Ted couldn’t believe it. Larry had lied to him. But why? They were friends. Surely friends didn’t do this kind of shit to each other. Ted hunched in the corner, not knowing what to say as Larry gabbled at Quentin like a turkey.

“I can’t now. I have a schedule—”

Quentin apparently didn’t have a problem finding words. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone silky and scary as hell. “I believe you just said the word ‘can’t.’ Am I mistaken?”

“No. That is, I’ve got deliveries. Other orders that take priority.”

“Really? How long has that couple in your waiting room—the one whose car all three of your mechanics are currently swarming over like locusts—how long have they been in the queue?”

“A long time. Really forever.”

“Is that so? Shall I ask them to make certain?” Quentin turned as if to leave the office.

“No! That is, their car broke down outside of town. It was an emergency.”

“An emergency. Are they on the way to the hospital for a kidney transplant? Negotiating nuclear disarmament? Fleeing the zombie apocalypse?” The angrier Quentin got, the smoother his voice became—and the harder Ted’s cock grew. Because, Ursa bless, who’d have ever thought a little dude like Q-Bert could be so fricking masterful.

“Of course not. They’re vacationing in—” Larry gulped. “I mean—”

“Say no more, Larry.” How could Quentin make his voice soft and sharp at the same time? And the way he said Larry, he might as well have said You’re dead. “I think your schedule has just freed up, don’t you? Because nobody in this very close-knit community would want to think you’d fuck over one of their own for the sake of wealth profiling, now, would they?”

“I wouldn’t—”

“How long has Shirl been waiting for her carburetor?”

Larry blanched. “You wouldn’t—”

“Install the damn fuel pump, Larry. Now. We’ll wait.”

Larry nearly dumped over backward in his chair, overbalancing when his heel caught on his inbox, sending papers flying across the office. He scurried out, cutting a wide berth around Quentin, who glared at him all the way as if he wanted to set the seat of Larry’s jeans on fire.

“I hope all your friends aren’t similarly odious, Ted, because if they are . . .” Quentin shook his head. “Damn.”

Ted knelt and began gathering the scattered papers off the floor, not really wanting to face Quentin and admit he’d never even suspected Larry wasn’t being honest with him. Could I be a bigger idiot?

“I don’t get it. Why would he do something like that to me? Or to Shirl, for Pete’s sake? I mean, does he have a death wish?”

Quentin sniffed. “It’s obvious. Power. He’s an empire-builder, and you threaten him because you’re, well, you. Shirl threatens him because she has power. Plus, she’s freaking scary. He wishes he had the same influence.”

“Thanks for standing up for me.” Ted peered at Quentin, who was still glaring after Larry. “It was nice of you.”

Quentin shrugged. “I wasn’t nice in the least, but that’s what the situation called for.” He glanced down at Ted, and thankfully, his glare softened. “It drives me absolutely mad when people take advantage of others simply because they can. That kind of self-important, egotistical, self-aggrandizing muscle-flexing. Ugh. It’s infuriating. Besides . . .” He flipped the inbox upright. “How else were we supposed to get home?”

Ted didn’t hold any illusions that Quentin thought of the lodge as home. His color was still high from his outburst, so he was probably not firing on all cylinders. Ted stood and dropped the papers in the inbox.

“I’ve got to say, though, Q-Bert. When you’re mad, you are one sexy devil.”

Quentin shot him an irritated glance. “Dynastic ’cubi may have demon ancestors, but we are not devils, thank you.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean . . .” Ted caught a whiff of a familiar aroma. He sniffed, leaning closer to Quentin. “It’s you.”

“What’s me?”

“You smell like a perfectly toasted marshmallow.” Sweet, but with fiery undertones.

Quentin’s lips twitched. “Please. I prefer to think of it as the burnt sugar crust on a crème brûlée.”

“You know about it?”

Quentin quirked an eyebrow. “It’s been mentioned before,” he said, his tone dry. “Is there anything else we need to do in town? Despite Larry’s obvious incentive to get us on the road quickly, I expect the actual labor won’t be instantaneous.”

“No. We’re set.”

“Excellent. I’d say we should join the vacationers in the waiting room, but they didn’t look particularly interesting. We could stand in the service bay and observe Larry’s efforts, but—”

“You’d probably make him piss his pants if you did that. Better let him focus on my truck.”

