“Don’t be absurd.” Owen took a swig from his coffee. “The Four Hundred resist any modern ideas—that’s the whole point of having a select society, isn’t it? But I’m already meeting their expectations by marrying Edith. I won’t let them tell me I can’t have my own brother beside me while I do it.”

  Nathan stared at him for a long moment…then sagged back against his chair. “Why are you marrying Edith?” he asked. “You’re throwing away the life you want to have for the one our parents think you should live. And now you’re asking me to stand by you, as if I approve. I won’t give you an answer, until I have one of my own.”

  Owen ground his teeth silently. Why did Nathan refuse to understand what should have been obvious? “I have a duty to our family,” he grated out.

  “And their duty to you? To see you happy? What of that?”

  “That is a child’s selfish logic.” He lowered his voice, conscious of the newspaper reporters who sometimes dined here. “Our finances aren’t what they once were, Nathan. Surely even you are aware of that. Commodities grow ever more expensive, yet the rent on the land we own in lower Manhattan continues to fall as the city expands to the north and west. We lost too much on investments in the Panic of ’93, and while some of the stocks have recovered, many have not. If something isn’t done, we’ll have to sell the mansion in Newport.”

  “Then sell the bloody house!” Nathan exclaimed. “And Mother will have to learn to live without throwing parties that each run to the tens of thousands of dollars. None of that is worth your life!”

  “Keep your voice down!” Owen snapped. “This isn’t about the mansion, Nathan, or the parties. It’s about our entire family, even you, facing social ruin.”

  “Social ruin, because we can no longer afford to keep up the Newport house,” Nathan said with a twist of his lips. “Oh yes, what a wonderful society to belong to, that cares about nothing except one’s bank account. In Europe—”

  “This isn’t Europe,” Owen cut him off. “Mother has spent her entire life ensuring our place in society. I won’t be the one to doom our family to ruin, either financial or social. Certainly not when the solution is as simple as marrying Edith Vandersee. Her father is prepared to bestow a very generous yearly sum on us, some of which, yes, will go to keep the house in Newport and make certain both Edith and Mother are able to entertain on the necessary scale.”

  Nathan shook his head in disgust. “If Peter could talk—”

  “But he can’t.” Owen flung down his napkin. How could Nathan invoke their older brother’s name so casually, especially after what had happened to him? “Which means the responsibility falls to me.”

  “Peter would never have wanted—”

  “You don’t know what Peter would want!”

  Nathan’s mouth pressed into a line. “I disagree. I think we both very well know what our brother wanted.”

  Owen felt all the blood drain from his face. “How dare you,” he said, his voice shaking with the effort to keep from shouting the words.

  “Yates! Can you hear me?”

  Mal’s voice, right in his hear. Owen started and looked around, but there was no sign of his familiar.

  “Blast it, can’t you hear me? Ain’t this how it’s supposed to work?”

  “Mal?” Owen asked aloud. The bond. Right—Mal must be speaking to him through it.

  “Thank Mary.” Relief, mingled with fear, curled through the words, almost as though the bond carried some of Mal’s emotion with it. “I need help. I’m being followed. I think they mean to kill me.”

  Heavy footsteps thudded down the street after Mal. He fled, darting and weaving through the crowd. Surely the men following him wouldn’t dare anything in sight of so many—

  “Thief!” one of them bellowed. “Stop him!”

  Fur and feathers.

  Angry cries sounded, and a vendor standing beside his pushcart on the sidewalk made a grab for Mal. Mal dodged, the man’s fingernails snagging in his coat, and kept running. It was a stroke of brilliance on the part of his pursuers, really—get bystanders to do their work for them, catch Mal, and then drag him off into an alley for what anyone else would assume to be private justice.

  Unless the coppers heard them first. But for once, there was no blue uniform anywhere in sight. Of course the damned coppers wouldn’t be there the one time Mal actually wanted them.

  “Get him! Thief!”

  A girl sweeping off a stoop swung her broom at his head. Mal ducked, then jumped back to avoid a fist from a man dressed like a laborer.

