Anton’s brow knitted in confusion. “You.”

Trent added a sashay to his stride—not easy, because holy shit, they’ve got a fucking shotgun. “Surprise.”

The barrel of that fricking gun wasn’t pointed at Christophe anymore, but, hello, now it was pointing at Trent. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his stomach dive-bombed his toes. Jesus, now I know how poor Mortimer felt every night. He edged closer to Christophe until the panic stopped battering at his brain.

Anton glared at Christophe. “This is what you prefer? Submitting to this rough-trade whore?”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Trent singsonged, amping up the bratitude to bolster his courage. “But check your facts before you start slinging insults.”

Anton’s gaze flicked to Etienne. If he was looking for orders, he got no help from Etienne, who was stepping into his trousers as if he were on the deck of a yacht. Zipping up seemed to give him some trouble, since his forearm was bent at an odd angle and oozed blood from a super-impressive bite.

Trent glanced down at Christophe. “That your work?” Christophe huffed, but kept his eyes trained on the two other men. “Good job. Too bad you didn’t take off his dick.” Christophe rumbled in that wolfish equivalent of an eye roll. “Yeah, excellent point. I wouldn’t touch it either.” He waggled his eyebrows at Anton. “Unlike some people I could name.”

Anton pressed his lips together, and the gun barrel jerked. Trent flinched, then tried to cover it with a wink. Time to dial it down a notch. He wanted to distract the bad guys, not piss them off so much they’d pull the trigger. I really hope everyone else is in place by now, because I’m running out of ad libs.

Etienne picked up his shirt with his good hand, the picture of urbane sophistication despite an arm that looked like a chew toy. Shouldn’t the guy show some sign that he was in pain? Maybe it was a werewolf thing.

Then he raised his head and glared at Trent. The hatred etched lines in his face, robbing it of any attractiveness. His eyes glowed—fricking glowed—like embers. Whenever Christophe’s eyes had lit up, Trent had chalked it up to mood lighting. Guess not. But there was a shit-ton of difference between Etienne’s red fury and Christophe’s golden passion.

“This shirt will be ruined. You owe me a new one, Clavret.”

“Of course.” Anton reached out to take the shirt, but Etienne snatched it away.

“Not you, idiot. Your brother.” Etienne turned his glowing eyes on Christophe, with a decidedly evil smile on his face. “A shirt made of a wolf’s pelt. Perhaps I shall set a new fashion. Or bring back an old one.”

“Dude. Did you threaten to skin him?” Trent dropped to his knees next to Christophe and wrapped an arm across his back. Jesus, he’s shivering like crazy. Where the hell is my backup?

Etienne stared down his nose at Trent. “I never make threats, whore. I announce my intentions, and then I execute them.” He shook out the shirt and thrust it at Anton without bothering to look at the other man. “Assist me.”

Anton blinked, then seemed to remember his place. He tucked the gun stock under his arm, one hand still under the fore-end, and took the shirt by the collar. As he held it up, the gun swung toward Etienne.

“Watch out, you fool. Don’t point that at me.” Etienne shoved the barrel away, knocking the gun out of Anton’s grip.

Oh shit! Trent flung himself across Christophe and tensed, waiting for the blast, for the shell to rip into his back the way it had shredded Mortimer’s face and chest every night for seven years.

The gun clattered to the ledge and both Anton and Etienne swore, but—nothing. No blast. Thank you, dancing baby Jesus. Christophe whined, probably protesting Trent’s chokehold.

Trent peeked up between Christophe’s ears. Etienne’s back was toward Anton, who had one foot on the gun stock as he slipped the shirt sleeve onto Etienne’s good arm. Neither one of them was paying attention to Trent and Christophe.

Come on, Bishop. Now’s your chance to ride to the rescue. But although Trent scanned the bushes, he couldn’t detect any movement.

Etienne jerked, cradling his injured arm against his chest. “Careful, you clumsy oaf. Are you trying to add to your brother’s damage?”

“Sorry, Etienne. If you’d just hold your arm out more, I could—”

“I can’t hold my arm out. That is the whole point.”

Anton adjusted his hold on the shirt, his balance clearly impaired by the gun under his foot. Damn it, one hit below his center of gravity and he’d go down. If Bishop would just—

I could do it. Trent gulped and blotted the sweat off his upper lip. But it’s a shotgun. I can’t—

Christophe shifted in Trent’s embrace with a barely voiced whimper, and Trent’s heart constricted. If I don’t get over myself, Christophe will die. For real. Forever. He squinted at Anton, fussing with Etienne’s buttons. Not gonna happen, assholes.

