Trent tried to ignore the crunches, cracks, and squelches that accompanied Christophe’s moans of pain. Jesus fuck, that must hurt. He faced the group on the ledge, arms crossed, feet planted, daring any of them to come close.

None of them did. In fact, everyone looked a little alarmed. Guess I can play intimidating as well as slutty. Good to know.

Well, maybe not all of them were intimidated. Max appeared to border on bewildered, as if wondering when he’d get called for his close-up, and Etienne still smirked as if beurre blanc wouldn’t melt in his mouth, the prick.

Bishop, though. Bishop seemed uncertain, as if the confidence he wore like he’d worn his imaginary badge had been stripped away. If the guy hadn’t hounded Trent since he’d landed in Portland, he might almost feel sorry for him.

Nobody spoke. Zack hadn’t stopped filming, so he had to be picking up Christophe’s whimpers and yelps from inside the cave. Trent ground his molars together with every whine and abortive howl. Christophe had called it—nobody was entitled to intrude on something this personal, the public’s right to know be damned.

The sudden silence was broken by a hesitant cheep from some enterprising bird.

“Trent?” Christophe’s gravelly voice was a bare thread of his usual smooth baritone.

Trent half turned, but didn’t look inside the cave. Not yet. Not until Christophe says it’s okay. “Yeah?”

“Could you please . . . I need you.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” He aimed a panoramic glare at the group on the ledge, punctuating it with a finger-point. “You stay put. Get it?”

“Got it,” Logan said, with a grin at Riley.

Trent nodded. “Good.” For some reason, that made Riley laugh. I’ll figure that out later.

He ducked into the cave.

Christophe was huddling on top of the sweatpants, naked, the undershirt held against the side of his face with one hand. Jesus fuck, he looked like freaking hell. A long gash on his thigh, the fingers of his other hand swollen, and huge bruises blooming across his ribs.

Yet the sight of him, human once more, made Trent’s heart catch and release in his chest. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

He strode across the cave and dropped to his knees. “Hey, hey, hey.” He took Christophe in his arms, and dropped a kiss on his tangled hair. “It’s okay now.”

Christophe choked out a laugh. “It can never be okay. Not ever again. My own brother wanted to kill me. Our family shame, a secret kept for centuries, is in danger of becoming the next viral video.” He lifted his head and gazed into Trent’s eyes, his own shadowed and haunted. “And you—you know the truth. I am far more broken than you could ever be. But while you will get better—are already better—I never shall. I will always be a monster.”

“Fuck that.” Trent cupped Christophe’s jaw. “You’re no monster. Your brother and his buddy out there? The ones that hatched this whole fucked-up plot? Those are the monsters, whatever their shape, however slick their clothes, however fancy their cars. They’re monsters on the inside. You’re so not.”

“But you find the supernatural distasteful.”

Trent shrugged. “What can I say? Your level of weird makes me seem almost normal. I think I kinda like it.”

“This?” Christophe gestured to himself with his swollen hand. “This . . . otherness? There is no cure, you realize. It’s fixed in my DNA.”

“Exactly.” Trent dug some wipes out of his backpack and dabbed at the scrapes and the grime on Christophe’s face. Christophe accepted the attention docilely. “You’re a mutant. Like Mystique or Wolverine.”

“A monster.”

“Nah. A superhero.” He kissed Christophe’s temple, which now smelled of oil of bergamot. “You found a way to communicate with me. The important stuff anyway. Who you were. What we needed to do. But dude . . .” Trent smoothed Christophe’s hair back from his forehead. “We gotta work on that chasing-cars thing.”

Christophe’s rusty laugh wobbled a bit. “You . . . are a revelation to me.”

“Me? I’m nothing special.” Trent concentrated on cleaning Christophe’s swollen hand. “Just a twenty or twenty-seven-year-old theater geek who can’t figure out how to work an iPhone.”

“You are the superhero, mon amour.”

He glanced up. “Uh . . . so, that’s different. Usually you call me cher, like a generic endearment. This time—”

“My love. It was intentional, I assure you. You are by far the strongest, bravest, sexiest, most remarkable twenty or twenty-seven-year-old it has ever been my privilege to meet.”

Trent wanted to say it back. That was what he felt, wasn’t it? But how could he be sure? He’d jumped into shit before without thinking it through, and he’d ended up in the middle of hell’s own nightmare. Besides, there was the asshole brother, the dickhead rival, and a domineering father somewhere in the wings.

