Trent had to hand it to Julie. She didn’t shit around when she wanted something. Within ten minutes, all of them—her, Riley, Trent, Zack—with his camera—were out the side door and trying to be nonchalant about speed-walking through the parking lot.

Riley stumbled, and when Trent reached out to steady him, Julie and Zack kept going, heading for the van at the far end of the lot.

Trent held on to Riley’s arm. “Do you think this will work?”

“I . . . I think so. All the pieces fit. But I don’t know if one undershirt will be enough.”

Trent shook his elbow. “Don’t say that. It’s gotta be. Otherwise he’s never coming back.”

“Who’s never coming back?”

Trent whirled, sending Riley skittering on the gravel, free arm flailing, in his slick-soled dress shoes. Trent steadied him as Detective Bishop stepped out from behind a pickup truck.

“Bishop. Jesus fuck, dude, your timing sucks.”

“I’d say my timing is perfect. What the fuck are you doing, Pielmeyer? Kidnapping a guy from the middle of his wedding?”

Riley blinked. “I’m not being kidnapped. At least not at the moment.”

Bishop stared pointedly at where Trent was still clutching Riley’s elbow. “That’s what victims always say if they’re being coerced.”

“Dude, what is it with you? You’ve got kidnapping on the fricking brain. You seriously need to get a life.” Trent let go of Riley and glanced at the van. Zack was already behind the wheel, but Julie was standing next to the shotgun door, frowning at the lodge. Come on, Julie, now’s when we could really use your butt-in-ingness.

But she wasn’t paying attention, instead staring across the parking lot in the other direction.

Trent held up his hands. “Fine, Bishop, you got me, okay? I’ll confess to anything you fucking want, but not now.”

Bishop scowled. “I don’t want you to confess to some random act. I want the truth. If you’d behave like a rational person—”

“I’m not rational. I have it on good authority that I have the instincts of a three-year-old and my prefrontal cortex is nonexistent, but we don’t have time to discuss it now. We—”

“Damn straight we don’t have time for this.” Logan loomed behind Bishop’s shoulder, his expression a combination of thunderous and hurt. How the hell is he pulling that one off? “Where the fuck are you going, Riley? Did Trent tell you anything that—”

Riley rushed over to Logan. “No. No, of course not. But something’s come up and we need to take care of it.”

Riley cuddled up and stroked Logan’s face, teasing a smile out of him as the tension left his jaw. He wrapped an arm around Riley and rested his cheek against the top of Riley’s head.

That. Right there. That’s what I feel like when I’m with Christophe. If Christophe was willing to put up with Trent’s bullshit, the least Trent could do was return the favor. Trent couldn’t deny that the werewolf thing was an issue—especially if their current lame plan didn’t work. But when he poked that tender place in his mind, the one that shied away from the supernatural—it’s not a deal-breaker. Besides, hadn’t Christophe mentioned sharing each other’s burdens the night they’d met? I could do that. I think. For him.

Logan lifted his head but still held Riley close. “Can’t it wait until after the wedding? Everyone’s getting in place. Even my father has stopped trying to schmooze the constituency and is ready for his grand entrance as father of the groom.”

“It really can’t. It’s . . .” Riley took a deep breath. “It’s a folklore thing.” He peered over his glasses. “You know. A folklore thing?” He jerked his head at Trent, as Bishop’s gaze bounced between them, a frown knitting his forehead.

For Logan, however, the light had apparently dawned. His eyebrows made a break for his hairline. “No shit? You mean a . . .” He wiggled his fingers in the universal sign for woo-woo shit. Riley nodded. “No way am I letting you do it on your own. Just a second.”

He turned and beckoned to a silver fox who stood by the loading zone, tapping his watch significantly. He scowled, but strode over.

Shit. William Conner, Logan’s father.

William Conner’s eyes narrowed as he took in their happy little group. Uh-oh. Here it comes. Logan’s dad had never liked Trent, and considering the guy had lied like a wall-to-wall to keep Logan off the cops’ radar, this could get awkward. Especially with the lead cop looming at Trent’s shoulder.

“Logan, you realize what time it is? Riley, shouldn’t you be inside? Where’s the other attendant? I thought you had this better organized.”

Trent squared his shoulders, ready to improv the shit out of this, depending on what line William decided to take.

But William paid no attention to Trent. “Mr. Bishop.”

Huh?

Bishop winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Commissioner.”

“What business do you have at my son’s wedding?”

“He’s the detective who was following Trent’s case,” Logan said.

“He was the detective. He was suspended six months ago.”

Trent glared at Bishop. “Suspension? You’re fucking kidding me. Didn’t you think to mention that any of the times you popped up like a freaking jack-in-the-box?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Jesus fuck.”

William raised his eyebrows. “A kidnapping case, wasn’t it? Excessive force against the alleged perpetrator?”

“Alleged my ass. The guy was guilty as sin.”