Giving Christophe one last squeeze, he took a deep breath. On one, two, three—

He launched himself across the ledge and drove his shoulder into Anton’s side—a textbook-perfect stage-fighting tackle. But while Trent knew how to take a fall, Anton clearly didn’t and sprawled onto the rocks with a grunt.

Trent scooped up the shotgun, the feel of it revoltingly familiar in his hands. Etienne lunged for him, but Trent dodged, sending the bastard staggering into the side of the hill as Anton climbed heavily to his feet.

“Surprise again.” Trent backed toward Christophe, the gun trained on Anton’s knees.

“Anton.” Etienne’s voice was laced with disgust. “Are you totally incompetent? Retrieve the weapon.”

“Easy for you to say.” Anton edged toward Etienne, never taking his gaze off the barrel of the shotgun. “He’s not aiming at you.”

“Him? He cannot possibly have the skill or fortitude to shoot a man.” Etienne shooed Anton toward Trent. “Subdue him.”

Trent raised the stock to his shoulder. “I’ll have you know that I’ve shot someone in the face two thousand five hundred and fifty-five times. But who’s counting?”

Etienne’s lip curled. “You expect me to believe you have killed over two thousand men?”

“Technically it was always the same guy, and it’s not like I wanted to do it. But the principle’s the same. I may not aim for the face this time, but trust me, I have no problem pulling the trigger.”

Bishop stepped out of the underbrush. “That won’t be necessary.”

About time, dude. “Bishop, for God’s sake, take this fucking gun.”

Trent handed it over, shaking out his hands and wiping them on his jeans as Logan appeared next to Bishop, the two of them forming a wall of muscle behind Anton and Etienne. Guess the gang’s all here. Finally.

“How much of that did you get on film, guys?” Trent called.

Julie emerged from the bushes, holding branches aside for Zack to follow. “All of it, including the werewolf shift. The ratings on this are going to be epic. I mean, not one, but two werewolf transformations? We’ll have to mask the naughty bits in postproduction. We’re not that kind of show—yet. But I gotta say,” she saluted Etienne, “nice butt.”

Anton laughed, a pained sound. “You think anyone will believe this, even with your so-called evidence? Do you know who we are?”

Riley joined Trent next to Christophe. “Yes, actually. You’re descended from Baron Bizuneh, the Bisclavret.” He nodded at Etienne. “And you from Sir Melion. I’m sure your families have counted on the public’s disbelief of the uncanny to hide your natures since the Age of Enlightenment.”

Etienne sneered. “All conjecture. You’ll prove nothing, regardless of anything you claim to have on film. Our influence reaches far beyond what you could imagine, you, with your paltry camera and ridiculous costumes.”

Max bristled. “Hey. I’ll have you know this hat is recognized worldwide.”

“Perhaps. But not because of you.” Etienne flicked his fingers as if Max was an annoying insect and faced Julie. “You, mademoiselle, won’t be able to perpetrate your so-called werewolf hoax. I am clearly a man, the leader of my well-respected company . . . And this—” Etienne pointed at Christophe “—is nothing more than a wolf, now and always.”

“Not so fast, asshole.” Trent swung his backpack off and kneeled next to Christophe. He pulled out the undershirt. “Remember this? Will it be enough?”

Christophe sniffed at the undershirt, and the look in his eyes when he raised them to Trent’s face . . . Shit, who could ever think he was an animal? Christophe rubbed his head along Trent’s jaw.

“I take it that’s a yes?” Riley said.

“Awesome!” Max rubbed his hands together. “Zack, be sure to get my good side. I’ll stand behind him, so you can—”

“No.” Trent stood up, shielding Christophe from the camera. “You can’t.”

Julie scowled at him. “Isn’t getting video evidence of the legend the whole point of this trip?”

“The whole point of this trip, if you remember, was to rescue Christophe from these douche bags and help him change back into a man. All this other crap—the camera, the ex-police escort,” Trent waved his hand at everyone crowding the ledge, “the extras. This was supposed to be me and Riley. The rest of you are only party-crashers. And I’m telling you, you can’t do it. Not to him.” Trent glanced down at Christophe, remembering their conversation about Mystique. “The cost is too great.”