Hell, between the two of them, the weight of their emotional baggage could ground a 747.

“Come on.” He wiped down Christophe’s other hand. “Let’s get you dressed. I don’t want you flashing the entourage.” He could at least admit this much. “Your ass and its attendant equipment are all mine.”

Christophe smiled crookedly. “Always.”

Yeah, say that after the adrenaline has worn off and you’ve had a rare burger or two. No other partner had ever found him compelling enough to stick with. Even Logan’s loyalty was a friend’s, not a lover’s. We’ll sort it out later.

He stood and, out of consideration for Christophe’s swollen fingers, put a hand under his elbow to help him rise. When Christophe put weight on his injured leg, he winced and nearly fell. Trent wrapped an arm around his waist.

“Steady. Let me help you with that.” He reached for the undershirt, but Christophe snatched it away with more energy than Trent had thought he possessed.

“No. I—” He swallowed. “Forgive me, but I must do it myself.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“But if you could . . . support me as you are, I would be grateful.”

“You got it.” Trent tightened his hold as Christophe almost reverently eased his arms into the undershirt and pulled it over his head. He smoothed it over his chest as if he were petting a cat. Or maybe a wolf.

Christophe took a deep breath and straightened a bit in Trent’s embrace. “That is . . . better. Much better.”

Despite the words, though, there was a hint of sadness, maybe resignation, in Christophe’s tone. He probably hadn’t missed the fact that Trent hadn’t returned his avowal of love. Working on that. Really. Just give me time.

“Ready to face your adoring fans?”

“Perhaps I should put on some pants first.”

“Oh. Heh. Right. Can you stand on your own?”

“Well enough.”

“Awesome.” Trent snagged the sweats off the floor and handed them to Christophe, then steadied him while he put them on. The Henley was next. “Sorry I didn’t have another sweatshirt. You can have this one—”

“No. Thank you, but I will be fine with this. It is far more than I ever expected.” He took a step forward and winced. “Shite. Walking barefoot back to the road will be a challenge. My feet are not as suited to this terrain as my paws.”

“Gotcha. No worries.” Trent dug in the backpack and pulled out a pair of flip-flops. “Not exactly handmade Italian leather—”

“They are perfect.” He slipped them on. “Shall we?”

“After you, Marshmont, old bean.”

Trent helped Christophe limp out of the cave. When they emerged, Riley rushed over.

“God, Christophe, are you okay?”

“I will be.”

Riley put a hand on Christophe’s arm and Trent was tempted to brush it off, but remembered his pact with Riley—they needed to get over their parallel pasts with each other’s partners.

Partner. He couldn’t deny that’s what he wanted. But what he wanted and what he could have were two different things. Seven years of desperately wishing to undo his own stupidity had taught him that.

Logan left Bishop to guard both Etienne and Anton and stalked over to put a possessive arm around Riley. Apparently, that constituted a threat for Christophe. He took a halting step sideways, putting himself between Logan and Trent.

Trent met Riley’s amused gaze over Christophe’s shoulder. They shared an eye roll.

“Dude.” Trent turned Christophe until they faced one another. “The two of you need to stop playing Don’t Steal My Bone, yeah?”

“Mmmphm,” Logan grunted.

“I will if he will,” Christophe growled.

“He doesn’t want me, and you don’t want Riley. Right?” Both of them nodded grudgingly. “Okay then. Back off, because we’ve got other shit to deal with.”

“In a moment.” Christophe stood on both feet, although from the pinch of pain around his lips, it wasn’t easy. “Trent Pielmeyer, I owe you my life and more. So much more.” He took Trent’s face between his bergamot-scented, fifty percent swollen hands. “I love you.”

He pressed his lips to Trent’s, softly at first, then with increasing heat, and Trent’s own libido rose to meet it. The kiss turned hotter, tongues meeting and mating, and Trent felt Christophe’s erection hard against his own.

Oops. Not exactly SFW, let alone a family TV show, not with Christophe going commando. Trent pulled back, breathing heavily, a smile blooming on his face.

A public declaration. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted? Someone who wasn’t ashamed to own him to the world. Yeah. Maybe their damn baggage wasn’t so heavy after all. Hell, they could hire a frigging bellman, if it came to that.

“For God’s sake, Trent,” Riley said, “don’t leave the man hanging.”