“A point.” Quentin opened the lapels of his parka and fanned them. “However, ’cubi internalize their anger, and I need to dissipate some of this heat.”

“We can take a walk down to the beach if you need to cool off.”

“That sounds perfect.”

After barely a half-hour stroll along the shore, though, they were in Ted’s truck and heading back up the mountain.

“I had no idea you could install a fuel pump that quickly.”

“He was inspired,” Quentin said, watching the trees flash by as they wound up the road. “Besides, I suspect most of the work was already done. He just had to put on a show so you wouldn’t know the whole sordid truth.”

“You think?”

“With an aura like that? I’d believe anything. I think it’s far too easy for people to take advantage of you, Ted. You need to be more assertive.”

“That’s not what the council says. They say I need to be less impulsive.”

“Assertive and impulsive are not opposites. However, I refuse to spare another thought on Larry. He’s irrelevant.” Quentin rooted around in the Stuff ’n’ Things bag and pulled out the knife. He weighed it in his palm. “I can’t believe she had something this perfect just lying about on hand.”

“Hey. Truth in advertising, right?”

Quentin chuckled. “Apparently. What time is moonrise tonight?”

“I’m not sure. About ten maybe? Although there won’t be much of a moon. We’re right at the tail end of the cycle.”

“But it’ll be dark earlier, yes?”

“Oh yeah. No later than five.” Although it was barely past four, Ted had already turned on his headlights. “We’re far enough north that after daylight savings time, our days are pretty short. Solstice is only about six weeks away, after all.”

“Excellent. We can knock off one of the escape clause requirements tonight.”

Ted glanced sidelong at Quentin. He was leaning his head against the window, his eyes closed, the knife held loosely in one fist. “You okay, Q-Bert?”

“A trifle faint. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Alarm shot up Ted’s spine, causing him to grip the steering wheel harder. “David said you were supposed to take it easy, and I forgot because Larry was already there and—”

“I’ll be fine, Ted. Although I may need to nap before we go out tonight. I expended too much energy getting angry at Larry, that’s all.”

Damn it. Quentin’s condition was Ted’s fault. Again. “You need to eat. As soon as we get home, I’m making you dinner. In fact, tell me what I have to do for the escape thingie tonight, and I’ll take care of it. You can stay inside and rest.”

“That’s very gallant of you.” Quentin’s voice, although slightly wavery, was laced with amusement. “However, this is something that we have to do together. Now that I consider it, I think it was good that both of us went into town—truck acquisition aside—because I’m not sure any of this would work if we didn’t do it together.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a ritual, and rituals are by their nature symbolic. You know how fixated witches are with symbolism and sympathetic magic. They’re worse than druids.”

“So?”

“So, we’re trying to undo a contract, a spell, that’s a covenant between two people who have agreed to share a life. The symbolic offerings won’t pack as much punch if they don’t fully embody that.” Quentin dropped the knife into the bag with a flourish. “Sending you out shopping while I lounge about eating bonbons is not what I would call representative of a partnership.”

“I don’t know about that. Weren’t you just on at me about how we should measure our contributions by what we’re good at? Maybe I’m better at shopping. And you might be stellar at eating bonbons.”

“Nobody could be that good at eating bonbons.”

Ted snickered as he turned onto the road that led to his place. “I’d pay a lot to see you try.” He cut a glance at Quentin. “Not that we have time for that.”

“True. The sooner we get the offerings ready to go, the sooner we can move on with our lives. I have to admit . . .” Quentin sounded exhausted. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to manage without consuming some energy, so the sooner the better. Especially since Casimir’s energies are bound to be diminished, or at least different. It may take me some time to adjust.”

“‘Consuming energy’? Is that an incubus euphemism for fucking?”

Quentin snorted, a ridiculously adorable sound coming from such a buttoned-up guy. “It can be. But I haven’t fucked anybody, as you so delicately put it, for decades.”

Ted nearly ran the truck off the road. “You’re kidding. You’re a sex demon, for crying out loud. That doesn’t even make any sense.”

Quentin glared at him, but it was a pale imitation of the nuclear blast he’d aimed at Larry. “How long is it since you’ve had sex, Mr. Expert?”

Heat rushed up Ted’s throat, and he was grateful for the camouflage of his beard and the darkening cab. “A—a while.”

“How long is ‘a while’?”