  Enough—he couldn’t escape in human form. He shifted, darting between the man’s legs and down the road, while shouts of surprise rang out. Feet kicked at him, but he was too fast, shooting through the crowd and into the street.

  The wheel of a cab nearly took off his nose, and he skidded to a halt. A shout sounded from the sidewalk, and he glanced back to see one of his pursuers shift into a foxhound.

  Of all the damned luck.

  Mal fled blindly, the hound baying behind him. If he could just make it to the Coven…but that was blocks away, through traffic and across streets. If only…

  Saint Mary preserve him, he was an idiot. He had a way of summoning help now, didn’t he?

  “Yates! Can you hear me?”

  He concentrated on the bond with Owen, the warm spot manifesting right behind his heart. He was in animal form, so his witch should be able to hear him, to look through his eyes.

  No response. “Blast it, can’t you hear me? Ain’t this how it’s supposed to work?”

  “Mal?”

  “Thank Mary.” Mal risked a look back, caught sight of the foxhound’s brown and white coat behind him. “I need help. I’m being followed. I think they mean to kill me.”

  “Where are you? What happened to Bertie?”

  Mal’s heart thudded in his chest, and he gasped for breath through an open mouth, tongue lolling into the freezing air. “Broome and Allen Street. I’m making for the Coven, but one of them turned into a foxhound, and I can’t run much farther.”

  He sensed a wash of fear from Yates, catching him unexpectedly. “I’m coming. I’m on the Bowery now. Just keep going, and I’ll meet you.”

  Mal dodged under a row of carts heaped with potatoes. He slid out from under them, shifted form, and snatched a pumpkin from a passing cart. He hurled it at the foxhound, forcing him to dodge, then clambered over the cart itself. The driver twisted around with an angry yell and snapped his whip in Mal’s direction. Mal launched himself from the cart, took on fox form again, and sped through the crowd. A vicious kick caught him in the ribs, right where the knife had cut him the day before, and he staggered.

  A glance over his shoulder showed the foxhound almost on him. Ignoring the pain, he took off running again.

  There—the wide expanse of the Bowery, bisected by the scaffolding of the El, lay just ahead. Owen had said he’d be there—he’d promised—

  A cab careened to a halt at the corner, and the door flew open. “Mal!” Owen shouted frantically. “Come on—hurry!”

  Mal rushed for the cab. Owen’s eyes widened, and he held his hand out. There came a tremendous growl from just behind Mal—

  The door slammed shut the moment he cleared it. An instant later, the whole cab rocked as the body of the foxhound crashed into the door. The horse shied, and the driver let out a furious curse.

  “Go!” shouted Owen. “Just go!”

  The cab lurched into motion. Mal crouched on the floor, every limb trembling. Safe. He was safe.

  His eyes drooped. Maybe he could just curl up on the floor…

  Owen’s arms scooped him up. Startled, Mal opened his eyes, to find himself cradled against Owen’s chest.

  “Thank God you’re all right,” Owen said. He stroked the fur between Mal’s ears soothingly. “What happened to Bertie?”

  Mal cringed. “I snuck out. I didn’t think…”

  Owen let out a sigh. “Mal…”

  “It’s a busy street! I didn’t imagine I’d need a bodyguard. I figured the killer was working alone—I never thought he’d have accomplices out looking for me.”

  “True.” Owen hugged him tighter. And despite everything, there was a comfort in being held by his witch. “They must be desperate…which makes them dangerous.” He pulled away his hand a let out a gasp. “You’re bleeding.”

  “The wound opened again.”

  Owen sighed once more. Clearly, he thought Mal was an idiot. Given he’d almost been killed, Owen might even be right. “Let’s get you home to The Folly, and I’ll bandage you up. Again.”

  “Does this happen to you often?” Owen called through the half-closed door to Mal’s bathroom. “Injuries, I mean. Because this is the second time in two days, and I’d like to know if I need to stock up on bandages and salve.”

  There came the splashing of water, followed by the sound of the drain. “Only since I’ve met you, copper,” Mal called back. “And you know, you can come in. You’ve already seen the goods up close and personal.”