“Nevertheless, I believe there’s a restraining order.”

Bishop glowered. “Doesn’t apply. The guy isn’t here.”

“I doubt it will help your case that you appear to be harassing Mr. Pielmeyer. How exactly are you managing that? Unauthorized use of department resources?”

“No! I wouldn’t. My cousin . . . he’s a PI. I’m . . . working with him.”

William closed in on Bishop, like a shark scenting five-star chum. “If you think—”

“Dad. Give it a rest. This isn’t City Hall.” Logan took his father’s arm and drew him a couple of steps away. “Listen, something’s come up.”

“Something more important than starting the ceremony on time?”

“Yeah. I can’t go into it now, but I need you to go in there and stall.”

“Stall? You mean, the guests? All of them?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

Logan glanced at Riley, who shrugged. “As long as it takes. Listen. Find Heather. Tell her to break open some of the champagne and give everyone a glass. Then you can, I don’t know, practice your next stump speech. A captive audience of registered voters—what more could you ask for?”

Logan’s father’s eyes gleamed with the fanatical light of a true politician. He straightened his tie. “Very well. But I expect a full explanation when you return.” He strode off toward the lobby doors.

“Not likely,” Logan muttered. He turned and hooked his arm around Riley’s waist. “All right. Let’s get this circus on the road.”

Bishop blocked their path. “I’m coming with you.”

“Seriously?” Trent carded his hand through his hair. “What the fuck do you want from me, Bishop?”

Bishop held Trent’s gaze with his interrogator’s stare. “You’re the key, so I’m sticking with you until you give me some answers.”

“Jesus, you act like this is personal. Can’t you let it go?”

“It is personal.”

“What did I ever do to you?”

“Nothing. But if you could come back, then maybe he could too.”

“He who?” I have zero time to fall down this freaky rabbit hole. “Never mind. But if you tag along, Mr. Ex-detective, you’ll need to make yourself useful. Then I might be inclined to be more cooperative.”

Bishop’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded sharply. “Right. I’ll hold you to that. What do you want me to do?”

Logan grabbed Trent’s arm. “Are you nuts?”

“Maybe.” Trent shook off Logan’s grip. “But, dude, check it out. The guy’s the size of the Portland Building. We could use some muscle, and I’m so in the mood for excessive force.”

They marched to the van. Julie glared at Logan, but then frowned at Bishop. “Who the hell are you?”

Bishop glanced at Trent. “Apparently I’m extra muscle.”

She looked him up and down. “Not bad. You can drive. Trent, you ride shotgun and give him directions.” She shooed Logan and Riley toward the van’s open panel door. “The two of you are going to make nice with the camera on the way.”

“Christ,” Logan muttered as he climbed in, “I said it was a circus, but I didn’t expect a fucking clown car.”

Riley followed him, wincing. “Don’t mention clowns. Too creepy.”

“Sorry, Riley. Sit here by me.”

Julie followed him in. “Think of it this way, Logan: at least you’re both dressed right. You’ll class up the show.”

“Hey, wait up.” Max Stone, complete with his Indy Jones hat and jacket, raced up and hung on the open door. “There you are, Zack. I’ve been waiting for you by that bear statue for twenty minutes. Did you forget about reshooting my entrance?”

“Sorry, Max. Something came up.”

“But . . .” A grin broke out on Max’s face. “Oh, I get it. Road trip! I’m totally in. We can shoot my arrival from the highway.”

“Just what we need,” Logan muttered. “Another clown.”

After miles of grueling pursuit, Christophe’s stamina was fading rapidly, but he refused to give up. He suspected Etienne was toying with him—not only attempting to run him to exhaustion, but to direct the chase back to the killing field, remaining always out of reach.

Christophe had his own goal, however: keep Etienne away from the cave. If he could prevent the rendezvous with Anton, Etienne would be unable to shift as well. Then, should they encounter the ranchers, there would be two targets instead of one.

A rabbit darted onto the path and froze. Christophe’s belly was beyond empty, but he couldn’t make himself see the poor frightened thing as prey. He yipped once and the rabbit bounded into the brush. I make a truly lamentable wolf. Anton and Etienne didn’t have to go to the extreme of slaughtering livestock to ensure Christophe’s demise—he’d starve to death if he was forced to live in the wild.

He lifted his nose in the air, scenting for Etienne’s direction, and froze. Another scent, achingly familiar, mingled with Etienne’s, and Christophe’s protective instincts kicked in with a vengeance.

Trent.

Trent was in the woods near Etienne. If Etienne got close to him, he’d be able to scent Christophe on him—both man and wolf—since there was scant chance that Trent would have shed his regrettable sweatshirt. If Etienne believed harming Trent would injure Christophe, he would show no compunction.

Christophe growled. That bastard shall not go anywhere near Trent. In an adrenaline-charged burst of speed, he sprinted down the path.