Trent glanced around at the audience, some of them smiling, some frowning, some (Max) oblivious. And the camera. Let’s not forget the fucking camera. He swallowed and met Christophe’s gaze from under his lashes. “Yeah. Well, I guess I—”

“No!” Anton lunged forward, but Bishop hauled him back by an elbow. “You’d choose this—this whore over your family?”

Christophe growled low in his throat. Perhaps my transformation was not as complete as I wished. Because despite his injuries, only Trent’s hand on his arm prevented him from going for his brother’s throat.

“Chill, babe. I’ll handle this.” Trent tossed his bangs out of his eyes and stared Anton down. “I’m not a real whore, dude. I just play one on TV.” He gestured to the camera.

Anton ignored Trent and bared his teeth at Christophe, as if he were the wolf. “You give him money for sex. How is that—”

Trent whistled and waved his hands like a semaphore. “Yo, bro. Eyes on me. First off, he didn’t give me money for sex. You did.” Trent tapped his chin with one finger. “Although, technically, you gave me money for not having sex, which was a nice touch, because seriously, dude? I’d have paid to not have sex with you, but I’m not sure there’s enough money in the whole state of Rhode Island to meet that price.”

“You—”

“That was an act. I was trying to keep you from stealing Christophe’s clothes and murdering me for your little fuck-master there.”

Anton scowled, trying to step away from Etienne, but not able to move with Bishop’s huge hand clutching his arm. “Look at him. He’s clearly not in our class. No better than a beggar. He may not charge you by the hour, but money is on the table nonetheless.”

Christophe met his brother’s desperate gaze and felt no shred of sympathy. “You know nothing of the matter.”

“Don’t I? Tell me how this is different from a marriage contract with one of the Merrick women. Or one of Etienne’s sisters?”

“Hello?” Trent pointed to his groin. “I think the dick would be a big giveaway there.”

“So flippant.” Anton sneered. “Will you feel the same when he’s no longer such a rich prize? When he’s disinherited? Stripped of family and prospects?”

“Hey, no big.” Trent draped an arm across Christophe’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “I’m an expert at dealing with that kind of shit. Besides, if you’re the family and Melion’s the prospect? That’s not a drawback, sugar. That’s a fourteen-carat solid gold goddamn fricking bonus.”

“You see?” Thank you, cher. Pray God you truly mean that. “A relationship grounded in affection and loyalty can weather such trials, unlike one based on outmoded tradition and corporate law. Our curse has outlived its usefulness, if it ever had one. It’s time to let it die.”

“You aren’t worthy of the gift.” Anton spit on the ground. “It should have been me. It ought to have been me.”

Christophe stared at his brother, whose face had gone from red to paler than new milk. “Even after what you have done, after your willingness to kill me, after you conspired against our father and our business, I couldn’t wish this fate on you.” He turned to Etienne. “You, however, deserve the burden.”

Etienne raised an eyebrow. “You assume I believe it a burden. But I consider it the manifestation of a time-honored noble prerogative.”

“Not anymore. The world has changed, and we must change with it.”

“Please, brother—”

Christophe whirled on Anton and would have collapsed on his weak leg without Trent’s support. “You have lost the right to call me that. Do you imagine that by pleading when threats have failed, you will change my mind?”

“Think of what this will do to our family. To our father.”

“I prefer to think of what it would do to my son. Besides, what consideration did you have for our father when you conspired to wrest the company from him and kill his heir?” He held out his hand. “My ring, if you don’t mind.”

Bishop, who still held the gun at the ready, nodded his permission. Anton removed the signet and handed it over. “You don’t deserve it.”

“Perhaps not. But neither does Etienne Melion. How long do you think it would have been before he took control of both companies?”

Anton glanced at Etienne, who merely maintained his urbane half smile. “I— He wouldn’t. We have a partnership.”

“Do you? Equal, is it? You must forgive me. I didn’t see him sucking your cock.”

Anton stared at the ground. “That’s different.”

“Only if you do it of your own volition, Anton, because you desire it. If you comply only because it’s what he desires, and succumbing is the only way for you to get the payout you want?” Christophe injected steel into his tone. “That, my erstwhile brother, is the very definition of a whore.”

Anton lunged at him, but Bishop caught him, twisting his arm up behind his back. “You’ve got enough on your rap sheet, pal. Don’t add to it. I may not be on the force at the moment, but anyone can report a crime, and I’m calling in both of you.”

