper than Christophe’s and angry, stopped Trent’s breath.

“I— Sorry. Wrong number.”

He disconnected the call and threw the phone on the floor as if it was a snake. He hooked up with someone else. He knew I was waiting, and he fucking hooked up with someone else.

Trent had a sudden horrifying thought. He checked the corners of the room for the telltale blink of video-camera lights, for the flash of camera lenses. Shit, he had no clue how to check for electronic surveillance shit. Could all of this—Christophe’s attention to him, luring him out here, lulling him with gifts and luxuries, be nothing but an elaborate sting, an attempt by Bishop to get him to confess to his own kidnapping? Or by his father to find grounds to keep Trent’s money?

Shit, he’d confessed the truth to Christophe, every fucking detail. That’d be enough to get him involuntarily committed—he’d be declared non compos mentis and be at his father’s mercy for good. Trapped again. No choice. No way out.

His heart hammered so that he couldn’t hear himself think. But Christophe . . . he wouldn’t. Would he? Shit, what did he really know about the guy? Just because Trent had found Christophe’s touch comforting and arousing in equal measure, didn’t mean Christophe thought of Trent as anything more than a slacker ex-student with a wardrobe one step away from the dumpster.

He couldn’t risk it. He had to get out. Now.

He smooshed everything back into his duffel and fought the zipper closed. The phone had a sliver of a charge. Too bad. He couldn’t hang around to let it finish. As he slung the duffel over his shoulder and grabbed his backpack, his gaze snagged on the garment bag, half-hidden among all Christophe’s clothes.

Fuck it. If he brought me out here to stiff me, I’m taking the damn suit. Payment for services rendered.

He draped the bag over his arm and hurried into the living room. When he opened the door, though, he heard footsteps on the path, the murmur of voices. He eased the door closed. Whoever was out there might not be here for him, but he couldn’t take the chance. That left . . .

The patio.

Damn it, he’d have to go out under the trees. But given the choice between a night in the forest and a lifetime locked in the loony bin permanently, he picked the fucking trees.

He flipped on the rear light—he didn’t care if someone was outside the front door, he refused to step straight out into the dark—opened the curtains, unlocked the French doors, and slipped outside. As soon as the door latched, he realized two things—he had no way to get back to Portland, and he’d left his key card inside the room.

Fucking. Perfect.