Chapter 7
Seven
Philippe’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white as he maneuvered the elegant car through late-evening traffic.
He didn’t drive much, and of course Rafe’s beautiful vehicle had to be a manual transmission.
It was only through intense concentration and luck that he didn’t stall the damn thing every time they were forced to stop at a red light.
He didn’t know whether it was from pain or if Rafe realized how uncomfortable Philippe was behind the wheel, but conversation was limited to only directions to the skyscraper in the middle of downtown Hartford.
When he parked the sedan in Rafe’s dedicated spot, his hands were trembling, and sweat beaded his forehead.
“Thank you for not wrecking my car,” Rafe said. Philippe looked over to see a sardonic smile on his lips.
“Sorry. I don’t drive much.”
“You did fine.”
Philippe wiped away the sweat and flashed Rafe a shaky smile.
“If you could pop the trunk and retrieve the blanket there, the garage and elevator have security cameras. It’s best if we don’t attract more attention than necessary.”
Philippe jumped from his seat and hurried to unlock the trunk with the key fob.
The blue-and-green plaid blanket was easy to spot in the largely empty trunk.
Shutting it, he rushed to the passenger door Rafe was already opening.
He wrapped the blanket around Rafe’s shoulders but was careful not to touch him unless it looked like Rafe couldn’t rise on his own.
The dark suit helped to mask the blood, but anyone taking more than a passing glance would recognize something was off.
He knew he’d fucked up at the nursing home. He should have offered to take Rafe to Arsenault Manor. The vampire was bleeding and in pain. Rafe had protected him, shielded him with his own body. Why couldn’t he trust him?
Because he didn’t trust anyone outside the Arsenault clan.
If others knew the truth of their clan, discovered their secrets, they would instantly become vulnerable.
He had to protect his family first, his people.
Philippe promised to keep them all safe.
Piper was missing, and he’d promised to keep her safe.
But it wasn’t just their safety that was on Philippe’s mind.
He was afraid of the judgment he might find in Rafe’s eyes.
If Rafe discovered the truth, he would tell his brothers.
The Variks might decide to cancel their agreement to help the Arsenaults.
Worse, they might decide, like so many others, that the Arsenaults needed to be destroyed.
He didn’t want to think such a thing was possible with Rafe. Philippe wanted to believe Rafe was different, but he couldn’t take that chance. Not yet.
They made slow and steady progress to the elevator. Once inside the car, Rafe took his keys back from Philippe and waved the fob in front of a different reader. The door slid soundlessly shut, and the elevator car started its rapid ascent to the penthouse.
“Tonight’s shooting is a good sign,” Rafe said, breaking the silence.
A harsh bark of laughter erupted from Philippe, and he met his companion’s reflected gaze in the shiny silver doors in front of them. “I think you’ve lost too much blood.”
“If we weren’t on the right trail, why was someone shooting at us? That could have been Piper’s attacker trying to get rid of us.”
“Possibly, but we didn’t learn anything useful walking around that neighborhood.” Philippe’s nose wrinkled as he mentally replayed the shooting in his head. “And why a gun? I’ll give you being shot is painful, but it is unlikely to kill us.”
“It’s incredibly painful,” Rafe grumbled. “But it could have been a warning to stop looking.” The doors slid open, and he led the way down the dimly lit hallway.
Philippe trailed behind him, his eyes darting over the black wood floors that led into a large, open area. One entire wall was lined with an ornately carved bar. Behind the bar, shelves of liquor and beautifully cut glasses—from bowls to tumblers to delicate flutes—covered the wall.
He shouldn’t have been surprised by the decadence of the penthouse given what he’d seen of Blush, Rafe’s office, and his choice of cars. The most insane feature was the wall of windows looking out on the city. How…how did he protect himself during the day?
Philippe nearly jumped at the loud thunk in the silence. He turned to find a highball glass on the bar and Rafe digging around in what looked to be a mini fridge. He slapped two bags of blood on the shining surface.
“Do you need a nip?” Rafe called over his shoulder.
“A drink, yes. Blood, no.”
Rafe grunted and straightened. “Feel free to fix yourself something,” he instructed, giving an absent wave toward the wall of booze behind him. His focus was entirely on the blood he was pouring into a glass.
Philippe joined him behind the bar and grabbed a tumbler.
Snatching up the first bottle of whiskey he spotted, he poured in two fingers and tossed them back.