Etienne brushed a stray pine needle off his shirt. “For what?”

“For destruction of livestock. Assault. Conspiracy to commit murder.”

“Really? But as I understand it, those poor sheep were slaughtered by a rogue wolf.” He gestured to the group on the ledge. “I see no wolf here. Do you?”

Bishop pointed to the camera. “We have your threats on tape. Your attack on Christophe.”

“I threatened a wolf. Attacked a wolf, who probably was responsible for the death of half a dozen poor little lambs. Surely that isn’t grounds for arrest, not now that wolves are no longer a protected species in this state.”

“You held a gun on Trent.”

“Technically, Anton held the gun. I was merely a bystander.” Etienne tapped his lips with a finger. “Ah yes. Then Trent held a gun on us. We quite feared for our lives, I assure you, since he freely confessed to shooting an astonishingly large number of men.”

“It was only one guy,” Trent muttered. “And he was already a ghost.”

Bishop’s eyebrows bunched together over his nose. “Trent, you’ve got no reason to stick to that bullshit story. You—” He broke off, his gaze darting from Christophe to Etienne. “Aw, fuck me sideways. You mean that’s true too?”

“I told you.” Trent scratched the side of his neck, where his scars were only partially hidden under his sweatshirt. “But I’d kinda prefer not to have to explain that to a judge. Know what I’m saying?”

“So.” Etienne smirked. “Stalemate, I believe.”

“No, damn it,” Bishop growled. “Somebody give me another reason to report these assholes.” He gave Christophe the side-eye. “One that won’t make me look like a lunatic.”

Christophe nodded at Anton, who was glowering in Bishop’s grasp. “Mr. Bishop, my brother’s greatest offenses are against my family and me, and we won’t press charges in an American court. I suggest, therefore, that you remand him into my father’s custody.”

“I don’t like it. They both deserve—”

“I assure you, he will be punished. Severely. But in accordance with our own laws, and in our own country. If you would be so good as to restrain him, however?”

“That I can do.” He pulled handcuffs out of his pocket and slapped them on Anton.

Trent blinked. “I thought you were suspended.”

“Pays to be prepared.”

“And you, Etienne,” Christophe said. “The boards of our companies may have something to say about your methods.”

“Who will tell them? You? You have no clout. The boards would scarcely recognize your face. And with no true Clavret to follow him, your father will have no choice but to agree to our terms, which, I might add, will be far more favorable to us than to him.”

Anton blanched. “Etienne? You swore that the company would remain in my hands.”

Etienne shrugged. “I lied.” He slung his jacket over his shoulder. “Why would I ally myself with an incompetent fool who can’t even shift? Now, if you don’t mind, this gathering has turned tedious, and I am a very busy man.”

“Not so fast.” Julie beckoned Zack over. “Don’t forget, we’ve got your transformation on tape, along with these lovely confessions.”

“You have nothing. My company knows what I am. It’s what we’ve built both our partnerships and our rivalries on since the Middle Ages.”

Christophe clenched his fists. “True. So your directors will know the transformation is fact, not fiction, as will those of Clavret et Cie and Merrick Industries. How do you think they’ll respond to your methods of hostile takeover by way of murder? I doubt you’ll retain their confidence, or your position.”

Etienne’s gaze slid to the side, and he swallowed convulsively. “I’m the only remaining shifter. Our traditions—”

“Are less important to shareholders these days than profits.” It was time for all three of the Old Families’ companies to change their antiquated leadership model. Let it begin here.

Etienne scowled. “What is it you want?”

“Step down.”

“What? Preposterous.”

“If you do not, I will make sure all three of the Old Families know that while your bluster and cruelty may be true, your strength is nothing but a sham. When asked to risk yourself, you turn tail like the most craven of betas.”

Etienne’s face lost all color. “You— No one would believe you.”

“No? Your arm injury is testament to your lack of prowess in battle. But if that is not enough . . .” Christophe turned to Julie. “Ms. Ainsworth? Will you make your footage available to me?”

Julie grinned. “Whenever you say the word.”

“Thank you.” Christophe called up his full alpha power, battered and weary though it might be, and stared down Etienne. “Resign voluntarily and bask in your glory as the last cursed werewolf of your line, or be forced out, disgraced, and shunned. Your choice.”