“I don’t keep a fricking calendar, okay? I don’t get a lot of company. That’s one of the reasons I registered with Supernatural Selection, remember?”

Quentin sighed. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

His quick surrender deflated Ted’s annoyance. “No worries. But I don’t know that much about your kind, so try to chill if I say something stupid, okay? I’m bound to do that anyway. It’s kind of my trademark.”

“That’s fair. To answer your question—even though you didn’t quite ask it as I would like—’cubi consume life energies. It doesn’t have to be from sex. It can be from a consensual touch. But we can also absorb ambient energy from peoples’s auras when they’re sparking.”

“‘Sparking’? Is that a euphemism for—”

“It’s not a euphemism for fucking, no.”

Ted flexed his hands on the steering wheel and glared at the road. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Of course you weren’t. No, sparking is when people are excited about something. It can be sexual attraction, and ’cubi are definitely drawn to that quite strongly. But it can be other things: a political debate, an evocative play, a party. Nothing sparks so brightly as when people are doing something”—his voice turned wistful—“or are with someone that they love.”

“So you can hang out at parties or the mall to get juiced up?”

“Again,” Quentin drew out the word, “delicately put. And the mall? Definitely not.”

“Why? Bertrand-Harringtons too good to shop with the masses?”

“Of course not!”

Ted chuckled at Quentin’s outrage. “Suuurrre.”

“I’m serious! There usually has to be a touch, and there are only so many times you can brush up against somebody before it doesn’t look accidental anymore. Other ’cubi have no problem with that, but I can’t. Not without consent. And because I’m not a social person, I rarely . . . engage. Consequently, I don’t get a lot of action.”

“Action. That’s the goal, right?” Ted braced himself as the truck hit a pothole, one hand reaching instinctively for Quentin. But he drew back before an actual touch. “Sex?”

“Yes. Sex is a tradition for us, I suppose, but it’s not the only answer. However, since I’m up here, where there’s no ambient energy from anyone but you, I’m not, well, feeling the love.”

“So you’re starving? Like before?” Damn it, why hadn’t Ted read that stupid contract?

“No. Stop feeling guilty.”

“How can you tell I’m feeling guilty?”

“Your aura went all brown and squiggly.”

His aura wasn’t the only thing that was squiggly. The notion that Quentin could tell what Ted was feeling—maybe what he was thinking—just by looking made his stomach writhe like a can of bait. “Can you not see auras if you want?”

“Yeees. Usually.”

“Could you do me a favor, then Q-Bert, and don’t look at mine? It’s kinda stalker-y.”

“I’ll try. But yours is rather overwhelming.”

“Yeah,” Ted muttered, “like everything else about me.”

Quentin cleared his throat. “How did we get on this subject anyway?”

Ted shot him a sidelong glance, getting more than a little satisfaction that Quentin looked just as bothered as Ted. His usually smooth dark hair was rumpled, which revealed it wasn’t actually smooth—it was crisp and wavy. “Sexless sex demons.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, that’s what I remember.”

“I believe we were discussing this evening’s task, which is intended to be a joint venture.”

“Okay. What is it?”

Quentin patted the Stuff ’n’ Things bag, the crinkle nearly drowned by the swish of gravel under the tires. “We have to cut a lock of each other’s hair with the silver knife under a moonless sky, and bind it with braided grass. We also have to braid the grass together, apparently.”

“Do we have to braid the grass after we give each other a haircut, or can we have it ready beforehand?”

“He didn’t say.”

“He didn’t say a lot of stuff,” Ted grumbled.

“I intended to ask for specifics, but my phone died.” Quentin punched his thighs with his fists. “Hells and devils take it, I forgot to charge my phone in town.”

“No worries. I got a solar charger with hand-crank backup. You’re set.”

Quentin was quiet for such a long time that Ted finally glanced at him to find him staring at Ted with a very peculiar expression on his face—although maybe it was just the failing light in the cab. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I needed to replace mine anyway.” Ted laughed and smacked his forehead. “I’m an idiot.” He pointed to the adapter plugged in to the old-style cigarette lighter socket. “You could get started now if you want.”

“Oh. Of course. I didn’t think of that either.” Quentin pulled out his cable and hooked it up. “I suggest we wait until dark to braid the grass, but do it before we cut the hair, otherwise it’ll blow away and we’ll have to do the whole thing again. I’d prefer not to do this more than once. My stylist might forgive me for one lock of hair, but she would probably draw the line at a serial chop job.”

