Christophe leaned heavily on Trent. Truly, he had reached the limits of his stamina.

Logan strode to the center of the ledge. “That’s right. In case everyone has forgotten, there’s a wedding waiting for us back at the resort. Assuming the guests haven’t given up and gone home by now.”

Riley took his hand. “Don’t worry. Even if there’s nobody there but the two of us, I’m still marrying you today.”

“Damn straight.”

Riley grinned. “Damn gay, don’t you mean?”

“Whatever. You’re not getting away from me, Riley Morrel.”

Riley looped his arms around Logan’s neck. “Who says I want to?”

This time, Riley initiated the kiss, and Christophe was surprised that Logan didn’t melt into a puddle at Riley’s feet.

Christophe tugged the hem of the crumpled Henley Trent had provided for him. This may well be my favorite shirt now, other than the undershirt beneath it. “Then let us depart.” He cast a disgusted glance at the cave mouth. “I, for one, never wish to see this spot again.”

Everyone straggled down the hill, Bishop hauling the cowed Anton at the head of the line, followed by Logan and Riley, their hands laced together. Zack, who’d never stopped his camera rolling, brought up the rear with Julie and Max.

“You gonna be okay on this hike?” Trent murmured. “Flip-flops aren’t exactly wilderness-friendly.”

Christophe chuckled, grateful for the support of Trent’s shoulder. “Cher, I would gladly trek barefoot over broken glass to leave this place.”

“Let’s hope it’s not that bad. I can’t carry you, but I’ll help.”

“Thank you.” They followed the parade through the woods. “I am so proud of you, mon amour. You, with your fear of the woods, withstood it without showing any weakness in front of the conspirators. And I guarantee, they would have exploited it, had they known.”

Trent helped Christophe across a tangle of exposed tree roots. “You know, it’s a funny thing. It doesn’t bother me so much anymore. It did a bit, when we were on our way, but now that you’re here . . .” He grinned. “Guess you keep my ghosts away.”

“I am more than happy to do so.”

They were silent as they negotiated a rough bit of terrain. “I’ve been wondering. You and that prick, Etienne, are the last of the line, right?”

“That is correct. The mutation only manifests in the male line, and then only if the mother carries the dosage-dependent gene. Etienne has only sisters. The Merricks of this generation are both female, as are our Clavret cousins. Anton carries the gene, but it’s not expressed.”

“So how come there aren’t more of you?”

“Because women aren’t idiots.”

Trent grinned. “Non sequitur much?”

“The mutation carries with it a high rate of maternal mortality. The babies are born with vestigial claws. That’s how they’re identified at birth. No matter what precautions we take, the outcome is never certain.”

Trent winced. “Ouch.”

“Indeed. When I was born, my family had planned so carefully. My father had contracted with a discreet private hospital, attempting to cover every contingency, reduce the risk as much as possible. But he hadn’t counted on early onset labor coinciding with a blizzard. So despite his best laid plans, my first act in the world was to kill my mother.”

“Listen, you know you can’t blame yourself for that anymore, don’t you?”

“Perhaps. But I can blame my father. And I would certainly blame myself were I to subject any woman to such a fate.”

“Would you? I mean, if there weren’t any danger? Marry a woman?”

Christophe stopped Trent on the path. “Cher, Trent, werewolves may be bisexual by nature, but although I’ve had liaisons with women in the past, my inclinations have always skewed more toward men. Yet another reason I could never accede to my father’s wishes. I harbor secrets enough. I could not bear to live another lie.”

Trent thought about Christophe’s words. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

He swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth. “For a minute, did you believe him? Anton, I mean. That I’m only with you for your money. Because the penthouse is awesome, sure. François is a totally kick-ass Alfred or Bunter or whatever. And your clothes—before Anton burned them anyway—were to die for.” Jesus, I’m babbling. Focus, Pielmeyer. “It sucks that you’ll lose all that, but just so you know, it won’t make any difference to how I feel about you.”

“Trent—”

“And when it comes to making do on a budget—hey, I’m your go-to guy. I’ll take you to my favorite thrift stores. You could make even this sweatshirt look good.”

“Shhh.” Christophe laid a finger across Trent’s lips. “I never believed him. Not even for an instant.”

“Why?” It wasn’t like his rocking grunge-style gave away his silver-spoon roots.