Etienne drew himself up, although his dignity was rather marred by his injured arm. “I concede nothing. This is not over, Clavret.” He stalked across the ledge. Bishop blocked his path. “Do you mind? I have a plane to catch.”

Bishop growled, but let him pass. “Christ on a soda cracker,” he muttered as Etienne strode down the hill. “It chaps my hide to let him go.”

“Don’t worry. He won’t get away with this either. I promise.”

“You got that right,” Trent said, “because no way can he drive that fricking Ferrari with only one hand.”

Julie watched Etienne disappear into the trees, bouncing on her toes. “Did you see that? How he backed off? That’s the power of the media.”

“Yeah.” Trent leaned close to Christophe and murmured into his ear, “You know we don’t have the wolf throw down on camera, right?”

“Yes. But Etienne does not. I suggest we keep it that way.”

“Got it. But—” Christophe’s knees buckled, and Trent caught him around the waist. “Whoa. Hey, come on, let’s sit you down.”

Julie hugged herself, apparently oblivious to Christophe’s distress. “Zack, you got it all, right? Everything?” Zack gave her a thumbs-up. “Excellent. When we air this—”

“You can’t.” Jesus fuck, this woman could give Bishop serious competition in the one-track-mind department. He eased Christophe onto a flattish rock.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you can’t air this footage. Any of it. For one thing, we’ll lose some of the leverage we’ve got over Etienne.” He looked at Christophe, whose face had gone nearly gray now that he didn’t have to play the Big Bad for Etienne. “And you can’t expose Christophe this way. It’s wrong.”

“But—but—” She slapped an overhanging fir branch. “Shit.” Then she glanced up at Riley and Logan, her expression turning sly. “I can cut out Etienne’s name. Christophe’s too, and we can mask faces. We’ve got that footage of the road trip and the search through the woods.”

“Lots of great shots of me,” Max said. “But we’ll need to cut out the part where I hit my head. And when my jacket got tangled in those brambles.”

Riley glared at her. “Jules. What are you plotting?”

She widened her eyes at him, like that animated cat in the Shrek movies. Trent would bet his last dollar that she was twice as deadly. “I need something to pitch to the money people, Rile, you know that. This is perfect. They’ll see the potential and then—”

Riley narrowed his eyes. “What’s your price for not airing any of it?”

“Well . . . I’d need something to replace it. Something good. Leads with proven audience appeal.”

Max preened. “Say no more, Julie, I accept.” Julie ignored him, smirking at Logan.

Logan sighed. “How many?”

“Six legend-tripping specials.”

“One.”

“Five.”

“One.”

“Three.”

“One.”

“Fine, I’ll use this footage.”

“Logan,” Trent and Riley warned simultaneously.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Three.”

Julie punched the air. “Yes!” She turned to Trent. “And you. Oh my God, you were awesome! Just what my new show needs. I mean, we’ve got Riley for earnest, Logan for surly, and Max for . . . well . . . Max. But your flash and moxie could put us over the top. What’s on your near-term agenda? Think you might be up for sharing the screen with these bozos?”

Trent’s mouth dropped open. Jesus, she was offering him a job? Acting? Hell, legend tripping? He waited for terror to knot his gut, for sweat to break out on his forehead.

And waited. And waited.

“Trent?” Julie’s normally confident tone was hesitant.

Joy bubbled up under his sternum. Holy shit. I’m an actor again. And the supernatural can kiss my ass. “Hell yeah. Where do I sign?”

“Ms. Ainsworth?” Christophe struggled to his feet, and Trent steadied him with an arm around his waist. “Does your production company accept investors?”

“Sure, when we can get them.”

“When we arrange a private showing of your uncut footage for the Clavrets and Merricks, I’m sure both families will be quite interested.”

“Seriously? But you told Etienne we’d keep everything under wraps as long as he behaved.”

Christophe smiled, flashing his canines for the first time since he’d shifted back. “I lied. And in return for your evidence of Etienne’s machinations, the other families will no doubt express their appreciation in a suitably lucrative manner.”

Julie dropped her gaze to her feet. “I wouldn’t really have outed you, you know.”

“I do. You have ethics, although you may need to be reminded of them at times, and a skill in negotiation that sharks would envy. That is something the Old Families respect.”

Julie’s head popped up, her smile blooming. “Wow. Thank you.”

Christophe smiled wryly. “You’re welcome. Now, could we please get off this bloody mountain?”