Page 101 of The Rogue's Curse

Misha’s eyes opened, and for a moment, Paris dared to hope. Then those brilliant red points flared again, and Misha arched painfully, as if something was trying to claw its way out of his chest. A voice that was not his emerged from his lips, speaking in a guttural tone that sounded so ugly coming from such a beautiful man.

“Misha, please,” he said, trying to caress his cheek, hoping that somehow, his miserable touch would do what Shoshanna’s mighty magic could not. “Come back to me.”

20

The world was full of flame and shadow. When he opened his heavy eyes, he saw a horned monstrosity with brilliant blue eyes. A clawed hand stroked his cheek and made his skin crawl.

He recoiled and slapped it away before backing into the wall. Fire boiled and burned in his chest, threatening to explode. The horned creature rose, speaking in a language he couldn’t understand. And then, its form shimmered, leaving a too-familiar visage.

The guttural language resolved into a thick brogue. Beckett Frasier stalked toward him, that sinister blade of his dripping black. “You don’t appreciate the power I’ve given you, so I’m going to take it back.”

“No,” Misha murmured. He had to get out. He frantically looked around, but the stone walls were solid and smooth. No windows or doors.

No escape.

He flew at Frasier, throwing wild punches. With each strike, crimson lightning flashed across his vision, threatening to blind him. One moment, Frasier stood in front of him, and the next, he was across the room. Misha spun, trying in vain to defend himself, but it felt as if the ground was swallowing him up.

Was this madness? Was this real, or was it a nightmare that had taken him?

The ground closed in around him, crushing his ribs, breaking and battering.

Misha. Misha. Wake up. Misha.

He fought against the constricting press of stone, trying to tune out the harsh, dissonant voices.

A cool drop of water fell on his brow, shattering the illusion. He opened his eyes, and the world was suddenly calm again. Familiar blue eyes stared down at him, and instead of the cruel bite of Frasier’s gaze, it was Paris. His face was splattered with blood, one shoulder torn open. But he smiled and said, “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Misha murmured. “What happened? Did it work?”

His lover smiled, but it was a brittle mask that couldn’t hide his despair. “No. Something went wrong.”

Slowly, Misha looked around. Streaks of ash smeared the walls, and the elaborate arcane drawing had been marred by charred cracks, the telltale signs of his magic gone wild. “I did this,” he said, grim horror dawning on him.

“No,” Paris said. “Let’s get—”

“Did I hurt you?” Misha said, sitting bolt upright. His body felt heavy, and a sharp pain stitched through his neck. When he touched it, his fingers came back bloody. The smell was his own, mingled with Paris’s blood and that thick scent of the curse.

“I’m fine,” Paris said. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere to rest.”

He let Paris help him up, and realized his legs weren’t entirely functional. As he caught his balance, he realized someone was missing. “Where’s Shoshanna?” The air smelled of her magic, but it was unpleasant, like a too-strong perfume.

“She’s…” Paris sighed. “I don’t know. I got her out when things went haywire. Alistair took her.”

His gut twisted in knots. “I hurt her. I’m so sorry. Where is she?”

“It’s not your fault,” Paris said. “We’ll check on her.”

But the guilt weighed heavily on him as they crossed the dark lawn to Building Two. The soft noise of wind in the trees reminded him of those murmuring voices, and he tried to focus on Paris, on his scent, on the feel of the other man’s solid body against his own. But the smell of his curse was powerful and nauseating, and it was enough to make him want to run away. Just as when he’d linked with Shoshanna before, he saw flickering pulses of magical energy all around him, as if he was slipping back and forth between two worlds.

They reached the infirmary, and Paris took him into the first empty room he found. He didn’t protest when Paris nudged him to sit on the edge of the bed.

Tears stung his eyes. “I’m sorry I ruined it,” Misha said. “You were supposed to be able to rest.”

Paris shook his head and clasped his cheeks. He bent and kissed his forehead gently, then each of his cheeks, and finally his lips, soft and sweet. He lingered there, as if he was reminding them both of something forgotten. When he broke away, he said, “I don’t accept your apology. You haven’t ruined anything. We’re going to get through this, but I need you to rest.”

Misha nodded, but he said, “I’m afraid I’m going to lash out again. I don’t feel stable.”

Paris nodded and said, “Would it help to have a sedative?”

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