Page 104 of The Rogue's Curse

Paris looked up at him with curiosity sparking in his eyes. “And they can’t get in or out?”

“Not easily,” Misha said. “Furthermore, it will be entwined with Shea’s blood. Anyone connected to his Covenant will be weakened inside the cage.”

“Including him?”

“Especially him,” Misha said. He tapped another drawing, which held a long ingredient list. “Using Georgina’s blood, I can create a blood-based serum that will further weaken Shea. Put it on your blade, in a needle, on bullets, whatever you think you can get into him.” He gestured to the last diagram. “This one I’ve never done, but I think it will work.”

“Looks just like a stake,” Paris said. “Going old school?”

He didn’t want to upset his mate, but Paris’s story about his curse had given him the idea. A stake infused with magic might be just the thing for a vampire tyrant. “It’ll be infused with magic designed just for him. Put it through his mark,” Misha said, patting his own Covenant mark. “If it works, it will break his Covenant entirely.”

Paris’s eyes went wide. “You’re serious.”

He nodded. “I can’t promise it’ll work, but all the components are theoretically sound. At the very least, it will strike a huge blow to his court, and it should be disruptive enough to him that he’ll be easier to kill,” Misha said.

Paris stared at him and said, “This is incredible.”

Warmth spread in his chest. “Thank you.”

“When did you do all this?”

“What did you think I’d been doing while you were off rescuing housewives and transporting prisoners?” Misha asked. “I did come here to work.”

“Who know my soulmate would be hot and smart?” he teased.

“Say it again,” Misha said.

“Soulmate? Or hot and smart?” Paris flashed that striking grin at him, an expression he wore more and more around Misha, and said, “Big brain. Big cock. All I need is—”

He leaned in, silencing the next witty retort with a gentle kiss. There was an unparalleled joy in silencing Paris. “I should get to work,” he said.

Paris’s eyebrow arched. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

“For what?”

Those graceful hands slid down his chest and to his belt. Paris sank to his knees and flashed a wicked grin up at him. “What do you think?”

21

The soft, happy glow of being with Misha faded rapidly as he stalked toward his office, and evaporated entirely when he ran squarely into Nikko. He’d managed to avoid the self-righteous and understandably angry blonde vigilante last night, when he was dealing with a half-crazed Misha, a comatose Shoshanna, and a furious Alistair.

But he could delay no longer. His orders for Nikko to stay put clearly weren’t sitting well, nor was the vampire himself sitting well. As if he’d been watching for Paris to arrive, he blocked the entrance to his office. “What are we doing about Lilah and Kieran?”

He shook his head. “You and Danielle must be studying from the same school of etiquette,” he complained. “Good evening, Nicolas. You’re looking rather handsome. Distress does wonders for your hair.”

“Enough!” Nikko snapped, following him into the office. “They are killing people and putting my name on it.”

“Which are you more concerned about?” Paris tossed back at him. Anger sparked in his chest. Why did everyone in this bloody place think that their personal problems were the center of the entire fucking universe?

Nikko caught his arm and whirled him around, eyes going furious red. “This is not a fucking game.”

“Take your hand off me, Nicolas,” he said evenly. “I am not in the mood.”

“Ah, yes, because the entire court should follow your mercurial moods, shouldn’t it? You are so consumed with Volkov that you’re ignoring what’s happening here, and—”

Red flashed in Paris’s vision, and before he could catch himself, he punched Nikko squarely in the nose. The other man reeled, then swung on him, but Paris caught his fist and squeezed enough to send a message. “Watch your mouth,” he said, barely containing his anger.

“I smell him on you,” Nikko said. Blood streamed from his nose. The man was lucky that Paris wanted to startle him and not punish him, or his handsome face would be a bloody crater. Misha’s eyes, terrible and void black, were still burned into his memory.

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