“Is there a cure?” Leland asked without hesitation. “Or will I be stuck like this?”

“There’s no cure,” Titus said. “Your body has been changed on a genetic level. But you’re not stuck. With practice, you’ll gain total control of the shifting process, and I promise you that after that, being a shifter has more advantages than disadvantages.”

“Unless you want marriage and kids,” I said around a mouthful of pita and hummus. When Leland gave me a horrified look, I realized my mistake. “I’m sorry.” I swallowed my bite. “I don’t want marriage and kids, and most of the men I’ve dated have claimed to feel the same, so I assumed…” Which made an ass out of me, as the saying goes.

“Ivy and I were going to get married,” Leland said. “I hadn’t asked her, or anything, but we’d talked about it. I always assumed that after college…” His voice trailed off as his gaze lost focus.

“I’m sorry. And I wasn’t clear,” I admitted. “It’s not that you can’t get married or have kids. It’s just that because of the gender imbalance, that’s very difficult to do without exposing yourself as a shifter. Which is completely off limits.”

Leland frowned. “What if someone who’s already married gets infected?”

We both looked to Titus for the answer to that.

“So far, that hasn’t happened, that we know of. But the potential for situations like that is one of the reasons we’re working so hard to get our Pride recognized by the larger shifter social and political structure. For guidance. And support. And resources.”

Leland’s eyes had glazed over again.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” I turned to Titus. “We should give him the guest room.” Because if Justus came home and found his dead lover’s boyfriend on his couch…

“Of course.” Titus stood with Leland’s empty glass. “The bed is freshly made. Help yourself to whatever you need from the closet and the dresser. Though, fair warning, everything in there carries my scent.”

“Thank you.” Leland stood, and I watched him shuffle into the bedroom and close the door. He looked tired and unsteady enough to fall over.

“I’ll make up the other bed for you,” Titus said, as I bit into another pita chip.

“You can have it.” I patted the soft leather couch. “This thing seems pretty comfy.”

Titus backed into his brother’s room without breaking eye contact. “Justus shouldn’t find you on the couch for the same reason he shouldn’t find Leland there.”

I glanced at him in amusement. “Because I slept with his girlfriend too?”

He rolled his eyes. “Because you’re a stranger. I’ll stay in the living room.”

“Fine.” I set the tray on the coffee table and followed him into his brother’s room. “But let me help with the bed.”

While he pulled the used bedding from his brother’s mattress, I set the laundry hamper against one wall. As I lifted the bloody pair of pants to set them inside, a folded sheet of paper fell from one of the pockets.

I dropped the pants into the hamper, then picked up the paper and unfolded it. “Um…Titus?”

“Yeah?” He pulled a pillow from its case, then dropped them both on the floor.

“Did you know your brother went to the ER two weeks ago? The paperwork says he had lacerations consistent with an animal attack, and an infection.” I scanned the paper. “I guess now we know when he was infected.”

He let go of the second pillow he’d picked up and took the receipt I held out to him. “He went to Baptist. Spencer must not have been working that night.”

“Would he have recognized Justus?”

“Probably, from the pictures in my house. And he definitely would have recognized the symptoms of scratch fever.” He frowned, reading silently from the discharge page. “Two weeks. He’s been dealing with this for two weeks, and I had no idea.”

“This really isn’t your fault.”

Titus folded the paperwork and slid it into his back pocket. “We have to find him.”

“We will.” I circled the bed and pulled the fitted sheet free from the top left corner of the mattress. The sheets smelled like Titus, and I—

No, the sheets smelled like Justus. Not Titus. This is not Titus’s bed.

“I can do that.” He tried to take the sheet from me, but I stepped past him and unhooked another corner, then pulled the sheet completely off the bed. “Just throw it in the hamper,” he said, pulling the top sheet free from a tangle with the comforter.

I dumped the material on top of Justus’s bloody pants, then grabbed the clean fitted sheet he’d set on top of the top of the dresser.

“You don’t need to make the bed.” He tried to take the sheet from me, but I pulled it out of reach.

“I want to.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said.

“Why?” I studied his face, confused by his insistence. “If you’re trying to prove you don’t think only women are suited to domestic work, you can relax. I’ve already seen you wash dishes, prepare food, and help strip the bed. You’re scoring points for feminism left and right.”

Titus smiled. “It’s because you’re my guest. I’m supposed to protect you and show you hospitality, yet I’ve dragged you out of my home, rather than making you comfortable in it, and I let some strange stray pounce on you in the woods. I’ve failed in every duty a host has, and if I let you make your own bed, that’ll be one more failure.”

I stared at him for a moment. Then I burst into laughter.

“Why is that funny?”

“Because you didn’t drag me out of your house. You didn’t even invite me into it. I broke into your car. I slammed into your life like a fucking missile, throwing up shrapnel. But you fed me and gave me somewhere to sleep. Hell, you gave me your clothes. If that’s not proper hospitality, I don’t know what is.”

Titus’s gaze strayed to my shirt—to his shirt—and stuck there. Heat flared behind his gaze. “You smell like me,” he growled, but his tone wasn’t angry. It was the floodgate holding back some primal need churning behind his eyes.