“You already have a stylist in Portland?”

“Oh. No. I forgot.”

“Seems like there’s a lot of things you forgot, Q-Bert. Let’s hope these weird directions aren’t one of them.”

After dinner—another extremely large, highly caloric, and exceptionally tasty meal—Quentin changed rather gingerly into his clothes from Stuff ’n’ Things. He pulled one of the thermals on over his own undershirt, unwilling to let the used shirt touch his skin more than necessary. He gritted his teeth, eyes closed, waiting for the itch and burn of the previous owner’s residual energies. But after a few minutes—longer than he’d ever lasted sans rash before—nothing had happened. The fabric was soft and warm against his skin.

Maybe I should do all my used clothes shopping at Stuff ’n’ Things.

After he’d finished dressing—and he had to admit, the clothes were just as comfortable as his bespoke suits and far more so than his tuxes—he returned to the kitchen where Ted was cleaning up from dinner.

Ted stacked a couple of bowls in the cabinet and shut the door, then glanced at Quentin. He grinned. “Mountain man casual is a good look on you, Q-Bert.”

Quentin grimaced at Ted’s continued use of that ridiculous nickname, but asking him to desist was clearly useless. “Are you ready?”

“Sure. Let’s go braid some grass.”

The two of them shrugged into their coats and stepped onto the porch. The sharp wind from earlier in the day had died, leaving behind a fitful breeze.

Quentin shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “Where should we go to find grass long enough to braid?”

“Down by the lake. It’s mostly dead now, so it may be more brittle than if we were doing this in spring, but hopefully our braids don’t have to pass too close an inspection.”

“I think it’s the activity that’s important, and making sure it can be tied tightly enough to hold a lock of hair.”

“Could be tricky. I, uh, suppose you know how to braid things?”

“Don’t you?”

“Can’t say it’s ever been a priority. Not like I need to know how to do it as a bear.”

“Yes. I know how.” Quentin was proud that his voice didn’t shake, despite the twitch in his back as he tried to keep long-buried sense memories buried. “It’s not difficult.” And the memory surfaced anyway.

“It’s not difficult, Quentin, you worthless cretin.” The master’s voice cut deeper than the lash as he struck Quentin with every flogger he deemed unacceptable. “Try again.”

Although producing an acceptable one hadn’t stopped the whippings. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t braided anything since.

“Come on, then.”

Ted led the way down a barely discernible path. Oh. Glasses. Quentin removed his spectacles, and the terrain—not to mention Ted’s ass—was instantly visible to his dark-evolved ’cubi vision. He gritted his teeth as he tucked the glasses in his shirt pocket. This is going to be a long night.

Ted stopped next to a large, flat-topped boulder, its base crowded with clumps of faded grass. “I figure this’ll do for both. We’ve got the grass for the braiding stuff, and we can use the rock as a seat and a work surface.” He slapped the rock. “Although I suppose this isn’t the cushy salon chair you’re used to.”

“I don’t believe it’s anyone’s idea of a cushy salon chair, even rugged bear shifters who don’t mind sleeping in caves.” Quentin yanked a handful of grass out of the ground. Unfortunately, when he laid it on the rock, a gust of wind scattered it onto the surface of the water. “I’m not sure this will work. We need to anchor the ends somehow, and your rock isn’t particularly yielding.”

“It’s not the only thing,” Ted muttered, tugging on his inseam as if his pants were binding him. “Here.” He grabbed another handful of the wilted blades. “I’ll hold them. You do the braiding thing. That’ll count as doing it together, right?”

Quentin peered up at Ted, checking for derision in his expression, but there was none. He wasn’t quite certain how to deal with someone who said what he meant without layers of sly innuendo, hidden digs, or jockeying for advantage.

’Cubi depended on nuance and careful word choice to manipulate those around them. Even his grandmother rarely told Quentin straight out what she expected of him. Everything was roundabout and embellished, intended to hide her true purpose until he agreed to something he’d never intended. She was good. Too good, which was another reason he’d had to get away. He’d been afraid he’d suddenly be engaged to her choice of spouse when all he thought he was doing was offering an opinion on the new drapes.