“No one who only wanted money would sit with a wolf overnight. Or risk his own dear, foolish neck on the off-chance of a rescue.”

“Dear, huh?”

Christophe kissed him softly on the lips, then again on the forehead. “Adored.”

“If it meant reconciling with your dad, though—if he allowed you to study genetics, revamp the company structure, forget the arranged marriage, blah, blah, blah—would you . . . would you go back? To Europe?”

Christophe shook his head. “It is not my father’s place to allow me to live my life. I shall choose to do so on my own terms. That includes remaining here in America. In Portland. The genetics program at OHSU is exemplary. I need look no further. That is . . .” Christophe held Trent’s gaze. “If you plan to remain.”

Trent grinned. “Well, I’ve kind of got a job now, don’t I? I may have to travel with the show a little, and there are some things I need to take care of, but—”

“Guys!” Julie hollered from where the van was parked on the verge above them. “Come on. Wedding, remember?”

“Keep your skirt on,” Trent shouted. “We’ll be right there.”

“Trent?” Christophe’s voice was tentative, maybe a little fearful.

Trent urged him up the last slope. “I—”

Logan stormed over. “Now, guys.” He fairly hauled Christophe out of Trent’s arms and into the van before he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“I guess we’ll talk later,” Trent muttered. With Riley riding shotgun, the only seat left was next to Bishop.

Fucking great.

Trent slumped down, arms crossed, prepared to sulk in silence all the way back to the resort. He managed several minutes of moping before Bishop cleared his throat.

“So. What you said back there. You really weren’t kidnapped? You were—shit, I don’t know—haunting Forest Park for seven years?”

“Yep.”

Bishop ran his hand over his head. “So there are other places, other . . . what . . . dimensions?”

“Call ’em whatever you want. They’re real, dude, just like werewolves. There’s probably a bunch of other supernatural shit out there too. Better get used to the idea.”

Julie turned around and grinned at them. “Don’t worry. You can hear all about them on my legend-tripping specials.”

“Christ on a carousel,” Bishop muttered. “And I thought kidnapping was the worst that could have happened to—” He clenched his jaw shut, throat working, and stared out the window.

The worst that could have happened to whom? Trent opened his mouth to ask, but at that moment, they pulled up to the resort, and Logan hustled them all out of the van so fast that Trent checked his seat for skid marks.

Chalk up one more thing to talk about later. My to-do list is seriously out of control.

Ahead of him, Christophe caught his flip-flop on the edge of the lodge stairs and stumbled. Trent rushed forward and caught him around the waist before he could fall, earning one of Christophe’s sharp-toothed smiles. God, I love that smile. Trent leaned in and captured it in a kiss.

Yep. Kissing was so going on that list—right at the very top.

Jesus fuck. The wedding. Was. Awesome.

Yeah, the guests were a bit glassy-eyed, maybe from the champagne, which Heather had apparently been quite generous with. But Trent put his money on the fact that Logan’s father had talked at them for the whole hour and a half of the werewolf-hunt delay.

Who knew you could filibuster a wedding?

William had even convinced the resort to allow them to hold the ceremony in the chapel despite the postponement. Trent sat at the back of the crowd, next to Christophe, who was still in Trent’s grubby sweats. Logan had offered to let them check Anton’s cabin in case he’d left any of Christophe’s clothing intact. The instant Christophe declined, Logan practically frog-marched Riley down the aisle.

It was a nice gesture on Christophe’s part—given how meticulous he was—although it may have been simple self-preservation. If Logan had had to wait another instant, he might have detonated, and then everyone would have been caught in the blast zone.

Logan and Riley stood at the front of the hall, their fingers intertwined. Sure, there might be mud on their shoes and the hems of their tux pants, but—

Trent squinted at the back of Riley’s coat. He turned to Christophe. “Dude,” he murmured, mindful of the crowd hanging on the officiant’s words, “is that a paw print on Riley’s ass? You want to explain to me how that got there?”

“No,” Christophe murmured with a sly smile, his gaze never leaving the ceremony.

Zack was downstage left, filming the whole thing, panning across the wedding party, getting what had to be a perfect shot of Julie, in her best-person dress and Doc Martens, fighting tears and glaring at Logan for all she was worth.

