Page 9 of The Rogue's Curse

Except for Paris. He had boldly claimed he could handle Carrigan Shea, and he’d barely survived. The man had walked off a potent poison like it was no more than a bee sting. He was impossibly strong and fast, and Paris only survived because Shea wanted to rub his face in the defeat more than he wanted to kill him.

What if he’d let Sasha go for the kill instead? What if they’d just firebombed the entire building? What if he’d done virtually anything differently that didn’t put all the responsibility on his shoulders?

His chest tightened, and he fought the urge to vomit. Instead, he perched on the edge of Dominic’s bed and took his hand. There was the tiniest bit of strength in those long fingers, a bit of resistance that gave Paris hope. He spoke in broken Italian, hoping that Dom would wake up and tell him to stop committing such an atrocity on his native tongue.

“It has been sixteen days, and you have slept more than enough, you lazy fuck,” he said. “I need you here, so I would appreciate it if you would stop lying around and get up. Rachel needs you. She misses you, and I’m afraid she will find another handsome Italian man if you don’t wake up.”

He sighed and looked over his shoulder. The hall remained quiet, the doorway empty. With his heart aching, Paris stroked Dom’s hand.

His lovely olive skin felt smooth, fully healed from the scratches and scrapes of their failed incursion. It seemed odd that he could look whole, yet not awaken. His silver medallion lay nestled against his bare chest. It had been weeks since Paris had seen it around his neck, that reminder of the wife who had long returned to dust after refusing to join him as a vampire.Rachel had brought it from home, insisting he needed it.

Where the fuck was Saint Christopher when they needed him? If anyone needed safe travels home, it was Dominic.

“I’m being shitty, but you know I can’t help it. I need you, brother. I cannot win this fight— We cannot win this fight without you. If you can hear me, please come out. Te adoro,” he murmured. There was no expression on his friend’s face, not so much as a fluttering of his eyelashes that betrayed his sharp mind still at work. Paris’s chest tightened.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Please.”

Nothing.

A lump of ice gathered in his throat, and he surged to his feet. Scrubbing furiously at his eyes, he brushed a kiss on Dom’s brow, then hurried out of the room before he began to cry. Rhys was right about one thing; the court was watching, and the last thing they needed was to see Paris sniveling like a schoolgirl.

He could have dealt with the loss of his beloved home, his suits, his car… Everything he owned could be replaced. And he had dealt with it. He had gritted his teeth, taken the beating, and pushed forward even as Shea poured his poison all over the city.

But Shea had taken his peace of mind. The bastard had shattered the life he knew, and in a desperate attempt to fight back, Paris had shattered his own court because it was the noble fucking thing to do. He’d lost Eduardo, and with him, his understanding of his place in the world.

And still, they suffered. Now he carried the burden of this court and half a million humans and the crushing guilt of his failure. Why couldn’t it have been him? Dom had someone; he was needed. Paris wasn’t. Even wise old Mistress Fate couldn’t weave a happy ending for him. So why had he survived while Dominic lay unmoving day after day? Was this just an extension of the living nightmare of his curse?

He lingered in the hallway, drawing in that familiar scent of his old friend to remind himself what was at stake. If self-loathing were sufficient to save this whole bloody city, it would have worked already. Drawing up his shoulders, he fixed a bland smile on his face and told himself one of his favorite lies: we’ll figure this out. He was not an optimist, but he was stubborn far beyond a fault, and there was work to be done.

Back in the administrative building, he headed for his office to review the personnel assignments for the night. He hadn’t been out in the field—as far as the others knew—since the attack on the Constitution building. He had, in fact, gone out in the field with Jonas Wynn to track down the rapidly fading scents lingering amidst the destruction. After being threatened within an inch of his life—and testicles—Jonas Wynn swore not to tell his daughter about their daylight rendezvous.

Meanwhile, Olivia Pierce and some of their enforcers had been working around the clock to pinpoint Carrigan Shea’s new location. She had some promising leads via the construction company that was rebuilding the half-obliterated Constitution building, but it hadn’t revealed a smoking gun just yet. When he walked into her office, she waved at him and said, “Just the man I wanted to see.”

“That’s surprising,” he said mildly.

Her brow furrowed, but she regained her sunny smile and said, “I just got an email requesting a video callwith Ophelia Klein from the Sanguine Crown.”

His spine went ramrod straight. “The Crown? What is it now?”

“They’re sending someone here. He’ll be here in a couple hours,” she said. “But she wanted to talk to Julian, and he said to make sure you were here, too.”

“Give me five minutes, then make the call,” he said. Swearing under his breath, he hurried back to his office and yanked open the narrow closet to check his appearance. He raked one hand through his hair, smoothing it back into place. Most of his wardrobe had gone up in smoke more than a month ago. Alistair had loaned him some clothes—too big—until Danielle Pierce went shopping during the day for him. Other than buying him a pair of underwear with chubby-cheeked Cupids shooting arrows toward his cock, Danielle had picked him a decent wardrobe. He inspected his dark sweater for any stray lint, then backed away.

What did the Crown want now?

The Sanguine Crown enforced the laws of the vampire world. The Crown also maintained a bureau of its own that cleaned up messes that lay outside a court’s jurisdiction. These vampires technically belonged to their own courts, but their allegiance was to the Crown—namely Zehra Demirci—before their Elders.

Last month, the Crown had summoned its five primary members, with an unusual addition. On a computer screen, there was Zehra Demirci, representing the oldest and most powerful court, the Mazhar. She was joined by representatives from Prosdicimi, Osiris, Thanatos, and of course, the Blade of Auberon. Eduardo Alazan, who had tucked tail and run, was at the corner of the screen. Paris hadn’t so much as spoken to the man since they parted ways, and it infuriated him to see Eduardo in that lineup after all that had happened.

But that day, there was a sixth guest: Julian Alcott, leader of the newly formed Durendal Court. Newly formed, leading a court that was a fraction of the size of the other prized jewels of the crown, Julian had no business being there. There were half a dozen vampire courts around the world that had no voice on the Crown, each of them having far more claim to a seat at the table than their month-old charity case.

But Julian had not come to demand power. Instead, he asked for the Crown’s aid. For months, Eduardo had resisted asking for help. Instead, he’d told the Crown about Shea and received Lady Demirci’s blessing to go to war. But when it got too dangerous, Eduardo fled and left Julian to humble himself and show their weakness.

While their new Elder had prepared a calm, thorough explanation of the ways in which Shea’s presence threatened the safety and secrecy of the vampire world, he did not have to beg. The calm, quiet Lady Demirci had let him talk until he was done, then offered her aid. She wanted to know who Carrigan Shea was and how he had gone unnoticed for so long. This is a threat to all of us, she’d said. And it brought Paris only the tiniest bit of grim satisfaction when she admonished Eduardo for giving up the fight.

The Crown had sent money and ammunition, but Paris had rather hoped for an army to kill Shea, or perhaps a nuclear bomb that would self-guide right up his smarmy ass. Julian had grimly told Paris they didn’t want the Crown to show up personally; if they did, there was a good chance they’d deal with all the vampires in the city. After all, they might be guilty by association of jeopardizing secrecy.

“Paris, I’m about to call!” Olivia called.

---