Ted, though. Ted hid nothing. Which is probably why he’s always in trouble with the supe council. When your existence—the existence of entire societies—depended on secrecy, someone so open was a liability to all. The ’cubi would have eliminated him years ago.

The thought of Ted’s overwhelming, uncomplicated, good existence being wiped out to preserve the ’cubi’s brittle immortality made Quentin’s eyes prick with unshed tears.

What is wrong with me? He was almost crying over a threat that didn’t even exist, to a man he barely knew. A man who’s shown me more kindness and consideration in twenty-four hours than my family has in centuries.

“Q-Bert? You okay?” Ted peered down at him, his brows bunched in concern.

“Yes. I’m perfectly well, thanks.”

“Hey, you’re not wearing your glasses.” Ted leaned closer. “Wow. You have really pretty eyes. They kind of glow.”

Quentin’s breath sped up, at Ted’s closeness, at his scrutiny. “Incubus. We’re evolved to see in the dark of Sheol. The glasses allow me to see in the sunlight.”

Thankfully, Ted straightened and stopped staring so intently at Quentin’s face. “Oh. I guess that’s one thing you’ve got in common with your vampire, huh?”

Vampire. Casimir. My intended husband. “Yes. I suppose you’re right.” Quentin selected three long strands from Ted’s fist, teasing them out and focusing his attention strictly on the grass. “These should do. Hold them out.”

“How about this?” Ted took the blades and slapped them against himself below his beard. Then he grinned. “Oh, guess I should make it a little lower. Wouldn’t want you to have to stand on your toes.” He inched his hand down. And down. And down farther, until it reached his waist, the grass dangling in front of his fly.

“That’s enough. This isn’t an X-rated ritual,” Quentin muttered, his lips twitching with the urge to smile. He nudged Ted’s wrist upward until it was out of the danger zone. “There. Hold that steady. It’ll be easier if the grass isn’t flapping in midair.”

Quentin took a deep breath, wondering why he found Ted’s rather ample midsection so endearing. He stared at the three strands of grass fluttering in the breeze and was suddenly unable to make his fingers move. The last time I did this, it was for a far different purpose.

“Q-Bert? What’s the problem? I thought you knew how to do this.”

“It’s not like I sit about braiding my hair all day. I learned years ago. Or rather I was supposed to. At . . . at camp.”

“’Cubi have summer camp? Did you canoe on the lake? Take nature hikes? Sing songs around the campfire?”

The breeze tossed Quentin’s hair into his eyes and he pushed it back, his hand trembling. “No, you infuriating bear. It wasn’t that kind of camp.”

“Then what was it?”

“A forced march that all ’cubi have to endure when they hit the Change.”

“What’s ‘the Change’?”

“When our metabolism changes from needing solid food to consuming energies. It’s the ’cubi version of puberty.”

Ted grinned. “A bunch of teenage ’cubi in the woods. I’d give something to see that.”

“You wouldn’t have. Seen it, that is. All of us were at least a hundred years old at the time.”

“If you were a hundred years old, couldn’t you handle learning a couple of new things from the comfort of your home? That’s what I’d lobby for.”

Quentin shot Ted an impatient glance, and yanked on the grass too sharply, breaking one of the blades. “Shit.” He yanked up another handful and passed it to Ted. “It’s not that simple. We’re not . . . not in control. It’s not safe for anyone, especially anyone whose auras we find appealing, when our hungers change. We have to learn how not to gorge. Not to binge.” Not to kill our partner. “The disincentives administered by the masters of the march are, shall we say, stressful for your standard audience. Slasher films have nothing on a ’cubi Change March.”

“How long do they last?”

“As long as it takes.”

“All right. I’ll bite. How long did yours last?”

Quentin’s hands jerked and he broke the grass again. “Twenty-two years.”

“Jeez.” This time, Ted plucked the grass, arranging it against his belly again.

“We were expected to construct the implements of our own torture. I was supposed to braid studded leather for the master’s scourge. You’ll have to forgive me if I’ve lost the knack.”

“Hey.” Ted’s big hand closed over Quentin’s fist, sending a jolt of warmth up his arm. “I’m sorry if I hit a nerve. I didn’t mean to be an asshole.”

“You didn’t. You’re not. I’m . . . I need to get over it.” Quentin tried for a smile, but given the way his lips trembled, he’d probably failed. “It’s been almost two hundred years, after all.”