The scent of Rafe’s blood was filling the air, stirring his hunger and making his fangs ache when they shouldn’t.
He’d fed not that long ago. He didn’t need to feed again, but it was more than a desire for blood.
This was Rafe’s blood. Philippe longed to press against Rafe and run his tongue along that warm flesh, drinking up the blood that coated him before claiming his mouth.
He wanted to hear Rafe whimper again. Wanted to taste that soft, needy cry.
“Would you mind…” Rafe started, then stopped.
“Anything,” Philippe quickly offered.
“That hall. It leads to my bedroom. Could you grab a clean shirt from my closet and a towel from the bathroom?”
“Of course.”
Philippe was grateful for an excuse to get out of the room just so he could pull himself together and at least feel somewhat useful. He hadn’t been particularly helpful when they were being shot at, and he had a feeling his tense driving hadn’t exactly put Rafe at ease.
The bedroom proved to be exactly what he expected from Rafe.
Well, maybe a little more toned-down. There were no obvious sexual devices in the room beyond the king-sized bed with the large headboard and footboard.
Philippe quickly ripped his eyes away from it and darted for the walk-in closet.
He paused as he stared at the rows of clothes.
He was tempted by the incredibly soft cashmere V-neck sweater, but he was worried that Rafe’s shoulder would hurt too much to allow him to comfortably pull it on.
Instead, he opted for another black button-down shirt.
In the bathroom, he turned on the tap, letting the water warm while he grabbed a thick towel and a washcloth. He wet the cloth and turned off the tap, hurrying back to Rafe.
At the bar, he found both bags were now empty, and the glass contained only a swallow or two of blood left. Rafe was awkwardly trying to unfasten his shirt with only one hand.
“Here. Let me,” Philippe said. He dropped what he had in his hands on top of the bar and came around to stand in front of Rafe. Philippe carefully brushed Rafe’s fingers aside and started on the buttons.
“I’ve never been one to turn down an offer like this,” Rafe murmured. “But I’ll admit that this isn’t how I imagined it happening.”
“You didn’t imagine being shot and covered in your own blood while I undressed you?” Philippe asked.
“Definitely not the shot part.”
“I’m sorry,” Philippe whispered. “I—”
“What? Didn’t expect there to be danger when looking for your lost child?” Rafe asked. There was a mocking bite to his voice, and Philippe was starting to think that this might be some of the real person showing through. The careful diplomat was gone and he liked it, liked seeing the real man.
“No, I…” The words were caught in his throat and Philippe forced himself to meet Rafe’s gaze. “I didn’t think I’d care. You’re a Varik. I’m an Arsenault. We both knew the danger when I asked for your help and the Variks agreed. I…I didn’t think I’d care if you got hurt.”
Rafe’s lips lifted into a slow smile that managed to heat every part of Philippe’s body. No one should be as sexy as Rafe. It went against the very laws of nature. This couldn’t be his secret power. He was older than Rafe and was confident he’d feel any attempts on Rafe’s part to use his gift.
Lifting his right hand, Rafe lightly ran his thumb along Philippe’s jaw. “Thank you. I do appreciate your concern.”
“If…if you’d rather walk away now—”
“My brothers would be the first to tell you I’m incredibly stubborn.
” Rafe stopped and smiled a strange, secret smile.
“We all are,” he corrected. His focus returned to Philippe, and his thumb slid down to his chin.
“Now that I’ve been shot, I’m more determined to find your culprit and make him pay for this. I’m not fond of being shot.”
Philippe smirked and carefully moved his chin from Rafe’s touch, returning his attention to the buttons in front of him.
He tugged the last bit from his pants and finished.
Moving around Rafe, he pulled the shirt off his uninjured shoulder first, then slowly peeled it away from the other.
The left half of his torso was painted with his blood, but the wounds had healed closed.
His pale flesh was badly bruised and looked like it was still causing Rafe a great deal of pain.
Grabbing the shirt from Philippe, Rafe wadded it up and tossed it into a small trash bin behind the bar. “Waste of a nice Armani,” Rafe muttered.
Philippe grabbed the damp cloth and started to wipe away the blood.
He could feel Rafe’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look up.
Didn’t want to steal his gaze from the beautiful muscles and seductive dark-brown nipple beckoning him in for just a quick lick.
He kept his touch light and gentle, not wanting to cause Rafe any more pain than he already suffered.