Logan—God, had anyone ever in the history of the world looked that fucking happy? If joy were helium, he’d be halfway to Mars by now. Riley was serious and intent as usual. He fumbled Logan’s ring, and it rolled halfway down the aisle before Julie—who had clearly lost the not-gonna-cry battle—managed to catch it.

Trent couldn’t blame her for the sentiment. When the officiant—a woman with a blue fauxhawk and two full tattoo sleeves—pronounced Riley and Logan husbands together for life, Trent choked up a little himself. Even Bishop—lurking at the back of the chapel with a handcuffed Anton—knuckled his eyes as if he was wiping away a tear.

Yeah, true love’ll do that to you, especially if you’re afraid you’ll never get it yourself.

He glanced sidelong at Christophe. On the other hand . . .

Christophe sagged in his chair, a plate of half-eaten wedding cake on the table in front of him. If he had to sit here much longer, he might slide under the table from sheer exhaustion.

Considering that the reception had gotten such an early start—at least from the perspective of alcohol consumption—it had lasted an inordinately long time. Long past Logan and Riley’s departure for their honeymoon, destination undisclosed.

Logan had stopped by their table while Riley was bidding Julie good-bye. “If I tell anyone where we’re going, Ainsworth’ll be there with her camera crew and Max fucking Stone. That’s not my idea of a honeymoon.” He’d pulled a key out of his pocket and handed it to Trent. “My old apartment. I told ’em to hold off on the renovation, so you can stay as long as you need. See you in three weeks.”

As Trent had grinned and tucked the key in his pocket, Christophe’s heart sank to his unfortunately grubby toes. In those first bewildering moments after Trent had recognized Christophe as a wolf, he’d revealed he had nowhere to go. Christophe hadn’t forgotten—he had hoped to capitalize on the confession and convince Trent to move into the penthouse immediately. How disturbing was it that he actually wished for Trent to have no choice but to allow Christophe to save him?

Ludicrous. How could he demand the right to make his own choices, yet wish to deprive choice from the man he loved?

If only I can convince him to stay with me. Prove that together we could build something as strong as the relationship Logan and Riley enjoy.

He’d simply have to depend on his powers of persuasion. He knew how to woo a man, or he had once. Pray God he hadn’t lost the knack, now, when it mattered the most.

As Christophe slumped in his chair, watching the wedding guests snake across the floor in a sloppy conga line, Trent put an arm around his shoulders. “Hey. You look beat. Ready to call it a day? Since Logan and Riley have taken off, I don’t think anyone will blame you.”

Christophe smiled at him and gave him a gentle kiss. “I didn’t want to say anything. You seemed to be having fun.”

Trent waved his hand. “Nah. Just sending Logan and Riley off in style. They deserve it. They’ve got . . .” He heaved a sigh and took his arm away. “Listen. We need to talk.”

“Oh dear. That sounds ominous.”

Trent shrugged. “Maybe not. Should we go somewhere quiet?”

“No. If I need to recover, I want access to alcohol. Lots of it, in company with people sufficiently inebriated that when I make a maudlin fool of myself, nobody will remember it tomorrow.”

Trent’s eyes widened. “What do you need to recover from? Is there something—” He ducked as someone’s stiletto flew overhead. “Jesus fuck, things are getting out of control,” he muttered as he tossed the shoe back to its owner. “I want to tell you—”

Max Stone plopped down in the chair next to Trent and slapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, buddy. These gay guys know how to throw a party, am I right?”

Trent scooted away, closer to Christophe. “I’m pretty sure Julie and Heather are the ones who staged this shindig.”

“Really? Maybe I should—”

“Pardon me, Max.” Christophe pointed to the dancers gyrating in the middle of the room. “Isn’t this the—what do you call it?—the Macarena?”

“Yes! Got to get in on this action. Later, dudes.” He dashed off, scattering other guests in his rush to the middle of the dance floor.

Trent chuckled. “It’s a good thing Riley and Logan are already gone. I don’t think either of them would survive hearing the Macarena at their wedding reception. So. As I was saying . . .” He took Christophe’s hands in both of his, so careful with Christophe’s swollen fingers.

Suddenly, Christophe couldn’t bear to hear it. If Trent was about to leave him behind, he wanted to delay that moment as long as possible. “I can help you get your trust fund back,” he blurted.

“What?”