Etienne’s trail led toward the cave now—had he tired of the chase? Was his time to meet Anton near, or—fear lanced through Christophe and he stumbled—had Etienne detected Trent?

No time to waste.

While Etienne circled the hill to the more gradual incline, Christophe crashed his way directly up the steeper slope, heedless of the brambles that tore at his fur and tangled around his legs. He staggered onto the ledge just as Etienne reached the top of the path, putting Christophe in front of the cave.

Exactly where I want to be.

He crouched low, hackles raised, teeth bared. Etienne mirrored him, then made a quick feint to the side. Christophe snarled, but didn’t move. You think to trick me into leaving you a way inside. I am not so foolish.

If he allowed Etienne inside, Christophe stood no chance. With access to his clothing, Etienne could shift.

But he’d be vulnerable. I could kill him then. His throat in my jaws, his blood on my tongue.

Saliva flooded his mouth as a savage, alien joy coursed through him. Is this how a true wolf felt when closing in for a kill? You can’t even kill a rabbit, yet you think you can kill a man?

Etienne was not just any man though—he was the man who had suborned Anton, the man who’d planned to murder Christophe. And my father? Will he allow my father to live after deposing him from the company he loves more than anything?

Would his father want to live?

Then, subtle and seductive and familiar, Trent’s scent reached him, borne on the breeze that quickened across the hillside. Christophe’s last reservations crumbled as another jolt of adrenaline surged through his veins. His vision shifted, everything suddenly tinted red. Some things—some people—are too precious to risk. I may not be able to kill the man, but the wolf? Let it end here. Now.

Etienne lunged for the cave mouth, and Christophe leaped to intercept, only to have Etienne scuttle to a safe distance, tail down. Once at the brink of the ledge, he turned and assumed his aggressive stance.

What?

Then the truth dawned. Etienne Melion, terror of the Old Families, scourge of schoolboys, bully of the boardroom, is afraid of a fair fight.

Christophe wanted to laugh, but in his wolf form it emerged as a howl. Of course. With all his needs catered to, even his shifts managed by the staff at the Melion estates, Etienne was little more than a pampered pet. No one had ever stood up to him before because no one had dared. The only person of their generation of equal status was Christophe, who’d never chosen confrontation.

Well, he chose it now.

He crept forward, a growl vibrating in his chest. Etienne backed up until he was poised on the edge of the drop-off. He attempted to dart sideways, but stumbled when he lost purchase with his rear paws.

My chance. Christophe sprang, knocking Etienne to his side on the rocky ledge. Etienne yelped. Hurts, does it? You’d best get accustomed to pain, because more is on the way.

Etienne scrambled to his feet and Christophe charged again, this time snapping at an ear. Etienne jerked his head aside, sending him off-balance. This time, Christophe stayed with him as they rolled across the ledge in a tangle of teeth and claws and fur.

For every bite, every kick, every swipe of claws that Etienne managed to land, Christophe landed two. You stand no chance. You want only to protect yourself, to return to your life of luxury. I am protecting my mate. And I have nothing left to lose.

They fetched up hard against the mountainside, Etienne underneath. When he pawed the air, attempting to right himself, Christophe clamped his teeth on Etienne’s foreleg.

Etienne yelped. My advantage. Christophe bit down harder and shook his head, feeling the bones snap beneath his teeth. Yes! His wounds were nothing in the hot surge of victory. Releasing his hold, Christophe howled while Etienne whimpered beneath him.

He glared down at Etienne, who held his injured leg crooked against his chest. You have always underestimated me, you and my brother. You think me tame because I refused to fight. But until now, I had no need. Until now, I had nothing worth fighting for. Now, I do.

He dove, grabbing Etienne’s throat in his jaws, feeling the pulse of his life there, under his teeth. He could do it, he could snuff it out, rid the world of this—

“Back away, mon frère.”

Christophe froze. He needed only to bite down, a simple snap of his jaws. But not a foot from his face was the barrel of a shotgun, Anton at the trigger, with an unholy smile on his face.

“I said, back away.” He jerked his head toward the ledge, but didn’t alter his point-blank aim on Christophe’s head. “You wonder at my choice of weapon? Not very elegant, I know, but it matches the arms of the ranchers whose poor flocks you savaged in your killing frenzy.”

Christophe let go of Etienne and backed up one step, the growl rumbling in his chest, warring with his urge to whine. His brother. His rock through his turbulent childhood, his difficult adolescence, his rebellious early adulthood. He could almost understand how Anton might resent him enough to want to depose him, but to hate him enough to shoot him in cold blood?

The last vestiges of his victory euphoria drained away, leaving him empty, spent, and defeated.

But then he caught a whiff of a familiar scent on Anton’s clothing. Trent. Anton had touched Trent. Had dared to touch Trent.

Shotgun or no shotgun, Christophe would not let such an outrage pass.