Or at least Ezra had known it at one time.
The vampire with the shock of red hair and cold blue eyes had been half-starved and alone when Philippe discovered him outside of Dublin more than a century ago. He’d been a soldier and grievously injured during battle. Much of his body was covered in horrible scars and he walked with a permanent limp. A vampire had found him and turned him for a bit of fun one night. The vamp had fully intended to kill Ezra before the sun rose, but Ezra escaped and found a suitable hiding place until the next night.
But those hard, early years had obviously been forgotten by his friend.
“Enough,” Philippe snapped. “We’re not discussing this.”
Ezra’s mouth took on a mutinous line, and he stormed away. Philippe turned his attention to Jullien, who only sighed as he nodded. He didn’t get the impression that his old friend no longer agreed with his mission when it came to building the Arsenault clan, but the deaths of the three members definitely had them all rattled.
The doorbell echoed through the silent house, and Philippe’s heart immediately sped up.
A little smirk twisted Jullien’s lips as he pushed away from the desk. “I’ll go let Rafe in.”
Philippe didn’t deny it. Jullien had been in the room when he made the call, and Philippe had been sure he’d managed to keep all emotion from his face, but he doubted he’d been so careful the other times he’d returned from his evenings with Rafe. Jullien knew him, and probably to some small extent, Jullien knew Rafe.
He listened to the footsteps cross the hall floor and the muffled voices before more footsteps returned. This time they were sharper, faster.
There had been no time to compose himself. Rafe was just suddenly there, in the doorway, a worried expression on his handsome face. He paused for only a second and then crossed to him. Philippe caught a small glimpse of Jullien closing the door behind Rafe, leaving them alone.
God, he looked so good. Tonight he was wearing a pair of dark-gray slacks and a white shirt that was open at the throat. His hair was already starting to look slightly wild, as if he’d been running his fingers through it in worry.
What was surprising was the violin case in his right hand. Why had he brought his violin?
But the question was knocked out of his brain again when Rafe halted less than a foot away and placed the case on the floor. He reached for Philippe but stopped himself at the last second, pulling away. A look of indecision wrinkled his nose and deepened his frown.
Philippe closed the final couple of steps separating them, walking straight into Rafe’s arms. He didn’t miss the sigh of relief or the little shudder that ran through Rafe’s body before those wonderful arms tightened around his shoulders. Philippe closed his eyes and burrowed his face into Rafe’s neck, wanting to wallow in the warmth and comfort Rafe was offering. In the back of his mind, he knew he still had work to do to fix this new breach between them. Rafe had some unexpected insecurity that Philippe’s seeming rejection had worsened. They’d talk, but it could wait a little while.
“I’m so sorry, mon ange,” Rafe whispered into his hair.
The ghost of a smile drifted across his lips, and he squeezed Rafe a little tighter. It was the first time Rafe had used an endearment, and it was touching that he’d chosen the French version of “my angel.” Plenty of others had commented on his classically angelic looks of blond hair and blue eyes, even Rafe, but there was something sweeter to hear it in his native French.
“Mon amour,” Philippe murmured back.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more help. I know you expected—”
Philippe’s head immediately popped up so that he could look Rafe in the eye. “In no way is this your fault. I’m the one who has failed. I couldn’t save Erik or Sarah. I knew I needed to try something new. Jullien commented to me that you seemed to know everyone. I thought you might have seen or heard something.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
Philippe reached up and pressed his thumb to Rafe’s lips while cupping his cheek. “No more apologies. I’ve already heard too many from you, and you have nothing to apologize for.”
Rafe kissed his thumb before gently moving it aside. “Then tell me what I can do to help.”
“Nothing.”
“I’m not giving up. Some fucker is targeting your clan, and it stops now. I’ll not have you or the rest of your clan in danger.”
Philippe started to open his mouth to argue, but he shut it again and smiled. Rafe was right. He needed help. He’d lost three members to a murderer, and he wasn’t going to lose another person. The Arsenault clan needed help, and he was going to accept all the resources that Rafe could pull together through his contacts and the rest of the Variks.