Page 54 of The Guardian's Curse

But as he watched Paris’ hand drift lower on Shoshanna’s waist, till it rested in that perfect curve of her hip, his rage solidified into something much simpler. Something primal. It was sheer, mindless possession.

With her sweet scent calling to him, he could have found her blindfolded amidst a crowd of thousands. He knew the way she moved, the way she breathed.

And Paris was fucking touching her. He felt her pulse beneath his fingertips. That delightful rhythm belonged to Alistair and no one else.

The animal rage that reared its ugly head was unfamiliar and strangely soothing. It was the most alive he’d felt in decades. His hearing was flooded with conflicting rhythms, and he realized that he heard the heartbeats of their dozen human veravin. The smell of blood was overpowering, almost sickening.

As he watched, Paris leaned in and murmured in her ear, so close that his lips had to be on her skin. And God, Alistair knew what that tasted like, from the soft, shy kiss he’d brushed on her neck. The thought of Paris having even a molecule of her made him want to snap his neck.

Then he broke away and beckoned to Dominic, who looked as sour as ever despite the lavish party. Dominic bowed slightly, then took Shoshanna’s hand and guided her in a circle to resume dancing. His hands were gloved, protecting her from his curse.

His anger subsided slightly now that Paris had released her, but he couldn’t help shifting some of it to Dominic. The sharp smell of blood drifted toward him, and he glanced to the side to see a pair of familiar blue eyes gleaming in the shadows.

Paris carried two slender flutes filled with blood and garnished with raspberries. He offered one. “Drink?”

Alistair simply stared out at the undulating crowd. If he dared look Paris in the eyes, he might tear the other man’s head from his shoulders. And with the exception of a few tense decades, he generally enjoyed Paris’s company. Someday—though not with the scent of Shoshanna still hanging in the air—he would regret a bloody massacre.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Alistair?” Paris asked.

“Walk away, Paris,” he growled.

“Oh, look. Dominic is showing off again,” Paris murmured. “Do you think Shoshanna would prefer me or Dominic?”

Paris had a silver tongue, but no one danced like Dominic Cattaneo. Shoshanna’s wide gaze showed her dancing on the fine line between excitement and terror as he deftly whirled her around the floor. The faintest smile played on Dominic’s lips, though Alistair was certain he was not pleased with Shoshanna, but rather enjoyed the small moment to show off his prowess.

“That’s none of my concern,” Alistair said quietly.

Paris sidled close enough that his arm touched Alistair’s. His familiar scent awakened years of aching memories. He chuckled. “Well, you know Dominic can’t fuck her. And I can’t sleep with her. Perhaps we’ll trade off.”

Rage overwhelmed him. In a flash, he envisioned a dozen ways to kill Paris, finally settling on tearing his throat out with one hand.

Instead of acting on his fury, he darted down the narrow hallway to one of the private lounges. He came to a halt at the first open door. Inside the small chamber, two big settees invited hungry vampires and eager veravin to satisfy their dark appetites.

“Why are you running from me?” Paris said from behind him.

He whirled and balled his fists into Paris’s coat, slamming him into the opposite wall. Fear flickered across his friend’s face as his head smacked into the wall, but defiance took its place. The porcelain perfection of Paris’s features made him even angrier. What could he offer to Shoshanna, when she could have Paris?

“I told you to walk away.”

“Hard to do with you pinning me to a wall,” Paris replied. “Why are you so angry, Allie? Unless this is foreplay, in which case you could have just asked.”

“Is everything a game for you?” With him close, he could smell Shoshanna, like the shimmering echo of a choir in a cathedral. And that scent on Paris, on someone who had no right to touch her, enraged him.

“Most things,” Paris replied. “Not everything.”

“You could have anyone you want,” Alistair said. “Why her?”

“Why not?” His eyes narrowed. “Why not, Alistair? Tell me why I shouldn’t seduce her. You know better than most that I am very generous. She’s never had anything like what I could give her.” He chuckled, and a nasty sneer curled his lip. “God, can you imagine what she tastes like? What she looks like when she comes?”

Rage boiled up in his chest. Her scent was stronger now, though he was certain it was his anger, his sheer need for her that swirled it into a maddening feedback loop. He leaned in close to Paris. “Because she is mine,” he growled. “Not yours.”

He wasn’t sure what he expected from Paris, but it wasn’t the toothy grin, and certainly not the ripple of laughter. His laughter stopped abruptly when Alistair grabbed his throat and lifted him off the ground.

His friend’s eyes went wide as they darkened to a warning red. “Say it again,” Paris said, his voice rough.

“She is mine,” Alistair growled.

“Then fucking act like it,” Paris said. He drove his fist into Alistair’s chest hard enough to crack bone. As Alistair reeled, Paris pounced and shoved him into the cushioned settee. It was all too easy to let Paris’s charm lull him into a sense of complacency, forgetting that he was Second of the Shroud for a good reason. Looming over him, Paris’s pretty face had turned into something frightening and lethal. “I promised Shoshanna that she would never be left alone here. Nothing more.”

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