“Your father’s legal stonewalling. I may no longer be the CEO-in-waiting of Clavret et Cie, but I nonetheless have access to the finest lawyers ever to rip an opponent to shreds.”

“That’s very . . . feudal of you.”

“What can I say? It’s in my blood.”

“But you’re broke now. Same as me.”

“Anton overstated his case. I inherited money from my mother, so even without the company backing, I am far from destitute.”

“So I guess the thrift store shopping trip is off the table, huh?”

“Perhaps. But I appreciated the offer nonetheless. Allow me to assist you in this small way.” Please, cher, let me be necessary to you.

Trent ran a hand over the back of his head. “Thing is, it’s a little more than a trust fund. I always called it that because that was the part that mattered when I was nineteen.”

“You mean last week?”

Trent grinned at him. “No, you jerk. Seven years ago. And it wasn’t only a trust fund. It was a whole freaking trust. My grandfather left his estate to me.”

“What, you mean the house?”

“No, I mean everything. The house, the money, the yacht, although that didn’t make it through some hurricane or other. He left it in trust for me until I turned twenty-five. My father is one of the trustees. His asshole lawyer is another one. There was a third one, Grandfather’s lawyer, but he died while I was checked out of reality. A new one has to be appointed, I guess. I’m not really sure how it works.”

Christophe’s heart sank. “So you’re wealthy.”

“Theoretically, yeah. I mean my family is. Whether any of it’ll get to me remains to be seen.”

“So everything I gave you was superfluous. Laughable, even.”

“Dude. At the moment, the only money I’ve got on me is the two hundred bucks I got for not having sex with your brother.”

He doesn’t need me at all.

“I see.”

“Anyway, can we get back to the point? I wanted to tell you that I want this.” He gestured at the crowd gyrating on the dance floor.

“The Macarena?”

“No. God, I’m fucking this up. I want what Riley and Logan have. That connection. That commitment. That knowledge that someone always has their back, no matter what. I want to look at someone with that same giant freaking joy that Logan had leaking out his ears when he made his vows.”

“I . . . see. Well, I suppose if you—”

“No, idiot. I want that with you. I know it’s early days yet, but—” Trent scooted forward and put his hands on Christophe’s knees. “When I thought you’d get killed by those ranchers, or by your own damn brother—Jesus fuck, Christophe. I’d rather volunteer for another seven years in the ghost war than let anything like that happen to you again. I mean, sure, you take care of me, keep my shadows away. But the thing is—” He swallowed, ducking his head so that his hair fell over his eyes. “You need someone to keep you safe. To chase your shadows. And I . . . I want to be that person. I’m not sure I can be—I mean, fuckup is my middle name, but . . .”

Christophe’s chest filled with light. He brushed his fingers over Trent’s lips. When Trent raised his chin, his impossibly blue eyes were filled with doubt. No more of that. Not if I can help it. “You saved me, mon amour. Despite the odds against us, despite my inability to communicate, despite the shock of discovering my true nature. You are smart, resourceful, brave, and without a doubt the most remarkable man it has ever been my privilege to meet. I could ask for no one better.”

Trent’s smile was uncertain. “Um . . . that first night, you said burdens could be lighter if they’re shared. I’ve practically buried you in mine. Let me share yours. Please?”

“What is it you say? Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Trent exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath. “Oh thank God.” Then he laughed and pulled Christophe into his lap. He laced his fingers through Christophe’s tangled hair and angled his face for a kiss, moaning as their tongues met and danced to a beat far more sensual and primitive than the Macarena.

Suddenly, a light shone on them.

“Hey, guys, we’re doing a video guest book.” Julie’s face appeared over Trent’s shoulder, wearing a decided smirk. “Care to say something to help Logan and Riley remember the day?”

“I don’t think they’ll have any trouble remembering it. It was . . . eventful.” Christophe smiled for the camera, but wished he didn’t appear at such a disadvantage. Forever now, he would be the savage at the feast—which, when he thought about it, was exactly what he’d always been. But with Trent beside him, it scarcely mattered. He’s seen the beast, yet loves me anyway.

“If Logan and Riley can’t remember this day, they need more help than video footage,” Trent said, his hot gaze never leaving Christophe’s face. “And as for you guys—fuck off. I’m busy.”

To Christophe’s great and utter joy, Trent dove back into the kiss.