Page 134 of The Rogue's Curse

He crashed into the building across the street, managing to soften the landing and catch a ledge. Slowly, he dropped level by level and surveyed the chaos. Across the block, the Constitution building was collapsing in on itself. Massive, ropy tendrils of black and red tangled with each other, as if some eldritch creature was dragging it down into the deep. In the chaos, he saw a shimmering sphere of reddish light, and small figures within the light. He rushed toward it and found Sasha and Kristina, bruised and bloodied, but still on their feet.

Sirens wailed in the distance. “We should go,” Sasha said. “Avery already got Nikko out.”

“I want his fucking head,” Paris said. “I’m—”

The rumbling of the building turned into a deafening explosion. Plumes of flame surged from the rubble, and he saw flashes of arcane symbols in the light. Was that Misha’s handiwork, or an unlucky side effect of Shea’s witchy protection?

“I think his head is probably in a thousand tiny fragments now,” Sasha said. He glanced at his watch. “And sunrise is coming soon.”

He stared at the smoldering ruin. He wanted to take fucking Shea’s head back to his people. He wanted to throw it down in front of Misha, to make it clear that he was a man of his word, that he would protect his people from whatever came his way.

“Paris,” Kristina said quietly. “We need to go.”

Throwing back one last longing stare, he finally nodded. “Let’s go.”

28

When Misha woke, he was staring at a dingy drop ceiling with the taste of metal in his mouth. His head pounded, and he had the heavy sensation of his magic having been dampened. He sat bolt upright and looked around. He was back in his quarters at the Durendal compound.

Alone.

What the hell had happened? The last he remembered, he was igniting a spell atop the Constitution building, and then…

Where the hell was Paris?

He ran to the door. As soon as he grasped the handle, he saw a sticky note written in Paris’s neat script.

Misha,

Call me when you’re awake. I’ll be there right away.

Paris

Frowning, Misha found his phone connected to a charger on the small nightstand. It had been a full day since they’d left for the raid, and he saw a dozen missed calls from the Crown offices, including Ophelia and Orlando, as well as from Rafaela. His stomach plunged through the floor as he swiped past them all to call Paris.

“Paris?” he asked.

“I’m on my way,” Paris said.

Misha felt suddenly self-conscious about his appearance. His jaw was rough with stubble, and he seemed to be wearing the same rumpled clothes he’d left the compound in yesterday. Not exactly how he wanted to see Paris. He’d just grabbed a set of fresh clothes just as Paris knocked on the door, his warm scent preceding him.

The mere sight of the handsome Frenchman set Misha’s heart fluttering, and he threw his arms around him, holding him tight. There was a soft oof, and he realized that Paris absolutely stank of blood and smoke. Thick white bandages were wrapped around his chest, covering his skin up to his throat. His relief was short-lived when he felt the pulsing of magic, felt the bond between them like a pounding heartbeat. The world around him seemed to shimmer and split, and the chorus of dissonant voices emerged from the peaceful quiet.

Before he could speak, Paris offered him a vial. He vaguely recognized it as one of the mixtures he’d made before their raid. He downed it, holding Paris’s shoulder as the cold, heavy sensation washed over him. His vision dulled, leaching the color from the world.

There was pity in his lover’s eyes, even as he smiled. “I’m sorry,” Paris said. “Shoshanna is coming back soon, and we’re going to help you, okay? Let’s sit here and have something to eat while we wait.” He had a bag over one shoulder, and after guiding Misha to sit in bed like an invalid, Paris offered him an insulated coffee cup filled with warm blood.

“I hate being this way,” Misha admitted.

“Ruggedly handsome?”

“Helpless and weak,” he said.

Paris scoffed. “Misha, you are great many things, but helpless and weak are not on that list.” He joined Misha in bed, bringing his feet into his lap. Perhaps being helpless wasn’t all bad if it meant a beautiful Frenchman massaging his feet and calves. “You have to be drugged because your magic is so powerful. If you were weak, I’d just give you a shot of whiskey.”

He laughed. “Your efforts at comfort are appreciated,” Misha said. Then he scowled. “Speaking of drugging, did you giveDani orders to drug me?”

“I did,” Paris said.

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