“There’s no expiration date on suffering, Quentin. It’s not your job to pretend you’re happy just to make other people feel better.”

Quentin laughed on a shaky breath. “You’re pretty smart for a guy who pretends to be dim.”

Ted shrugged. “There’s nothing people hate more than having their expectations upended. Sometimes it’s easier to let them believe what they want. But sometimes”—his eyebrow quirked—“it’s not.”

Quentin jerked a nod. “Yes. You’re right.” He smiled up at Ted. “Shall we try this again?”

“Sure.” He patted the grass he still held against himself. “Go for it, Q-Bert. You got this.”

It was the nickname that settled Quentin’s nerves. Snark he could handle. Snark he knew all about—it was his stock in trade, after all. Kindness, compassion, caring—those would gut him faster than an executioner’s blade.

Quentin’s fingers were clumsy with cold, and he had to try three times before he grasped the first strand.

Muttering a curse, Ted tossed the grass aside. “You must have used up all your heat when you were flaming at Larry.” He captured Quentin’s hands between both of his.

“Don’t. You shouldn’t touch me.”

“I’m just warming you up, Q-Bert, not trying to jump your bones. How do you expect to do the braiding stuff if your fingers are too frozen to move? Besides, you’re trembling like a leaf.”

Quentin clenched his chattering teeth. “Even a touch is dangerous. I could drain you. I could—”

“You trying to suck me dry?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Then stop bitching.” Ted rubbed his hands together, Quentin’s trapped between them, and Quentin had to admit there was nothing amorous about it.

He’s not succumbing to the ’cubi thrall. Of course, Quentin probably didn’t know how to engage it anyway, after burying it under the suppressant for so long.

“Better?”

Quentin withdrew his hands reluctantly. The stroke of Ted’s palms, rough with calluses in a way that would appall his grandmother and her set, was more pleasant than he wanted to admit. “Yes. Thank you. If you could . . .” He nodded at the grass at the foot of the boulder.

“Right.” Ted plucked three more strands and held them against his belly.

This time, Quentin was able to braid them easily, top to bottom, his fingers still tingling from Ted’s touch. “There’s one.”

Ted held it up. “Hey. Not bad.” He tucked it in his pocket and winked. “Wouldn’t want it to blow away after all that work, would we?” He grabbed three more blades. “Round two?”

Quentin nodded, and finished the second braid even faster than the first. “I guess you really never lose the knack. Assuming you don’t freak yourself out with morbid memories.”

“Or try to do it in the middle of the night in close-to-freezing temperatures. Give yourself a break.”

“Being overly critical of oneself is hardly a ’cubi failing.”

“Maybe not most incubi. But you’ve got overly critical nailed.” Ted pulled the tiny knife out of his other pocket. “So. Haircuts next?”

“Yes.”

“’Kay. You can do me first. That way I can get an idea of how much hair we’re talking about and I won’t ruin your do.”

Ted dropped to his knees, which put the top of his head even with the middle of Quentin’s chest. Mother of fire, the man was big. And warm. And vital. Quentin swayed forward, but caught himself before he came in contact with Ted’s skin again. Because that would be a bad idea.

Quentin took a firm hold on his inappropriate urges, and studied Ted’s hair dispassionately. Dispassionately. Ha!

Ted wore it shorn on the sides, long on the top, and combed back unless the wayward breeze tossed a lock over his forehead. Like now. Gah! Quentin edged around him, straddling Ted’s legs so he could get a better angle to the back of Ted’s head. “It will show less if I take it from behind.”

Ted chuckled. “Getting a little risqué there, Q-Bert?”

“Shut up and give me the knife, you infuriating bear.”

Ted passed the tiny knife over his shoulder with a deep rumbling chuckle. “Just rattling your chain a little. Lighten up. You’re not about to behead me.” He glance over his shoulder, his eyes wide in mock terror. “Are you?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Quentin ran his fingers through the longer hair at Ted’s crown, eliciting a shiver from both of them.

Ted’s lips parted in a quick inhale. He swallowed and faced front again. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Before Quentin could get lost in the sensation of the soft hair between his fingers, he twisted a hank of it together and sliced it neatly halfway to Ted’s scalp. “There.” He ruffled the hair into its usual disarray. “It barely shows.”

“Not like I can tell. I don’t spend a lot of time checking out the top of my head in a mirror.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “Want to step aside so I can get up?”

