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Philippe.
He grabbed my upper arms. “Drop the knives, Zoe.”
“Let me go.” I tried to jam an elbow into his ribs, but he easily controlled me.
“Drop the goddamned knives.” His grip tightened until I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out in pain. “Now.”
“Call your people off.” I twisted in his grip. “Rafe’s down. He’s not a threat to anyone.”
“The bastard’s really got his hooks into you, doesn’t he?” he muttered, but he ordered the men beating Rafe to back off, then gave me a shake. “Now give the knives to Jean-Michel.”
I looked down at the stilettos, but I couldn’t win against Philippe, Victorine and a roomful of syndicate vampires. I shoved the knives at Jean-Michel.
Victorine hadn’t made a sound since that first outraged screech. Now her head swung to me, her eyes rimmed a dangerous blue.
“What. Have. You. Done?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She jerked a stiletto from beneath her skirt and stalked toward Rafe’s motionless body.
“No.” I fought wildly against Philippe’s hold. “Don’t. You have to stop her,” I told him. “Please.” My voice broke.
“Victorine,” he rapped out. “No. We need him alive.”
When she didn’t seem to hear him, Philippe swore under his breath, shoved me at Jean-Michel with a muttered, “take Zoe,” and lunged for her.
The bodyguard grabbed me by the shoulders. “Stop this,” he said in his comply-or-else voice, the one I’d been conditioned from childhood to obey.
It halted me long enough to see that Philippe had caught my mother before she’d reached Rafe. I stilled, breath jerking in and out of my lungs.
Philippe snatched the silver blade from Victorine and tossed it to a soldier. “Not in my lair, damn it.” He swung her around to face him. “That’s not the deal.”
She bared long white fangs. “He staked my lieutenant. He dies.”
“I don’t care what you do to the bastard, but I can’t let you send him to the final grave—not here in my own lair. Besides, if his brother fails, we may need him.”
On the floor, Rafe groaned. His eyelids fluttered.
Victorine lurched in Philippe’s grip, trying to get to him.
“Take him away,” her sire snapped at Samir.
“Yes, sir.” Samir and two soldiers jerked Rafe to his feet. He swayed, eyes half-closed.
“Release me,” Victorine hissed at Philippe. “You have no right to intervene in a blood feud.”
“No, cherie.” He smoothed a hand down her black chignon. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, because if you stake Rafael Kral, his father will come after Zoe. And this time, he might succeed. Is Étan worth that?”
Victorine’s chest heaved. Rafe was being dragged, stumbling, toward the door. The look she trained on him should’ve dropped him where he stood.
“His life is mine.”
“Someday,” Philippe agreed.
Rafe had recovered enough to dig in his heels. He swung his head around. His gaze locked on mine.
Apology. Sorrow.
And then his cheek creased in a cocky grin. “You’re free,” he mouthed at me.