  Which was the problem. Owen had abandoned Mal for a long soak in the tub as soon as they returned to The Folly and spent the intervening time trying very hard not to picture his familiar bathing. Sprawled in the claw-footed tub, the ends of his fiery hair trailing in the water. Little wavelets lapping against his pale thighs, the nest of red curls around his cock…

  Owen shifted uncomfortably, trying to will his erection away.

  The door swung open all the way, and Mal stepped out, once again wearing nothing but that silk dressing gown. The edge of a bandage peeked out from under it. The scent of soap rose from skin flushed pink by the hot water. Amber eyes glanced up at Owen; they were the same color as in fox form, though his human pupils were round instead of slitted.

  “You came for me,” Mal said quietly.

  God, he was standing too close. Owen could so easily reach out and brush aside the thin layer of silk, lay his palm on Mal’s flank.

  “Of course I did,” Owen said. “You’re my familiar. Did you think I’d just calmly finish my dinner while someone murdered you in the street?” The uncertainty that flashed through Mal’s eyes bit deep. “Dear Lord, what did I do to give you such a low opinion of myself?”

  “Nothing,” Mal said with a shrug that sent the robe slipping lower on his shoulder. “But I know you ain’t happy with me. I’m just a thief, after all.”

  Owen couldn’t help himself; he caught Mal’s chin in his fingers, tipped his head back slightly. “You’re my familiar,” he repeated. “Not anyone else. You.”

  “Aye,” Mal said softly.

  Then they were kissing, and there was nothing soft about it. Mal seized his lapels, as if seeking to haul him even closer. Their tongues slid together, and Owen’s lips were pressed hard against his teeth. And oh God, it was so good, he’d wanted this so badly, and he couldn’t have it. He couldn’t.

  Mal drew back, staring at him, eyes wild as if he wore his fox form. “Owen…”

  “I c-can’t.” Owen closed his own eyes and willed his hands to let go of Mal. He had to put distance between them, but his cock begged him to rub against Mal instead.

  Mal’s chest slid softly against his as the familiar breathed. “Owen,” Mal said, but this time with authority. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

  He did so, telling himself all the while it was only out of politeness. Mal looked exquisite, his pale skin pink from the bath and from desire, his lips swollen from kisses. “You say you won’t break your wedding vows,” Mal said, his voice husky with need. “But you ain’t made them yet.”

  “N-no.” The words rasped coming out. Owen swallowed. “But what difference does it make?”

  “You’re like a watch, wound too tight,” Mal murmured. His hands stroked Owen’s chest, and Owen couldn’t help but wish he wasn’t wearing quite so many layers of clothing. “You don’t do this sort of thing often, do you? Fuck?”

  God. “No,” Owen whispered. “I want…”

  Too many things society would look down on. At the end of last year, he’d briefly visited several neighborhoods he ordinarily would never have set foot in, as part of the investigation into the plot to disrupt the Greater New York consolidation ceremony. He’d seen men there, brazen men on the streets, dressed to indicate they were available for hire by other men.

  All of which was fine for the lower classes; no one expected them to be discreet. But he was a Yates. Even if he did give into desire, he had to maintain control. It was expected. Necessary.

  And the last thing he wanted.

  Mal considered him. “Why not find some Fifth Avenue swell and bring him back here? Get what you need?”

  Owen shook his head, denying the possibility. “Word might get around if someone found out I like…this sort of thing.”

  “Being ordered around like a five-cent whore?”

  Owen flushed. “Yes. I might have to face some of these men in a board room someday. If they knew the truth, they’d lose all respect for me. They’d see me as…weak.”

  Mal snorted. “Well, that’s damned stupid of them. You ain’t weak just because you like somebody telling you what to do in the bedroom. Probably none of them would’ve known how to treat you right anyway.”

  Mal’s plain speech caught Owen off guard. It sounded as if he believed it—really believed it, and wasn’t just saying something to make Owen feel better about his desires.

  “On the other hand…” A slow, vulpine grin made its way across Mal’s face, sending a delicious shiver down Owen’s spine. “Their loss is my gain, ain’t it? Got an offer for you, Owen Yates. Once you say your wedding vows, you belong to your blushing bride. But until that day, you’re mine. To do with as I will, at least when it comes to the bedroom. That’s what you want, ain’t it? For somebody else to take control and make you feel.”