“Oh. Sorry.” Quentin scuttled sideways. “Let’s tie this up before we do mine, to make sure the braids won’t break.”

Ted pulled one of the braids out of his pocket. “Hold my hair up, and I’ll do the honors. That way, we’re doing it together, right? Wouldn’t want to be disqualified on a technicality.”

“Good thinking.” Quentin held up the twisted lock, and Ted wound the braided grass around it twice and tied it off with surprisingly deft fingers, considering their size.

“Okay.” He took the bound hair out of Quentin’s grasp and tucked it carefully in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. “Now hand over the knife, Q-Bert, and prepare to be scalped.”

“You’re not filling me with confidence here.”

Ted grinned. “Just fucking with you. Turn around.”

I wish you were fucking. With me. But Quentin did as he was told, gritting his teeth when Ted’s fingers brushed the nape of his neck.

“You don’t have much length here, Q-Bert.”

“My length is just fine, thank you.”

Ted chuckled, the vibration in his fingers tickling Quentin’s neck. “Do all ’cubi turn everything into a comment about sex, or is it just you?”

I think it’s you. “Just get on with it, please. I’m freezing.”

“Sorry.” Ted bent down until his breath ghosted across Quentin’s skin. “Wish I had your fancy eyesight. My night vision’s not bad, but I don’t want to mess this up. You want to look good when you meet your vampire.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Quentin clenched his fists, as if that would allow him to hold on to his self-control. “We need to get this done before moonrise, or we’ll have the whole thing to do again tomorrow.”

“Ah. Right. Okay. Hold still. Your hair is really soft.” Ted twirled a lock of Quentin’s hair in his fingers, then the silver blade flashed in Quentin’s peripheral vision. “There. Hope I didn’t mess it up too badly.”

Quentin stepped away, putting some distance between them. “I’m sure it will be fine. If necessary, I can ask the stylist to cut it all closer back there.”

“That’d be a shame. It’s nice hair. If your vampire doesn’t like it, he’s an idiot.”

Something warm burgeoned in Quentin’s chest. Ah, no. Don’t get maudlin over a simple compliment. “Thank you. Now, if you could hand me the grass braid?”

Ted passed it over and held Quentin’s lock of hair up between them. Quentin matched Ted’s binding method, although his tie-off wasn’t nearly as neat, and he nearly broke the braid with his trembling fingers.

“Shit, you are cold. Let’s get you back inside and I’ll make some tea or cocoa or whatever you want for a nightcap.”

“Brandy?”

Ted scrunched up his face. “Nah. Sorry. I don’t have very fancy tastes when it comes to booze.”

Quentin allowed himself to pat Ted’s arm. They were one step closer to dissolving their inconvenient marriage, and he felt he’d earned the right. “Don’t worry. I was only teasing. Cocoa sounds perfect.”

“Yeah?” Ted’s grin flashed in the starlight. “To me too.”

Inside the cabin, Quentin hung his parka on the hook next to Ted’s. The warmth of the cabin after the chill outside made his fingers tingle with returning circulation. At least he hoped that was what the tingle meant. I should never have relied on the suppressant for so long. I have no idea what’s normal for myself anymore.

As Ted hummed and thumped around the kitchen, Quentin settled on the sofa, nearest the stove, and took off his boots. He wiggled his toes inside the red-striped socks from Stuff ’n’ Things, relishing the warmth soaking into them. Maybe he should invest in some more flamboyant socks after his marriage. He didn’t have to stick to the strict wardrobe color palette that his grandmother insisted on—for preserving his dignity, she claimed. Besides, if he was relegated to the dark forever, he needed something bright in his life, even if it was only on his feet.

Ted passed a huge ceramic mug of steaming cocoa over Quentin’s shoulder. “Heating up?”

Quentin raised an eyebrow. “Now who’s making suggestive comments?” Ted chuckled as Quentin took the mug, appreciating how it further warmed his hands. He took a sip. “This is excellent.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I may not cook fancy, but that doesn’t mean I put up with crap food.”

“Sorry. Of course not. Everything you’ve prepared for me has been wonderful.”

“Thanks.”

The two of them stared into the flames dancing leisurely in the stove as they sipped their drinks.

“Why do the flames look as if they’re in slow motion?” Quentin asked, almost dreamily. The combination of the comforting cocoa, Ted’s soothing presence, and the sinuous dance of the flames mesmerized him.

