Page 114 of The Rogue's Curse

Paris grinned. “Just one,” he said, gently tilting Misha’s chin up. After brushing the briefest kiss on his lips, Paris kissed his cheek, tracing his cheekbone until he reached Misha’s ear. His lips grazed his earlobe, tongue flicking lightly across his skin before he whispered, “When she goes to sleep, I’m going to come find you.”

“And what will you do?”

“I’m going to get on my knees and suck your soul out,” Paris said. “Because you deserve it.”

Misha chuckled, shifting as his pants grew uncomfortably tight. “That’s quite a promise.”

Being the cruel tease he was, Paris kissed his neck, then pulled away. Tension tugged at Misha.

Tell him. Tell him what’s happening.

“Paris,” he blurted.Even if Paris couldn’t be there, simply letting him know would mean Misha wasn’t alone.

The Frenchman paused and turned back. “Yes?”

His resolve crumbled. All he could think of was stacking one more weight onto those shoulders that already bore so much. “Be careful. Wouldn’t want you falling asleep,” he said.

Paris chuckled and held up a small white earbud. “I’ve got an alarm. But I’m sure you’ll hear the screams if it fails.”

Dread clung to him as he returned to his workshop. The smell of magic, mixed with that foul stench of the curse, hovered heavy and thick in the air. It felt stifling and isolating, with no trace of Paris and his reassuring scent. He stared at the last two anchor stones waiting to be carved, knowing it would reignite the turmoil in his magic once again.

He had sketched the designs onto the stones while his power was dampened, and now it was time to do the difficult part. Fear twisted in his belly.

There was a part of him that clung to self-preservation. That wise, cool voice said that it was foolish to burn himself out, to risk losing everything to give the Durendal court just one more advantage over Carrigan Shea. Ultimately, he served the Crown, and the Crown served vampires, not humanity. It had never been expected of him to die for the cause.

He had never balked, because his morality had long aligned with the Crown. But now…following their orders was not the right thing, not the moral thing that would differentiate him from his Maker. Carrigan Shea was the same type of man as Frasier, power hungry and vicious, and to stand aside was even worse.

At least when Misha was under Frasier’s thrall, he’d tried to fight back. He’d never stood a chance of stopping his Maker, but he’d still tried. Was it not far more evil to stand aside and let Shea keep killing when he had the power, had the steel spine to do something?

Which kind of man did he want to be?

It should have been an easy choice, but it was far from it. His hand was frozen in mid-air, inches above the stone as he debated carving the next rune.

Would Paris be able to love him if he backed away and protected himself? And would Misha be able to look himself in the eye ever again if he let more people die to Shea and his court?

He set his jaw and got to work. Ninety minutes later, he had fought off another shrieking shadow and finished the last of the anchors. The center stone would be the final touch, one that would take his blood to ignite and empower the others.

He checked his phone, hoping to find an update from Paris. And much to his pleasure, there was a message. He opened it to see a picture of the man smiling, with Danielle’s head in his lap, mouth wide open as she slept.

Paris

She’s having a hard time. Might be stuck here until day light. Save me a kiss?

He grinned at the phone and composed a reply.

As many as you want.

Two official emails had arrived while he worked. Ophelia had already booked him a flight home, set to leave in two days. In addition to his flight confirmation, her follow-up message reiterated Rafi’s orders: no more magic, drink the potion, and stand down. They would assess the situation and send another team to help the Durendal.

His happiness at Paris’s flirtation evaporated rapidly. He ignored the message, though it lingered with him as he tackled the last of his tasks. Even with a flight days away, every stroke of the pen and careful measurement felt like an act of defiance.

Shortly before sunrise, he finished engraving Paris’s blade. The final step was to imbue it with Paris’s blood. He spent the last few minutes before bed polishing it to a mirror shine, admiring the neat strokes of the runes. There was something uniquely satisfying about imagining this weapon in his lover’s hand, knowing he was more powerful because of Misha’s intent.

He just hoped they both lived long enough to see him victorious with it.

23

Standing on dry grass beneath the silver moonlight, Paris Rossignol laughed like he hadn’t laughed in ages. Fresh off the big sleep, a newly vampiric Danielle Pierce was testing her new strength by leaping from tree to tree. Her howling laughter rang out in the night, punctuated by comical oof sounds when she hit the branches. Olivia stood with him, watching with a strange expression on her face.

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