“Ted?” Matt’s soft question jerked Ted out of his Quentin-mourning-and-fishing trance. “Can I ask you something?”

Ted flicked his fishing line. “Sure.”

“Why aren’t you wearing your ring? You were so happy about your wedding when we drove back from Portland.”

Ted glanced down at his hand. He always took the ring off before he shifted, and for some reason, he hadn’t put it back on after the flea-hunting incident. He hadn’t even worn it long enough to get a tan line. “Kind of a change in plans, I guess.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.” Matt adjusted his own rod and didn’t say anything. That was the great thing about Matt. He didn’t push.

Which weirdly made Ted want to spill his guts. “Did I tell you that I found my husband through a matchmaking service?”

“You . . . ah . . . may have mentioned something about it.”

I did? Jeez, Dr. Kendrick is right. I need to watch my mouth. “I thought I’d be okay with committing to someone I hadn’t met before, but turns out my therapist was right. It’s better to meet someone and get to know them. Pick them out yourself, even if they weren’t the best match on paper.”

“So the matchmaking service didn’t give you the perfect guy, huh?”

“They did. Sort of.” Rusty probably would have been nearly perfect, and Ted would have been perfectly happy with him, if he hadn’t met Quentin.

“Are you in love with somebody else?” Matt’s tone was gentle, understanding. “Somebody who’s not your husband?”

Technically, Ted was in love with his husband—the one he had now—but that would change tonight at 10:45. And after that, I can never see him again. “You could say that.” Because even after he married Rusty, he couldn’t imagine not loving Quentin. Even though Quentin had kicked him out, the same as every other lover he’d ever had. “It’s . . . complicated.”

“I get it, Ted.”

“You do? I never knew you were married.”

“I’m not, but I’m in love with someone who’s not my husband.”

“Then you should say something.” Ted set down his pole because he wasn’t catching anything. Probably because I’m obsessing over the one that got away. “Maybe it’ll work out, maybe it won’t, but if you do nothing, you’ll never know, you know? And then you’ll regret it.”

“Same goes for you.”

“What?” Ted turned at the odd tone of Matt’s voice. “What goes for me?”

“If you don’t say something, you’ll regret it. And who knows?” He shifted on the rock, bumping Ted’s shoulder as he switched his pole to his other hand. “Maybe the other guy feels the same way.”

“I kinda doubt it. I’m not his type.” I’m alive, which is apparently a problem for him. “He’s made that pretty clear.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

This time, the sultry burr in Matt’s voice was unmistakable. Ted turned to find Matt’s face inches from his. “Uh . . . Matt? What are you doing?”

“You don’t have to worry, Ted. The feeling is definitely mutual.” He leaned closer and nuzzled Ted’s beard.

Ted reared back, sending his fishing pole spinning off the rock. “Matt! What the hell?”

Matt scooted closer. “No worries, Ted. You don’t have to say it in so many words. I could tell you’ve been working up to something for a while now, same as I have. I was going to make my move on the way back from Portland, but you had that damn ring on your finger. Since that didn’t work out, though—”

“Don’t touch him!” The roar echoed over the water, bouncing off the creek banks and probably scaring every fish from here to Astoria.

Ted’s arms slipped out from under him and he fell backward, banging his head on the rock. Matt toppled onto him, his ball cap knocked to the ground and his face planted in Ted’s crotch.

A figure loomed over them, and Ted tried to make sense of it from this wonky perspective. Tall, built, dark hair, jeans, shredded T-shirt, and— Ted’s mouth fell open. Wings! Enormous black ones with a wingspan at least twice Ted’s height.

The guy glared at Matt. “I said don’t touch him. Get off him. Now.”

Whoa. “Q-Bert?” If it weren’t for the fact that Ted recognized his own jeans and T-shirt—well, the front of it anyway; the back was toast because, holy smokes, wings!—he wouldn’t have recognized him. Quentin’s normally smooth hair was writhing around his head like angry black snakes, his eyes were glinting red, and his bared teeth seemed extra-pointy, almost vampire-sharp.

