Page 42 of The Guardian's Curse

“Absolutely not,” Paris said flatly. “Now, would you find us a room in this ridiculous house where we won’t be deep-fried at sunrise?”

11

This was the second worst waking of Alistair Thorne’s life. The first was the evening he woke after Armina’s curse had run its course. Nearly a century ago, he woke from a days-long slumber to find that his agonizing transformation was not a nightmare, but his new hideous reality. With his leathery skin on fire and the realization that he had made an irreparable mistake, he had considered killing himself. He might have, if Paris had not been there to comfort him.

But this was a close second. His entire torso was a ragged knot of pain, with the wood toxins still crawling through his veins like biting ants. All he could do was stare up at the dark canopy over his bed and be miserable.

Even worse than was the physical pain was the memory of Shoshanna’s face. There was horror and disgust there, just as he’d expected. And despite the knowledge that this terrible revelation was all but destined, his pessimistic mind could not anticipate how awful it would be. The wave of fear that rolled off her had filled the room with its scent, and he could swear it still lingered in the air.

When he woke, there was a bag of blood already lying on the pillow next to him, with a note in Paris’s familiar scrawl.

Eat. Don’t be an asshole.

He couldn’t even muster a smile at Paris’s unique flavor of concern. He drained the bag, lying back to let it course through him.

Upstairs, he could hear Shoshanna arguing with Dominic. Someone hadn’t closed his bedroom door entirely. “Absolutely not,” the vampire said flatly. “Brew the tonic.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” Shoshanna replied. The sound of her voice made his chest ache. How could he even be in her presence again?

“That makes two of you,” Paris said mildly. “If I need to tie you to a chair, I will. Do not test me, Shoshanna.”

His lip curled at the sound of Paris speaking harshly to her. But after a muttered string of curses, he smelled the scent of herbs in the air. He drifted into a barely-conscious doze, and woke again to his door opening. Clawing at the bedpost for purchase, he hauled himself upright.

Low light spilled into his chambers from the hallway. Paris guided a blindfolded woman into the darkened room. “Here we are, cherie.” A strong, medicinal smell surrounded her, though it didn’t entirely mask the tantalizing scent of blood beneath her skin. Her heart thrummed.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Alistair asked. What is this?

Paris raised an eyebrow. “She’s a veravin. I told her that your face had been wounded,” he said in French. “She’s had a strong dose of nouvelle vie. Drink up.” He guided the woman to the bed. Without being told, the curvy blonde sat on the bed, her face tilted up. Paris kissed her cheek lightly, then lightly tugged at her sheer sweater. Blue fabric slid down to expose creamy porcelain skin. The thin trace of blue outlined the flow of her lifeblood along her throat.

Even in the enveloping darkness, Alistair hated the sight of his mottled, gnarled hands against her lovely skin. But if she minded the feel of his rough skin, she didn’t show it. Her long hair cascaded over her shoulder as her head tilted, revealing faint white bite scars along the curve of her shoulder. Her lips played into a faint smile, and Paris laid a line of light kisses along the other shoulder.

How many times had they fed together, then fallen into bed for their own amorous pursuits, the blood still fresh on their lips?

“All yours,” Paris said. “I’ll make sure she’s happy.” His other hand slid around to cup her breast gently, and she sighed happily.

Alistair grasped the woman’s throat lightly, then sank his fangs into her neck. Hunger overwhelmed him, and he took a long, hard pull from her. She gasped, but he held her tight to keep her from pulling away. Her pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips, and the faintest whimper vibrated there.

Then his venom hit her system, prompting a whispering sigh. Her soft body relaxed. He could smell her desire, the burning of sheer physical pleasure.

With the nouvelle vie in her system, her blood tasted spicy and effervescent. It sent a crackling tingle through his body. And though she smelled entirely different, he could only think of Shoshanna. What he wouldn’t give to touch her this way, to connect and taste her essence.

His gnawing hunger faded as he drank deep. The pain in his belly faded to a dull throb. He bit deeper, letting out a low growl. He was never satisfied, could never drink enough to truly be sated.

A firm hand squeezed his arm. “Enough,” Paris said quietly. “Her heart.”

He opened his eyes to see Paris gazing at him. The woman was still, though he could still feel her pulse under his fingers. It was irregular, a sign that he was taking too much. For a moment, he didn’t care. He wanted to drink until he was gorged.

“Alistair,” Paris said quietly. “She trusts us. There will be more.”

The calm words broke through his desperate hunger. He reluctantly pulled away, licking his lips clean. Blood oozed from two punctures, but there were crescent-shaped imprints from his deep bite. Guilt twisted into a knot in his gut.

As soon as he released her, Paris pricked his thumb and pressed it to her neck. She slumped, her eyes heavy. He gently stroked her hair. “Thank you, cherie.” His gaze lifted to Alistair. “We’ll get her home and make sure she’s healthy. I’m leaving you with Shoshanna. Will you behave?”

“Don’t patronize me,” he snapped.

“The appropriate response was, ‘yes, I’ll behave. Thank you for bringing me a meal.’ I’ll pretend that’s what you said. How do you feel?”

“Better,” he said.

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