“That’s how it looks when the air intake is throttled down. Once the fire’s established, it doesn’t need a lot of air to keep it going. Less air, the wood burns slower, the fire lasts longer without having to be stoked again.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

Ted chuckled. “I’m guessing you don’t have to build up the fire in a woodstove at home.”

“No. Central heating is a wonderful thing.”

Silence settled over them until Ted set his mug on the coffee table with a thunk.

“So. Vampire. I’m guessing ’cubi blood isn’t poisonous to them like shifter blood is, or he wouldn’t have married you. Er, wanted to marry you.”

“That’s correct. Our blood doesn’t contain the same hostile factors.”

“Will he . . . you know . . . suck you in more ways than one?”

A strangled laugh escaped Quentin’s throat. “You do have a way with words, Mr. Farnsworth.” The telltale heat began in Quentin’s blood, although it was more embarrassment than arousal. “I would expect so. That’s the point, isn’t it? He should get as much benefit from the marriage as I do.”

“But if vampires can’t feed on just anybody, I’m guessing ’cubi can’t either?”

“Vampire energy isn’t as strong as humans or shifters or fae—or any of the living races, for that matter. It can’t be, since they’re not technically alive. But it’s . . . adequate.”

“You’re gonna settle for an ‘adequate’ marriage?”

Quentin stared into the fire, unwilling to meet Ted’s gaze, especially if the expression on his face matched the sympathy in his voice. “It’s the best I can hope for. More than I have a right to expect.”

“Bullshit, Q-Bert. You have a right to expect an awesome marriage. Everyone does.”

Quentin flashed a wry smile at Ted. “You do, anyway. Dr. Kendrick was right. You’re a great guy.”

“I’m a screwup. I know it. The bear council knows it. It won’t be long until Rusty knows it too.” Ted leaned his elbows on his knees. “Shit, he knows it already. I mean, I signed a blood contract with the wrong fricking name on it. What idiot does that?”

“That would be me.”

“You had a reason, though, right? Those meds you were on.”

“Don’t excuse me for that reason. One would argue that overuse of the suppressant—to the extent that it was altering my DNA—was absolute proof of idiocy.”

Ted chuckled. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”

Quentin leaned back on the cushions. “A matched set.” He grinned at Ted. “Even to our haircuts.”

“Nah. Yours is way cooler.” He nodded at the empty mug still cradled in Quentin’s hands. “You done?”

“Yes. Thank you.” He handed the mug over. “It was lovely.”

Ted smiled crookedly. “So are you.” He leaned over and brushed his lips against Quentin’s cheek, then stood up and disappeared into the kitchen while Quentin sat frozen. The slam of a cabinet door broke him out of his stupor, and his hand crept to his cheek.

“Good night, Q-Bert. Hope the sofa’s comfy enough for you to get a good night’s sleep, because tomorrow’s the great flea hunt.” Whistling, Ted tromped up the stairs, the ceiling over Quentin’s head creaking as Ted moved around in his Spartan quarters.

For a long time, Quentin sat staring at the flames, hand cupping his cheek where the ghost of Ted’s lips seemed hotter than the fire dancing behind the grate. He tracked Ted’s movements overhead, both alarmed and guilty that his incubus senses allowed him to know exactly where Ted was: when he brushed his teeth, used the toilet, undressed. Quentin heard the sigh and the change in breathing when Ted tipped over the edge into sleep, apparently not as shattered as Quentin was by the kiss.

Of course he’s not. It was innocent. He meant nothing by it other than exactly what he said.

As if in a trance, Quentin rose and stole down the hallway. He stood at the foot of the staircase, Ted’s quiet, even breathing sounding louder and louder in his ears.

I could go upstairs. Slip in next to him. I wouldn’t have to wake him. I could just lie there next to him, listening to his heartbeat, absorbing his presence, taking comfort—

Quentin staggered backward, pressing against the rough paneling of the hallway. Absorb? Take? What the devil was he thinking? Ted wasn’t his, and he was far too nice a man—a man who still dreamed of his perfect mate—for Quentin to take this kind of advantage of him.

You think you’re so different from your grandmother, your cousins, your aunts and uncles. But you’re just the same, just as despicable. Go to sleep and dream of your own life. A life in the dark. It’s what you deserve, after all.