Quentin advanced on Matt with a snarl. Matt pushed himself off Ted and crab-walked backward, knocking his fishing pole into the stream, his eyes popped wide and mouth open in a silent scream.

Ted sat up just as Matt scrambled to his feet and took off into the woods as if the devil were on his tail. Which, considering Quentin’s transformation, wasn’t too far off the mark.

Quentin stared down the trail after Matt, his wings—wings!—quivering as his shoulders rose and fell. He whipped around—and how he didn’t get those things tangled in the trees, Ted had no idea. He stalked forward, his lips still lifted in a snarl. Quentin had never hurt Ted, at least not physically. He hadn’t been strong enough. But the way he was now? Ted closed his eyes and braced himself for a blow.

It didn’t come.

When he finally cracked one eyelid and peeked, Quentin was standing a couple of feet away, staring at his feet, his wing tips trailing on the ground.

“Q-Bert,” Ted murmured. “You’ve got wings.”

Quentin chuckled weakly, but didn’t meet Ted’s eyes. “What can I say? It’s an incubus thing.”

“I like ’em. But what’s the deal scaring Matt out of his britches?”

Quentin lifted his head, and though his hair wasn’t doing the snake dance anymore, his eyes still sparked red. “He was hitting on you.”

Ted rubbed the back of his neck, wishing he dared to trace the bones under Quentin’s shimmering black wing membrane. “Yeah, I think I figured that out.”

“I didn’t like it.”

“I figured that out too. But why? It’s not like you and me have a future together. By now it’s probably six hours, tops, and you booted me out like you couldn’t stand to spend that time together.”

Quentin’s expression—exasperation combined with affection—was familiar even on the stronger-featured face. “Maybe because I didn’t want to kill you. Look at me, Ted. Look at my wings.”

Ted waggled his eyebrows. “Yeah. Sexy.”

“No, you idiot. I’m bigger. I’ve got my wings back for the first time in over forty years. My claws extend again.” Holding a hand up between their faces, he flexed his fingers—and his nails were replaced by glossy brown claws. He relaxed his hand and they disappeared.

“Okay, now that’s kind of Wolverine scary.”

“’Cubi are scary. And dangerous, never more so than to their lovers. I’m bigger, Ted, and you’re smaller.” He extended a finger, sans claw, and pointed to Ted’s middle. “What I gained, you lost. That’s the way ’cubi work. We consume life energy from our sexual partners, and if we take too much, those partners die.”

“But I’m not dead. In fact, was feeling pretty damn incredible until you, you know, kicked me out.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “Focus, Ted. That feeling of well-being is an illusion. Partners always experience it at first. That’s how we keep them coming back for more. It’s called thrall.”

“I don’t think—”

“Uh, guys?”

Ted whipped around at the sound of the familiar voice. “David? What are you doing here?”

Dr. Kendrick’s husband crept out of the trees, his big-eyed gaze focused on Quentin’s wings. Can’t blame him for that. “Quentin called me because he was worried about you.”

“He didn’t need to be. I’m fine.”

“He’s not. He’s lost flesh.”

“Not flesh, Q-Bert.” Ted patted his newly flat belly. “Padding. But I lose that over the winter anyway, once I stop the pre-hibernation-period binge eating.”

David smiled. “You certainly appear a picture of health.”

Quentin’s face turned stormy. “Appearances can deceive. Rory looked the picture of health too, almost ethereal, but then his muscles atrophied, his systems started to fail, his heart— his heart stopped. We got to the ICU with minutes, maybe seconds to spare . . .” He stepped back and turned away. He furled his wings, tucking them against his back, and they were sucked into his shoulder blades, sort of the same way Ted’s fur was absorbed into his skin.

“That’s what those scars were!” They didn’t look like scars anymore. More like a skin pocket. Heh. Wing foreskin.

Quentin shrugged one shoulder. “Yes. I didn’t think I’d ever— Well. Anyway. I’ll let you get on with it.” He shuffled toward the trees.

