Page 15 of The Rogue's Curse

“Thank you very much,” he said.

She nodded. “You can text me if you need anything. I’ll take care of a car rental for you and try to have it here by the time you wake up. Any preferences?”

“Tinted windows and nothing flashy,” he said.

“You got it,” she said eagerly.

He smiled, bade her good night, and quickly retrieved his bag from the borrowed room. As he was digging out a set of fresh underwear and his toiletries, his phone buzzed to remind him that sunrise was in half an hour. He’d been awake for nearly two days, with much of that crammed on a plane without eating. As much as he wanted to get to work, he had to rest. Too long without sleep made his magic unstable and his mood even worse.

After taking off his watch, he hurried to the large bathroom to take a shower. He hadn’t been kidding when he told the gathered court that he had stayed in far worse accommodations. This was a far cry from his lovely, clean flat at home, but it was better than nothing. At least there were private shower stalls, and he wouldn’t have to bare his literal ass to a court full of strangers.

Beneath a weak spray, he scrubbed himself clean and checked the wound on his ribs. It had closed entirely, just leaving a halo of watercolor bruising in its wake. After a good meal and a nice long sleep, he’d be good as new again.

Misha wrapped himself in a towel and emerged from the shower to finish cleaning up. He brushed his teeth, then rubbed a cool cream into his skin to soothe the burning sting of brief sun exposure at the airport.

A blur moved in the mirror’s reflection and disappeared at the edge of his peripheral vision. Adrenaline burst through him, tinting his vision red. Clenching his fist, he gathered a burst of power that sizzled in his veins.

He froze, glancing up in the mirror to see Paris in the doorway of the large, communal bathroom. “Sorry,” the other man blurted. “I’ll go.”

Misha shook his head and let the magic dissipate. “Please don’t disrupt your routines because I’m here.” He stole a glance at the other man, who had shed the snug sweater for a dark gray t-shirt that clung to his lean, sculpted frame. On each of his wiry forearms was a stylized tattoo of a sword, each with tiny script he couldn’t read at a distance.

When Paris reached the sink, mere feet away, Misha regretted telling him to stay. It was one thing to see him at a distance, and quite another to smell him. He wore a subtle cologne, and the scent of clean laundry clung to him. Beneath that played something richer; he was much older than Misha. That vampire scent had become more fragrant with age, like a good bourbon. It reminded him of rich leather and sawdust, a masculine scent full of strength. Taking in that scent warmed Misha’s bones, settling in his belly and awakening a heat in his blood.

Clearly unaware of the effect he was having, Paris bent at the sink and splashed water on his face, rubbing his temples slowly. While he washed his face, Misha stole a closer look, allowing his magical training to take over. The sharp details and vivid colors of his vampire vision faded into a strange, duller vision. Motes of magic drifted through the air, and he could sense thrumming golden threads of power woven through and around the building. It was a pleasant energy, though not safe or gentle; it reminded him of live wires, ready to spark at a careless touch.

But Paris was something entirely different. Like most vampires, his aura was woven through with dark reddish threads, a shade that made him think of dark wine poured in twilight. But within that healthy weave lay a terrible tangle of bruise-purple and black threads, appearing almost barbed and thorny to Misha’s vision. Though the smell was entirely imagined, a way for his body to make sense of magic, the other man reeked of death and decay. That was dark, powerful magic, the sort that Misha’s mentors forbade.

Paris was cursed.

Suddenly, icy blue eyes snapped to his, and Misha nearly stumbled back in surprise. Dizziness swept over him as he tried to refocus his eyes. “Did I miss a spot?” Paris asked, stroking his jaw as he stared quizzically at Misha.

“I apologize,” Misha said. “I sensed magic, and I was curious.”

The other man’s expression faltered. When his smile returned, it was guarded and forced. “What can I say? I’ve gotten around in my many years,” Paris said. “You pick things up.”

“It’s just… You know that you’re cursed, don’t you? Was this recent?” Misha asked. Even after closing off his arcane sight, he still smelled that dark, dangerous odor.

The smile evaporated entirely. “You’re not here to break a curse, are you? You’re here to kill Carrigan Shea, or so you told us.”

“You might be more effective if you didn’t have such powerful magic clinging to you,” Misha said. “I could—”

“Mr. Volkov, I’m more than aware of the magic clinging to me. I’ll get by. You focus on what you’re here to do,” Paris said.

“But if—”

“It’s none of your business,” Paris said sharply. His eyes closed as he raked his hair back, and Misha couldn’t help noticing the dark circles around his pretty eyes. He was a beautiful man, but he looked like he hadn’t slept in years. When he opened his eyes again, the deep irritation evaporated and left only a bland smile behind. Folding his arms over his chest, Paris said,“The Crown is surely used to much better accommodations than a shared bathroom that was built in the sixties.”

He let out a nervous laugh. The abrupt subject change—and the realization that this man could put up a mask so quickly—left him off-kilter. “It’s certainly different.”

“You don’t have to be polite. If you’d rather stay somewhere nice, we’ll take care of it. We may be in hard times, but we’re not so poor that we can’t put you up in a good hotel,” Paris said. “It’s embarrassing to have you see us in such shitty conditions.”

“I don’t engage in white lies to comfort people, particularly in business matters,” Misha said evenly. “It makes sense for me to be close by so I can get to work and be on site with you and your people. I’ll let you know if my needs aren’t being met.”

At that, Paris’s eyebrow arched. “Fair enough.”

As Misha raked a comb through his hair, he couldn’t help noticing the way Paris’s eyes followed his movements, the faintest flare of his nostrils. Warmth spread in his chest.

Focus, Volkov.

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