Wolf's Clothing by E.J. Russell

Author:E.J. Russell [Russell, E.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Published: 2016-08-02T04:00:00+00:00

Mother of God, how stupid am I? Christophe struggled to his feet, bathwater sluicing off his body, and fumbled for his towel, only to drop it in the tub. Shite. The only other dry towel was across the room. No time. He stepped onto the mat and hurried out the bathroom door, dripping on the Berber carpet, which was guaranteed to bring the ire of his housekeeper down on him.

Trent wasn’t in the bedroom. Curse his easy-on/easy-off clothing. Christophe hurried down the hallway, gooseflesh rising on his arms and legs as the cooler air hit his wet body.

Trent was sitting on the floor by the front door, putting on his trainers.

“Trent. Please don’t go. I didn’t mean it how it sounded.”

“Know what? Maybe you should have.”

“What?”

“I need to quit depending on other people to clean up my shit, Christophe. But if I stop expecting them to be my training wheels, they can’t expect blind obedience from me.” He stood. “I’ve been in treatment for seven months. I’ve got the tools. Today I’m twenty or twenty-seven. It’s time I learned how to deal on my own.”

He opened the door, and Christophe darted across the room, heedless of his nakedness.

“I know you’re capable. But you shouldn’t have to do this alone. No one should.”

Trent bowed his head, leaning his forehead against the doorjamb. “Yeah, well, know what I’ve learned? Life sucks, and then you die. And die. And die. Then you come back, and life still sucks. Guess I need to get over it.”

Trent strode into the hallway. At once, the burn started in Christophe’s fingertips, in his jaw, as his wolf objected. He shouldn’t leave. He should stay here. Stop him. Bite his neck. Claim him! He belongs to you. To us.

Christophe clutched the edge of the door, breathing deeply as color faded from his vision. Stop it. Back down. Shite, he’d already bollixed up the morning. Remain civilized. Or at least human. “Please, Trent. Let me drive you to your hotel.”

“No need. I’ll run.”

“But—”

“It’s what I do. But you know what? Maybe I ought to stop. See you.” He punched the elevator and cast a glance at Christophe over his shoulder. “So will everyone else at this rate. Go inside, Christophe, and put on all seventy-two layers of your clothing.”

Trent pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up and shoved his hands in his pockets as the doors slid open. He disappeared inside the elevator, sidestepping another man who emerged carrying a takeaway coffee cup and a bag from the downstairs bakery.

The burn intensified, shooting down Christophe’s spine to his tailbone. His nose twitched—the other . . . his scent . . . familiar? Irrelevant. Another male near his mate? Almost touching his mate? Intolerable! The hair on his neck rose, and he bared his teeth in a snarl.

The man stopped in the middle of the hallway, the bag falling from his hand. “Holy Mother.”

Christophe bared his teeth. Attack the intruder for his insolence? He poised himself to spring, but caught whiff of something else.

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