“Wait.” Ted lurched toward him, but David shook his head and touched Ted’s arm. “I’ll, uh, see you at the cabin?”

Quentin glanced over his shoulder but didn’t answer. Instead, he locked gazes with David. “Please. Fix him.” Then he disappeared into the woods.

“Quentin!” Ted’s chest ached like he’d taken a punch in a shifter fight pen. If I follow him, if I can hold him again, it’ll be better. I know it.

“Mr. Farnsworth. Ted.” David looked up at him, his eyes impossibly kind. “I think it might be better to give him a little space, don’t you?”

“Q-Bert never does well with space. It gives him too much chance to think about things, and that gets him in trouble. Gets us both in trouble.” Except when it gets us into bed. But apparently that caused trouble too.

“Nevertheless, I think we should honor his wishes. May I examine you now?”

Ted peered into the trees but couldn’t see any trace of Quentin. “Whatever.” He sighed and turned his palms up. “Examine away. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

By the time Quentin staggered up the porch steps, Ted’s shredded shirt balled in his fist, his skin was striped and stinging from collisions with tree branches and brambles. As recently as this morning he would have been able to negotiate the path untouched. But this morning I was smaller—and wasn’t half-naked into the bargain.

He burst into the cabin only to come face-to-face with Mal Kendrick, crouched in a battle stance in the middle of the room with a beer in his hand.

“Shite, mate.” Mal stood and downed the rest of his beer. “Give a bloke a warning, can’t you?”

“Sorry.” Quentin gestured helplessly with the ruined shirt. “I’ll just . . . get changed.”

Mal squinted at him, his head tilted to the side. “You might want to put something on those slashes. You look like you’ve been jousting with the forest.”

Quentin choked on a startled laugh. “That’s not far from the truth.” Although I’ve been jousting with my heart for days—and just lost the fight. “But I’ll be fine. ’Cubi heal quickly.” Especially when they’re juiced up on energy stolen from a partner.

“If you say so.” Mal frowned at the door. “Where’s my brother-in-law? Did you lose him in the woods?” His frown morphed into a wicked grin. “Don’t tell me the druid potion didn’t work. I won’t half take the mickey out of Bryce if—”

“No, no. It worked perfectly. David’s with Ted. I just—” Quentin took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was three centuries old and a trained advocate to boot—he ought to be able to string several coherent sentences together and make a fucking plan. “Do you think— That is, would you object to taking me to Portland now?”

“Now?” Mal’s eyebrows lowered. “Without David and Ted?”

“I know it’s an inconvenience. But I’d count it as an immense favor.” He glanced at the door, half-afraid that Ted would walk through and destroy Quentin’s resolution. “I—”

“Say no more.” Mal saluted Quentin with his empty bottle. “Awkward relationship business. Trust me, I get it.” He jerked his chin at Quentin’s bare chest. “Soon as you’re covered, I’m at your service.”

“Thank you.” Quentin fled down the hall, but when he got to the bedroom—Rusty’s bedroom—he couldn’t go in. None of my clothes will fit me now anyway.

Instead, he hurried upstairs and grabbed another of Ted’s long-sleeved T-shirts at random. As he pulled it on, he got distracted for an instant, freezing with it tangled around his ears—Ted’s scent. He ordered himself not to whimper, and yanked the damn thing down over his chest.

A plan. I need a plan. He had a way to get to Portland, but what then? It was hours before the ritual appointment. He’d need— Fuck! The ritual. He had the ingredients, but he’d forgotten the other thing he needed—a representative of his clan. Time to swallow the remaining shreds of my pride.

He pulled out his cell phone and opened the fae communications app, then forced himself to sit down cross-legged on Ted’s mattress, steeling himself against the Ted scent that arose from the bedding.

Then he initiated a video call—with his grandmother.

She answered immediately, making him feel guilty for not keeping her informed of his progress. “Quentin?” She took in his appearance, and a relieved smile spread over her face. “My dear, you’ve fed!” Her gaze flicked up and down, obviously studying his image on her screen. Her smile faded, horror gradually replacing relief. “Please tell me your recovery is the result of brief yet satisfying liaisons with—” her gaze flicked north and south again ”—a minimum of a dozen human hosts.”

