Page 22 of The Guardian's Curse

“You’d let them hurt me?”

“If you refused the safest option you have, then I’d be sad to lose you, but I wouldn’t jump in,” he said. His casual tone was chilling.

She leaned on her elbows and stared at him. “I think you’re full of it. You couldn’t let something bad happen to me.”

“You don’t have a clue what I’m capable of.” He sniffed. “It’s going to burn. Go stir.”

She tore her gaze away and hurried to stir the blood. Then she hunted through the drawers for a thermometer. An arm snaked past her. Paris stuck one finger into the pot and tasted. “That’s warm enough,” he said, pulling down a crystal glass from the cabinet. Her hands shook as she filled his glass, then a second for Alistair. “Take that one to his door. I’ll wait.”

Her heart pounded as she carried the warm glass to the bottom of the stairs. His door was dark wood, with a thick foam seal around it. She knelt and put the glass on the floor, then knocked lightly. “Alistair? Uh, Mister Thorne?” Her cheeks flushed as she remembered those words spilling over her lips.

Yes, Miss York?

A wave of heat rolled through her. “There’s some blood here if you’re hungry. Okay, uh...good evening.”

She hurried back and found Paris back at the counter. He sniffed again. “Are you all right?” His eyes drifted down, as if he was looking at her...

Oh. God. Could he smell...no. Absolutely not. She would not even begin to entertain the thought that he could detect the situation in her panties because that was a whole new universe of privacy violations she couldn’t even venture into.

“Fine,” she blurted. Down the hall, she heard the click of a lock, then the creak of the door. She wanted to bolt down the hall to see him, but she managed to stay put.

Paris pushed an envelope toward her. Inside, she found a thin stack of one hundred dollar bills and a black credit card with her name on it. Beneath her name was Alazan Holdings, Inc. “Cash if you need it. Order what you need on the card. I don’t want you leaving the house, but if there’s an emergency, here,” he said, dropping a set of keys. “There’s a car in the garage for you.”

“This is so much,” she murmured. “What are the strings, Paris?”

He nodded. “Right now, the strings are that you do the work described in the contract. Protect this house. That’s it.”

“Why is this house so important?”

“I thought you wanted no part of vampire politics,” Paris mocked.

“Fine,” she said. He flashed that obnoxious, cocky grin. Then he took a small black case from the bag and slid it across the counter to her. She opened it and froze. There was a gun inside, with a row of what looked like wooden bullets. “Uh...”

“I have no reason to think that dickhead will find you here,” Paris said. “But I have protected my court for over two hundred years, and I’ve never regretted being too careful. Those won’t kill us, but they’ll pack a punch and give you time to get somewhere safe. Do you know how to use it?”

“Point it at the bad guy and pull,” she said quietly.

“That’s about it,” he said. “It’s already loaded, but let me show you.” He took a few minutes to open the revolving barrel, eject the large wooden bullets, and then reload them. Her fingers fumbled as she imitated him, but eventually, she did it to his satisfaction. “Good girl. Can you shoot fire like you did at your apartment?”

She shook her head. “That’s an emergency thing only. It’s exhausting,” she said. “Doing a couple of fast spells like that is like running a marathon in an hour. It’s not reliable enough that I’d depend on it.”

“I see. Then stick to the firearms.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run.”

“Did you find Elliott?” she asked. Her voice trembled. “Are you going to kill him?”

He hesitated. “That’s complicated, Shoshanna. We can’t just kill another vampire because he came into your house.”

“But he wants to...” she trailed off. “So how does this end?”

“That’s up to you,” he said. “If he tries to hurt you, we’ll intervene. But you can’t expect Eduardo to have a diplomatic incident with the Casteron for a witch who insists she isn’t loyal to him.”

“That’s pretty shitty of you guys,” she said.

“That’s pretty entitled of you,” he retorted. “We’re navigating it. You’ll have to be patient.” A cool wave of energy rolled off him, and it reminded her of the sense she’d gotten from the statue.

“Paris, are you cursed?” she blurted.

His pale eyes widened. “That’s quite personal, cherie.”

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