Page 113 of The Rogue's Curse

“So we’re clear?” she said.

“We’re clear. Thank you for the reminder of where the Crown stands.”

“Good,” she said, apparently satisfied. “I’ll make travel arrangements for you to come home.”

“Okay,” he said mildly. “I’ll look for them. Thank you.”

When he hung up, he stared at the blank screen on his phone for a long, stomach-churning stretch. He had never balked at an order from the Crown, had always been a good, loyal soldier. He wanted to give them nothing to hold against him, no reason to think that he was just like his Maker.

It had occurred to him while dealing with the Berlin vampires that biding his time for a clean strike might mean more victims. Then, he had been satisfied with that balance, knowing he was ultimately saving lives. In the much bigger picture, one far more visible to an immortal vampire than a short-lived human,he would serve a far greater good by ensuring that old Valther and Marguerite were dead and gone, even if a few more lives were lost in the process.

But Paris had changed him. Paris had made similar decisions, but he practically sweated blood over it. These were not cold, calculated decisions for him; they created agonizing tension. And Misha respected him for it; a man who could care like that for a faceless soul could love without limit.

Still staring at his phone, he quietly said, “No. I’m not going home.”

What was home anymore? The thought of returning to his flat, waiting for another mission…it seemed hollow and empty now.How could he possibly go home and walk the streets of London alone, knowing that Paris was here? What would be the point?

He was still lost in thought when another stinging pang swept over him, that fiery pulse of magic returning. He growled, squeezing the edge of the lab counter so hard his knuckles cracked. His sight blurred, and his vision was overtaken by garish colors once again, magic shining bright all around him. Adrenaline shot through his veins when he glimpsed a coalescence of shadow, barely more than a shimmer.

Was that a creature, ready to attack?

Now curious, he stoked the fire of his magic, like blowing onto an ember. The shimmering entity darkened, as if it was sucking the light from the room. It moved toward him, and he heard a growing murmur of voices. Still stoking that spark, he darted into the other room.

As he crossed the threshold, a dissonant scream ripped through the air, and he ducked as a harpy-like beast snapped a jagged beak at him. Gritting his teeth, Misha dove into the beam of sunlight. The creature followed blindly, then burst into ash as it met the cruel light of day.

He let out a cry of triumph, then rolled awkwardly across the floor to get away from the burning sun. As he crept out of the light, sidling along the wall, he leaned his head back and waited for the magic to calm. Something tugged at his chest, and as his arcane sight faded, he saw that broad red thread from his left hand once more. It was made of a hundred silken strands of crimson, and unlike the uneasy sensation of his own magic, it felt warm and secure, like lying on sun-warmed sand. When he reached out to it with his mind, he smelled Paris, strong and clean and perfect.

Before he realized what he was doing, he followed the thread, his heart soaring at the thought of seeing Paris. He was going to tell him what was happening. If he wanted Paris to acknowledge his own weakness, then he would do the same. And they would fight together, just as fate clearly wanted them to.

The sun was going down, though enough light lingered to sear his skin as he darted across the lawn and into Building Two. The scent of Paris—of his soulmate, if he could believe it—permeated the air, mixed with another scent so achingly similar it startled him.

Before he reached the door, he heard a sharp female cry, and then a soft shh, and the familiar, warm tones of Paris’s voice. He crept closer, peeking through the glass inset window. Inside, Paris cradled Danielle to his chest, stroking her hair gently.

“It’s all right, mon chou,” he said gently. “Think how exciting it will be when you can finally beat me in a fight.”

She laughed softly, then bit back another yelp as he eased her back into bed and pulled a blanket up to her chest.

A pang of jealousy struck him. Even though Paris held her the way a doting mother held a sick child through a fever, he couldn’t help the irrational, possessive anger that flared up. Mine, he thought.

Suddenly, Paris rose and sauntered toward the door. Misha sprang back, realizing it was too late to run.

The door swung open, and Paris regarded him, blue eyes searching. His head cocked. “You look as if you’ve had a rough time,” he said. “Are you all right?”

He held his mate’s gaze. “Is she okay?”

“She’ll be okay. I’m going to get her a painkiller,” he said. “No sense in suffering for its own sake. Answer me. What’s going on?” Paris took his hand, lightly tracing his fingers. The mere brush of skin on skin was enough to startle Misha, to overwhelm his senses.

Inside the small room, Danielle curled into a ball, arms wrapped around her belly. She was lucky to have Paris as her Maker, someone who would care for her and treat her with the utmost care.And right now, she needed Paris more than he did.

“I’m all right,” Misha lied. “I’m nearly done with the anchors.”

Paris nodded. “And your…your health? For lack of a better word? Are you feeling okay?”

“I’ve felt better, but I’ll be fine,” Misha said.

Paris pointed across the hall. “Rhys went ahead and turned Avery. He’s having his big nap now,” he said. With a wry smile, he added, “Lucky little prick.” He gestured with his head, urging Misha to follow him down to a small storage room, where he opened the refrigerator to find a pre-loaded syringe. “Rhys plans ahead, which is one of the many reasons we adore him. I suppose he didn’t trust me with sharp objects or hard drugs.”

Misha laughed, then shivered in anticipation as Paris reached past him to shut the door. “Careful closing us in,” he said.

---