  Owen’s mouth was dry and his cock hard. He couldn’t speak the humiliating words aloud, so he nodded instead.

  Mal’s eyes burned like yellow flames. “Say it.”

  “Y-yes.”

  Fingers curled around his wrist, tight enough to ride the edge of discomfort. “Yes what?”

  Oh God. “Yes, sir.”

  That hungry grin again. Like Owen was a mouse about to be snapped up in the fox’s jaws. “Then what do you say? Do we have an agreement?”

  He had to tell Mal no. To stop this madness before it could begin.

  Except…this was his chance. What Mal offered, a few days of hedonism, of indulging in his most secret, shameful desires, might be enough to satiate him. If he took this opportunity, if he satisfied these strange urges that gripped him, they’d surely cease to trouble him. He could enter into marriage with Edith, if not with joy, at least with equanimity.

  “What do you get out of this?” he managed to ask.

  A startled look flashed over Mal’s features, followed by a short bark of laughter. “I’d think that part would be obvious. Do we have an agreement, Yates?”

  “We do,” he said, and was shocked his voice didn’t shake.

  “Well, then.” Mal stepped back. “Let’s go to bed.”

  Mal’s pulse throbbed at the base of his throat, echoed in his groin. His prick tented the thin silk of the robe, and the soft slide of the material over the head as he followed Owen sent shocks of pleasure through him. His hands trembled with desire, and he took a deep breath. It was up to him to make sure this wasn’t over before it started, after all. He was the one who had to be in control.

  Owen. God.

  Owen had come for him, like he’d said he would. But he’d done a hell of a lot more. Held Mal the whole ride back to The Folly. Carried him upstairs in fox form, refusing to let him change and risk hurting aching muscles. Drawn the bath and laid out an array of hexes to ease any strained muscles, along with the bandages and salve.

  Taken care of Mal. So now it was Mal’s turn to take care of him.

  Owen stepped into his bedroom, then turned to Mal, hands folded in front of him. Lips parted, eyes dilated. Just waiting for Mal’s command.

  Mal took a deep breath, sternly reining in his own excitement. He needed to show Owen he’d made the right choice. Which meant more than just a quick suck.

  “I want you naked,” Mal said. “Bare as the day you were born. Take off your coat.”

  Owen moved to comply, letting it fall heedlessly to the floor, the expensive fabric crumpled against the parquet.

  “Now your vest.”

  It followed, though Owen paused to set his pocket watch aside. Gold, of course, and studded with sapphires. A good thing Owen hadn’t gone to a disorderly house, looking for satisfaction. He’d have been robbed blind.

  Bracers came after, then shoes. Socks.

  “Take your shirt off,” Mal ordered.

  Owen’s fingers trembled visibly as he undid each button, revealing pale skin beneath. And more.

  “Fur and feathers, that must’ve cost a pretty penny!” Mal stepped closer to inspect Owen’s skin. “Turn around. Let me get a good look.”

  Owen turned obligingly. Hex tattoos covered a good portion of his back, the ink bright against his ivory skin. Mal ran his hand over them, and Owen’s flesh pebbled beneath his touch. “What are they for, then?”

  “Health.” Owen’s voice came out rough. “To keep the lungs strong. To ward off infection, heal injuries more quickly. That sort of thing.”

  The sort of thing only the richest nobs and swells could afford. Not only the original work by the hexman tattooer, but the regular recharging of the hexes by a witch and familiar team to keep them working. “Who’s been recharging them?” Mal asked, tracing the lines with a finger. “Who’s been touching you?”

  Owen swallowed convulsively. “Dominic and Rook, actually. But it’s all very professional.”

  “Is it?” Mal let his hand slip around the front of Owen’s trousers, and gave his stiff prick a hard squeeze.

  A hiss and a buck of the hips rewarded him. “Yes, of course,” Owen managed to say. “I swear.”

  Mal let go of him and stepped back. “The rest of it off. Now.”

 

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