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.