Page 22 of The Baritone's Rival

He knew better now. Having a mate would open himself to deep hurt. The kind of hurt he’d left behind in his more innocent past. The kind of hurt he’d vowed never to allow himself to feel again.

But…

Oscar’s reaction had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He’d tasted human blood thousands of times in his undead life. Never had it made him feel like that. As much as he wanted to run from it, to insist that the idea of fated mates was a refuge for the weak and lonely, now he knew better. Because that one drop of Trent’s blood? The flavor of that was life-changing.

He had to accept the truth. Trent was his mate.

He turned on the hot water, pumping hand soap on his palms and thoroughly scrubbing them clean. He stared down into the white basin of the sink, the liquid swirling a light shade of pink as the remains of Trent’s wound on his hands swirled down the drain. A divot appeared in the liquid. Then another and another.

He was crying.

He wiped away his tears and swallowed down the lump in his throat.

None of this mattered. Oscar had made a promise to himself. He couldn’t trust someone again like he had trusted Elliott. Certainly not yet another man that didn’t value him, that thought he was nothing.

He had dealt with pain before. Denying himself his mate would be more of the same. He would never tell Trent the truth. He could weather the hunger, the need for connection that already roiled in his gut. He would build a life alone. Safe.

That would have to be enough.

Chapter 7

Trent

Oscar had been so gentle with him, caring for Trent as he bandaged his side. Even in his exhausted, probably-in-shock state, it took Trent by surprise. If he was honest with himself, it had felt good. More than good. Oscar’s touch was soothing, calming him despite the throbbing ache.

He had closed his eyes and relaxed, drifted as Oscar cared for him. The few moments of sharp pain had passed quickly. He’d felt safe.

That wasn’t normal for him.

The sense of security fled as he found himself in the one place he wanted to avoid. In a covenhouse. Surrounded by vampires.

Trent had only met Anthony’s husband once before, at a school event, and even then, he’d been intimidating, his tall, hulking frame towering over most of the students and other faculty.

Up close, he wasn’t any more welcoming.

Trent was perched gingerly on an upholstered antique sofa, the cream fabric embroidered with Victorian flower motifs. There was no way to relax while sitting on furniture that was more than one hundred and fifty years old. Every time he shifted, the joints of the couch squeaked. He was terrifiedthe whole thing would fall apart. Freddie sat across from him, somehow looking totally at ease in a dainty floral chair, like a giant in a birdbath.

Of course, he was relaxed. He was probably alive when the chair was made.

Anthony sat to Trent’s right. His paternal instincts had been turbo boosted, and Trent bore the brunt of it.

“You’ll stay here while you heal,” he said, patting Trent’s hand. “In case the dickwad that escaped comes back with reinforcements. You couldn’t be safer.”

“I’m not moving into your covenhouse.” Trent kept his voice even. He didn’t want them to see how freaked out he was by being around so many vampires. “And I don’t need time to recover. Oscar bandaged me up. I heal quickly.”

“You can’t return to…where do you live?” Anthony frowned. “Are you in downtown Brooklyn?”

“Crown Heights. My apartment is perfectly safe.”

“You’re staying. It’s decided.”

Trent opened his mouth to argue when he heard a slight movement behind him. Although heard wasn’t quite the right word. It was more that he sensed someone. A nexus of warmth.

“What’s going on?”

Trent turned his head to see Oscar standing there, his arms crossed, leaning against the slate gray wall. Next to him was a ridiculous portrait of some stuck-up-looking British noble on a palomino horse. Oscar was the source of that warm feeling. Trent really didn’t understand what that meant.

“Trent’s moving in here,” Anthony said.

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