Page 31 of The Rogue's Curse

“No.” Her gaze scraped over him. “Have you gotten any closer to Shea?”

“We have a lead. And help from the Crown,” he said.

She nodded and looked back to Dominic. Her fingers were intertwined with his, and the faint smell of something herbal said she’d been rubbing something into his skin. His dark hair was swept back from his brow, his face clean and bright.Her shoulders slumped as she spoke. “I keep thinking it’ll be like the movies. That he’ll hear me and wake up miraculously at the sound of my voice. But I know better.”

“Rachel,” he murmured. What the hell was he supposed to say? He’d tried a hundred times to find the words that would make things right, but I’m sorry was so inadequate it was worse than nothing at all.

“I know I can live without him,” she said. Her voice cracked, and she swiped at her face. “But I don’t want to. I don’t want to do this by myself. The thought of living hundreds of years alone…”

He dared to approach, though he didn’t touch her, didn’t breach that wall. “You don’t have to do this by yourself. We are your family too, and we’ll do anything we can for you.”

Still holding Dom’s hand, she used her free hand to wipe her tears. When her head lifted, her expression was guarded. “Did you need something?”

“I just saw Rhys so I thought I’d stop by,” he said. “I come every day.”

Her gaze went scarlet as she stared at him. “I would be here if I could.”

“I know that,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

She nodded and brushed a kiss on Dom’s hand. Without looking at Paris again, she said, “I’m here for tonight. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

His stomach churned, but he forced a smile, gave her a little bow, and backed out of the room with his throat clenching tight.

Seeing his old friend laid low was bad enough, but Rachel’s cool demeanor made it infinitely worse. She’d come to see Paris the day after the attack, demanding answers. She didn’t scream or gnash her teeth. Her usually warm eyes were cold and incisive as she stared at Paris, lying immobile in a hospital bed with a shattered spine. “What happened?”

In her shoes, he’d have done the same thing. When they were at war, there was no time to tread carefully and spare feelings. Answers kept them from screwing up the same way next time. But it was much easier to be the one demanding answers than to be the one who had no explanation for their failure.

Injured as he was, there was no escape. He couldn’t even turn his head to avoid that terrible, all-seeing stare, nor he could he risk closing his eyes and falling asleep.

And as he told her the story, saying that Dom had saved his life as if that would somehow make it better, she’d kept staring at him, so calm and stoic, before finally saying, “He promised he would be fine. You were supposed to protect him.”

Her words were a physical blow. Sharp pain rippled through him, so intense he couldn’t even speak.

Her eyes had gone wide, as if she’d realized she had let her true feelings slip. She’d clapped one hand over her mouth, but it was too late to recapture that brutal honesty. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, backing out of the room with Rhys hot on her tail.

You were supposed to protect him.

A part of him wanted to shake her violently, to scream in her face, Don’t you think I know that? Dominic had been one of his closest confidantes for centuries before Rachel came along. They had protected each other more times than she could possibly know. Hell, Dom was here instead of being another notch on Brigitte’s belt because Paris had blown a hole through her shoulder with a rifle from a hundred yards away.

And the other part of him wanted to throw himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness, because she was right. He was supposed to protect Dom. After all, he had split the court. He had accepted the heavy burden of being Julian’s right hand. He was calling the shots, and that meant everyone who got hurt on his watch was his responsibility. He had failed Dominic, and he had failed Rachel.

At first, he’d thought it would be better if she was soft, if she had told him, it’s all right, he wouldn’t want me to be angry, but that would have felt false, and he wouldn’t have believed it. At least this was honest, even if it hurt like hell.

With his body aching and his heart heavy, Paris took a lap around the perimeter of the complex to clear his head before returning to his office.

Two years ago, Paris would have laughed at the idea that he would regularly be rescuing hapless humans from filthy Untethered vampire nests. Before the bloody Morettis showed up in Atlanta and brought all the chaos of their lawless court with them, his life had been much simpler. His curse was a waking nightmare, of course, but taking care of himself was a manageable task after doing it for over three hundred years.

Now, every waking moment was consumed with the dread of what would happen. He never thought he would find himself sympathizing with self-righteous avenging angel Nikko Baudelaire, who solemnly proclaimed, if we don’t do something, who will? long before Carrigan Shea came to town.

He did not share Nikko’s self-flagellating tendencies or inherent shame over what he was. Being a vampire did not grate against his morals. He killed in self-defense and refused to carry an ounce of guilt for it. When he fed on humans, as he quite often did, he sought to do no harm and even to make it as pleasurable as possible, both for his own benefit and for theirs.

But he had not spent the last three centuries trying to save the world. If his short human life had taught him anything, it was that life was catastrophically unfair and capricious. The best he could do was pick a course of action and live up to his values, which did not include attaching himself to every injustice under the moon.

Now everything had changed. One day he woke up and realized that he and his brothers might be the only bulwark against vampires that represented the worst of their kind.

He lay awake wondering at what he was missing, how he would finally get rid of Shea. He was not morally culpable, but ignoring the humans of Atlanta felt like watching a small child playing in the street while a truck bore down on him. Every bloody corpse was an accusation, even though his teeth hadn’t pierced the flesh nor tongue tasted their blood.

It was fucking maddening. How had Nikko been so noble for all these years without tearing out all that glorious golden hair in frustration? Once he realized he could save a life, how had he not gone mad realizing he couldn’t possibly save them all? How did he take responsibility for one without feeling a crushing burden of caring for them all?

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