Page 52 of The Rogue's Curse

Misha bellowed, “To me!”

Lilah screamed, “Take him down.”

As two of the vampires converged on him, Paris launched through the air andonto the nearest table. Surprisingly for a vampire prison, the furnished foyer had wooden-legged furniture. He grabbed a heavy chair, smashed it into the floor, and sprang at Lilah.

Driving a splintered stake deep into her throat, he savored the way she screamed in fury and pain. “That’s for Olivia, you hateful bitch,” he spat. Strong hands fisted into his coat and slung him away, and he landed easily on his feet to see Kieran blocking him from Lilah.

Her voice was ragged and wet as she screamed, “Get out of my way!” but her partner was marginally smarter, holding her back from a losing battle.

“Finish them off!” Kieran shouted. And with that, he tossed the petite blonde over his shoulder and bolted through the front door with two more vampires on his heels.

He was not letting those two assholes escape.

Paris bolted after them, zigzagging to avoid the spray of wooden bullets. Something sharp tugged at his heart, and he froze, looking back to see Misha swaying on his feet. His skin had gone paper white, and blood trickled from his nose.

Paris’s body lurched forward, as if it was following the instinct to chase Lilah.

He froze.

He couldn’t leave Misha. Nothing else mattered.

Frozen there in the hall, he was taken by surprise when a vampire in magic-charred clothing sprang at him and bore him to the ground. Paris drove one hand up, tore out his throat, and hurled him aside.

Two more vampires leaped at him, but he ducked one and swatted the other out of the air. Whatever Allegra had put in those drinks was burning away with his sheer rage, his need to protect Misha. He stepped into Misha’s circle and slung the other man’s bloodied arm over his shoulder. “With me,” he said.The witch’s magic made the air around them shimmer like a heat mirage.

Vampires had closed in behind them to block their path to the front door.

“We have to get to the car,” Misha said, his voice faint. “I’ll clear a path.”

“No,” Paris said. “Follow me.” Still supporting Misha’s sagging weight, he rushed down a short hall and around a corner to the stairs leading up to the second floor. They limped up the stairs and lingered at the top. “Can you light it up?”

Misha met his gaze. “If I do, I’m done fighting for the day,” he said.

“Do you trust me to get you out of here?” Paris said.

Misha’s pause was much longer than he would have liked, but something shifted in his gaze, as if he was remembering something. He nodded once and said, “I trust you.”

“Light it up,” Paris said.

Misha’s eyes fluttered, but he planted his feet, extended his bloodied arm, and murmured quietly. Red lines slithered up his arm, blood pattering to the floor. A thin beam of fiery light coalesced in the air and speared into the stairs below them, and Paris stupidly thought, that’s it? for the briefest moment before it exploded into a searing wall of flame.

With a soft groan, Misha went limp. Paris held him up, half dragging him down the hall and to a room at the back corner of the mansion. What had once been a barracks-like bedroom had been turned into an armory, which was emptied out.

No time to think about it.

He swept back the heavy blackout curtains and kicked out the glass to make a path. Behind them, he heard someone shouting, “Just run through it, you pussy! You’ll heal!”

Looping his arm around Misha, Paris leaped out of the window and landed in the bed of a truck parked below them. He jumped down and dragged Misha to their car. Paris didn’t bother with politeness, just slung Misha into the backseat of the rental, slammed the door, and hurled himself into the front seat.

Behind him, there were already vampires jumping out the window in pursuit. He hit the gas and swore when the car awkwardly lurched forward. Someone landed atop the car, and he slammed his foot on the gas, spinning through the gravel and down the winding drive.

His hands shook with adrenaline as he plowed through the wrought iron gate and onto the road. The car jolted, and he looked up to see a snarling vampire on the hood. “Hold on,” he said, stomping on the brakes and watching them fly overhead. He accelerated and ran them over, then peeled out onto the road.

He stole a look back at Misha, who lay corpse-pale and unconscious.

Shit shit shit.

Panic welled up in him, and for once, it was not anger or determination that drove him. It was fear for Misha. What if he died? What if he had failed to protect him?

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