She nodded, still holding Misha’s gaze. “You’re really not going to hurt me?”
Misha frowned at Paris and spoke in Russian. “Did you enthrall her?”
“No, I charmed her quite normally,” Paris replied in the same tongue. “She was making eyes at some asshole who had zero chance of making her orgasm tonight. Clearly I was a better choice.”
Misha looked down at his arms and found that someone—surely Paris—had wiped his hands clean. The stinging cuts left by his magic were already closing.
Paris sat next to Allison and slid one hand around her waist. She smiled and leaned into him, and Paris gently kissed her cheek. The heat of jealousy billowing through Misha startled him, and he nearly batted the woman out of the way.
He’s mine.
But Paris wasn’t looking at Allison. His eyes were on Misha, a faint smile on his lips as he beckoned to him. Misha eased closer, and Paris’s hand skimmed over his back, sending a shiver up his spine.
The smell of Allison’s blood, even as it flowed safely within those veins and arteries beneath gently tanned skin, was intoxicating. He eased closer and lifted her arm to his mouth. A faint sheen of sweat gleamed on her, leaving a faint tinge of salt, an earthiness that was more pleasant than the soap and perfume that so often lingered on skin.
Heat swelled in his chest, and he bit into her arm. She let out a soft yelp, but Paris said, “Shh, cherie. All is well. The sting will pass, and then it will be so sweet.”
“Okay, it’s—” She let out a soft gasp, and she shifted as the euphoria began to hit her. Paris held her up, gently rubbing her back while Misha drank.
In Russian, Paris said, “Drink what you need. I’ll listen to her heart.”
Blood poured over Misha’s tongue, warm and nourishing. The spark of his magic seemed to crackle as the fresh warm blood slid down his throat. His senses were alive and wild, and he became suddenly aware of Paris’s hand sliding up his back.
He let out a soft groan as Paris lifted his grimy shirt and scraped his nails lightly over bare skin. Heat pooled in his groin, and his cock stiffened. The pleasure of Paris’s touch and the sweet decadence of blood overwhelmed him.
“Misha,” Paris said quietly, withdrawing his hand and tapping his shoulder. “Enough.”
Wouldn’t it be lovely to take it all? To take her entirely?
That was Frasier’s voice, and it was enough to turn the taste of blood to foul ash on his tongue. He withdrew and licked his lips clean. He stared at Paris hungrily while the other man lightly bit at his thumb, then brushed it over Allison’s arm to close the bites.
The scent of her desire was palpable, and she looked at Paris with a distant, drunken gaze. She laid her head on his shoulder and slid one hand up his thigh.
“No, thank you,” Paris said politely, plucking away her hand before she could go further. “Do you feel good?”
“I feel so good,” she said dreamily. “Do you want to have sex? You’re both so pretty.”
Paris’s lips pursed in a smile. “You’re very lovely, but I’m afraid we can’t have sex with you. Would you like to go back to your friends and have something to eat?”
“Oh my God. That sounds amazing,” Allison murmured, perking up with a drunken smile. “Cheese fries?” Apparently, the prospect of greasy bar food sounded more appealing than a threesome with two vampires, which was for the best because Misha might have murdered her if she touched Paris.
“A mountain of cheese fries with bacon, if you like,” Paris said amiably. “Come along.”
Misha lay back, and the warmth of Allison’s blood washed over him. The heavy ache in his limbs faded to a dull echo, and he closed his eyes.
Did Misha have to use sex as leverage? Couldn’t he just grab Paris when he walked through the door and demand what they both wanted? Never mind the utter shitshow that had just transpired.
The mere thought of it made him sit bolt upright, head spinning. He fumbled in his pocket, only to realize his jacket lay on a nearby chair. Unsteady on his feet, he found his phone and found three missed calls and twice as many texts from Orlando Dean, the vampire counterpart to Ophelia Klein. All the texts asked for an update, with the last one having arrived ten minutes ago.
He quickly called, clearing his throat as the phone rang. Orlando answered on the second ring, with a brusque, “Misha. Status report.”
“The Mausoleum—”
“We know about the Mausoleum,” Orlando said. “Are you secure?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Relatively. I don’t know how many got out. We can go back and try to—”
“No,” Orlando said. “Lady Demirci has been in contact with Julian Alcott to get the report. We’re sending an agent to speak with the Vasilievs on our behalf. You are not to prioritize this incident. As soon as possible, you are to return to Atlanta and seek shelter until you are fully recovered.”
