Page 11 of The Rogue's Curse

Nikko shrugged and said, “Phoebe and I will keep at it.”

“Be careful,” Paris said, clapping Nikko on the back before returning to his office. He wanted to be out hunting, but even if he was in peak condition, his position as Julian’s right hand and advisor kept him nearby. Julian had wryly told him that a position of power was his karmic punishment for competence.

Upon returning to his office, Paris found Julian pacing as he buttoned a crisp white shirt. Bright cologne and soap hinted that he’d shaved and put more attention on his appearance than he had in weeks. The older man paused and held out his hands. “Do I look like a proper Elder or like a little boy wearing his father’s clothing?”

“Truthfully, somewhere in between,” Paris said wryly. “You look very handsome, but there is a line of worry that has not left your face for the last month,” he added, tracing a line between his own brows. Out of habit, he tugged at Julian’s cuffs and fixed the buttons. Even after all these years, being near his Maker soothed him. Julian’s scent was so familiar and calming, even when the man himself was anxious.

“Imagine that,” Julian said. His weak smile evaporated. “Do you think they’re actually coming here to wipe us out?”

Dread twisted through his belly. “I hope not. But it’s not out of the realm of possibility,” he said.

Julian’s green eyes narrowed. “I promised to defend this court with my life,” he said quietly. “You understand me, don’t you?”

He had served at Julian’s side since the day he became a vampire, and depending on how he told the story, even before. Paris adjusted Julian’s collar, fingering the sharp-pressed white points for a moment before he said, “I understand that the Crown is not the arbiter of whether we live or die. And the man who raises a hand to you or anyone under this roof will soon lose it.”

Julian nodded to him, then tilted his head toward the door. “Shall we?”

They walked in fraught silence to the front of the administrative building.Olivia and several of the younger vampires had done their best to update the reception area, but Julian had limited their budget, which was no longer supported by all of Eduardo’s lucrative investments.

Compared to the luxury of Infinity, the dated institutional chic was embarrassing, to say the least. In place of the exquisite marble floors and gilt decor, there was dingy tile and plastic-upholstered furniture in clashing shades. A few tchotchkes and silk plants showed a nice effort, which almost made everything else look sadder by comparison.

Julian’s fingers brushed the back of his neck absently, and for a split second, Paris felt the pulse of fear through their bond, a hint of what roiled beneath Julian’s stoic surface. For every bit of weight Paris carried on his own, Julian felt much more of it from all of them. And he was keenly aware that his cursed lover, Brigitte, was even now circling him, getting closer to that inevitable day when he would have to watch her die again.

In the distance, Paris heard the rumble of a car engine, then the ominous quiet as it ceased. Soft footsteps, and quiet conversation in Russian. When the automatic doors slid open, the Russian conversation grew louder. Kristina led the way with keys jangling in one hand. Her lean frame blocked Paris’s view of their new guest.

“Mr. Rossignol,” she said, unusually formal. After bowing her head politely to him and Julian, she stepped aside to let their guest pass.

For a moment, Paris could only stare, his voice having abandoned him in a rare state of silence. His throat worked uselessly as he caught sight of their arrival. Dressed in a fitted black coat and dark jeans that did him and his muscular legs quite a few favors, Volkov was unreasonably handsome. Really, what business did the Crown have employing such an attractive investigator?

Inquisitive amber eyes shifted to him, skimmed over him quickly, then shifted to Julian. “Mr. Alcott,” he said, his voice quiet but commanding. A bag was slung over one shoulder, long fingers curled around the strap.

Julian offered his hand. “Mr. Volkov, I assume.”

The other man nodded and shook Julian’s hand. “Mikhail Volkov. Please call me Misha,” he said. His gaze flitted to Paris. A smile tugged at his lips. “Mr. Rossignol, yes?”

He knows my name.

And God, the accent was perfect.

I can’t believehe knows my name.

Where the fuck did the stupid schoolboy come from? Paris nodded, hoping that he remembered to speak English. “Phillippe Rossignol. You can call me Paris,” he said. That was English, wasn’t it?

“Paris,” Misha said. “A pleasure. We have much to discuss. Can we sit?”

4

If the unfortunate stragglers of the Durendal had come under attack, Misha Volkov would have been of absolutely no use for at least five more minutes.

No one told him that Julian Alcott’s right-hand man was a damned Greek god in a Frenchman’s body. He’d simply seen the names on Ophelia’s list, and connected the dots when Ms. Arensberg addressed him.

Had he known that the man would be so handsome, he wouldn’t have been nearly so surly with Ophelia about the whirlwind of travel. Now, he simply regretted that he hadn’t had time to freshen up before being introduced to Paris Rossignol.

He immediately made a mental note to look him up in the Crown’s database. For professional reasons, of course.

Following the leaders of the newly formed Durendal court down a cinderblock hallway, Misha admonished himself. This is business. His duty and obligation were to the Sanguine Crown, in service of the vampire world at large. His duty was not to his lust, even as the less intelligent part of his brain reminded him of just how very long it had been since he’d taken someone to bed. And wouldn’t it be lovely if…

Stop it.

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