“But—but without the second shift the story will be—”

Riley stepped up. “Anyway, Jules, the de France Bisclavret story mentions specifically that the baron wouldn’t transform until he was alone. Film the inside of the cave, show it’s empty, then show the wolf going in. Have Max do commentary or something until a man comes out.”

She frowned. “That’s not nearly as dramatic.”

“Too fucking bad. It’s all you’re gonna get.” Trent laid his hand on Christophe’s back. “So do it.”

“Fine.” She beckoned to Zack.

Max scuttled over to the cave mouth and faced the camera. “This is where the werewolf will transform into a man.” He backed up, gesturing to the rock face. “This cave, this— Ow!” He rubbed his head where he’d smacked into a rock that jutted out over the entrance. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. We’ll edit that in postproduction.” He cleared his throat. “This primitive, barren cave in the Oregon wilderness, far from his home in Nanteez—”

“Nantes, you idiot,” Logan muttered.

Riley chuckled and patted Trent’s arm. “Once they’re clear of the cave, you guys go ahead. I can keep Jules reined in and Max’ll do anything Logan says, so don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”

After the silly man in the Allan Quatermain outfit bumbled around in the cave for ten minutes, Christophe finally limped inside, still in shock from Trent’s actions.

The fact Trent had figured out the problem, had found a solution, was but a secondary miracle. The true miracle was that Trent had stood up for him, had come back for him despite his fear of the forest, his mistrust of the supernatural, and his probable revulsion of Christophe’s true nature.

But that Trent had realized how mortifying it would be for him to transform in public? That was beyond miraculous. He didn’t know how Etienne could do it with others watching. Christophe had to be alone or he couldn’t force the change to happen.

Christophe huddled against the wall as Trent spread the undershirt on the dirt floor. But I could do it. I could change in front of him. In fact, if Christophe wanted this relationship to go anywhere—and he did, now more than ever—he’d force himself to do it, to hide nothing. If Trent chose to stay with him, he must do so with full knowledge of Christophe’s monstrous nature. Anything less would be unfair.

Trent pulled a pair of gray sweatpants and a crumpled Henley out of his backpack and set them on the floor next to the undershirt. “These are mine. Not exactly daisy-fresh, but I guess it’s a good thing I suck at laundry, huh?” He flashed an uncertain smile at Christophe.

Why was he uncertain? Surely he didn’t imagine Christophe would object to wearing his lover’s clothing? Cold settled in his belly as Trent backed up several steps. Perhaps Trent’s fear of the uncanny was reasserting itself, now that the moment of unfortunate truth had arrived.

“Anyway, I figured wandering around the mountains in nothing but a wifebeater wouldn’t do much for your image with camera-happy Julie stomping around. Although . . .” His smile changed to impish. “If you wanted to give me a private show later, I wouldn’t object.”

Thank God. Perhaps Trent hadn’t been so repulsed by the truth that, having staged the rescue, he planned to say good-bye.

Christophe limped over to the undershirt and lay down on it with a pained grunt. This is going to hurt more than usual. How could Anton think this a blessing? It was a curse, plain and simple, a darkness that could twist any soul. Although Etienne would have been evil, mutation or no.

Trent laid a tentative hand on Christophe’s back and stroked him.

“Hey. I saw that Etienne guy shift. I know this isn’t gonna be easy. But whatever you need, I’m here, okay? Well, everything except, you know, doggy sex, because that would be gross.”

Christophe huffed, the only way he could laugh in wolf form, and his injured ribs protested. Trust Trent to defuse the direst situation with the ridiculous.

“I won’t watch. I know it’s private. But I’ll guard the door, make sure no one tries to sneak in. I—” Trent sucked in a breath and let it out on a low chuckle. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Christophe raised his head as Trent walked to the mouth of the cave and took a wide stance, blocking the interior with his body. He was about to say something else. Christophe could only hope it was what he felt himself, bone-deep and irrevocable.

I love you.

He needed to talk with Trent, confess his own feelings, beg for their return. And for that, he must transform.

Time to get this over with.

Christophe lowered his head with a sigh. When the undershirt had last touched his body, he’d been aroused to the point of pain, his mating instincts at the fore. That was imprinted here, in this shirt. His wish—to find a true mate, the kind his ancestors never had, a mate who would stand by him, protect him, love him—all of that was here. His hopes, his dreams, his fears. The true essence of himself as a man.

He let it take him, and for perhaps the first time in his life, he welcomed the pain. Because it would return him to the one person he could call home.