He choked out a laugh. “No. There was only one.”

“Ah.” She straightened her shoulders and clutched her pearls. I thought that was only a metaphor. “You need help with the . . . disposal?”

“Grandmother! No! He’s alive and perfectly healthy.” At least I hope he is. “Where are you now?”

She waved one elegant hand dismissively. “At council headquarters, but that doesn’t matter. How can a human be perfectly healthy when you’ve clearly . . .” Her eyes widened. “Quentin, please tell me you haven’t fed from a supe!”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that. He is in fact a supe. A bear shifter.”

“A bear?” she shrieked—or rather it would have been a shriek in anyone less controlled and refined.

“Why?” Spots danced before Quentin’s eyes. “Are bears more susceptible? Have I—”

“No, of course not. Not any more than any other supe. But bears? They’re so . . . so . . .”

“So what, Grandmother?” Quentin’s teeth ached from clenching them. “Rough? Rustic? Low-class?”

“I was going to say unassuming. Simple in their tastes. Unsuited to the demands of a lifestyle such as ours.”

“The lifestyle of a parasite?”

Her nostrils flared, and she became every inch the intimidating matriarch of the world’s oldest dynastic ’cubi clan. “A life that trades on power and influence and the responsibilities that come with wealth. A social life. A public life. A life where solitude is not an option, particularly in gala season.”

“Oddly, I don’t think he’d be intimidated by that at all. He’d probably like it.” Quentin chuckled softly, remembering how Ted had described himself once. “He’s not really your average bear.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“What is the point, Grandmother?”

“He’s a supe. ’Cubi don’t feed from other supes. Ever. It’s forbidden.”

“That can’t be—” Quentin blinked, then rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “If that’s true, then why didn’t I know that?”

“Quentin, all ’cubi know it. It’s covered in detail during the Change March.”

“Not that I recall.” He’d blocked most of his Change March from his memory, but surely he’d have remembered something that fundamental. “Couldn’t you have mentioned it, say, once or twice, in the centuries since then?”

“Really, Quentin. As if we’d discuss anything so indelicate. Besides, it’s obvious. Have any of our little host parties ever included a nonhuman?”

“No, but—”

“Have they ever included anyone who wasn’t part of our social sphere, anyone not fully aware of the rewards and . . . challenges of affiliating themselves with our family?”

“No, but—”

“Have I ever presented anyone to you as a potential partner who wasn’t human?”

“No, and that nearly got Rory killed!”

She huffed. “Rory’s condition was his own fault. If he—”

“Grandmother. Do not go there. I won’t listen to victim-blaming, not even from you. I—” A sound from downstairs startled Quentin out of his anger and reminded him that he was trying to make a plan. Damn it. “In any case, you won’t have to worry about my liaison with a bear shifter. That’s why I called. I need you to meet me at the Portland offices of Supernatural Selection. I— I’m getting divorced, and the ritual requires a clan representative.”

“I see.” Her eyes narrowed, the faint shimmer of the vision spell glinting on her spectacle lenses. “I’m not certain— Never mind. We can discuss it when I see you. What time?”

“The appointment is at 10:45, but I’ll be in town within the next half hour. I’m . . .” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “I’m not sure where I’ll go between now and then.”

“Really, Quentin, you couldn’t have given me a trifle more notice?” She sighed. “However, the witches who run Supernatural Selection maintain a transportation portal, so I can be there quite soon. The Governor Hotel is within walking distance. I’ll arrange a suite and meet you there.”

He nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “Thank you, Grandmother.”

“Nonsense, my dear. You’re my grandson. I would do anything for your well-being and happiness.”

“I appreciate it.” And while Pauline Bertrand-Harrington in full battle mode could vanquish a boardroom full of corporate sharks, quash the pretensions of a dozen social upstarts at once, or pull off the event of the season with one manicured hand behind her back, he feared she hadn’t the power to mend a simple thing like his broken heart.