Page 150 of The Rogue's Curse

“How dare you?” Ophelia seethed.

“Silence. When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it,” Lady Demirci snapped. Ophelia’s face went ashen. Her dark ruby eyes scraped over Misha slowly, and then she looked to Rafaela. “Tell me about his magic.”

Rafaela withdrew her blade, and Paris groaned, gingerly touching his neck. As they had done hundreds of times, Misha knelt, offering a hand to Rafi. She lightly sliced into his thumb, then did the same, connecting them. The force of her power bowled him over, and it felt as if he was grasped in a massive fist that squeezed the life out of him.

Her raw strength was relentless, pushing at him, prying apart whatever barriers he had. Flashes of old memories flickered through him; the sheer horror of what he had done under Frasier’s thrall, the despair when he simply couldn’t die, the wildness of his power that made him see red.

But there was something new—something different. He found it simple to keep himself calm as she pried and poked. Pleasant warmth washed over him, and his whole body seemed suffused with that perfect scent of Paris.

A surge of lightning prickled through his nervous system, and he recognized Rafi’s attempt to throw him off balance, to make him lose control. In years past, he had to struggle to maintain control, but now, her efforts felt no more impactful than a light breeze.

“That’s quite interesting,” Rafaela said, releasing her hold on him. Her eyes cut to Paris. “You’re connected.”

“That’s right,” Paris said tentatively.

Her brow furrowed. “That connection is tempering his magic. It’s weaker than I remember, but far more stable,” she said. “If I can speak freely, Lady Demirci…”

“Go ahead,” the Elder said flatly.

“Unless you simply wish to make an example of him, there is no reason to bring Misha back home. While I would certainly enjoy conducting further research with one of my promising students, there is no training necessary. Magically, he’s not an imminent threat,” Rafaela said.

Lady Demirci glanced at Paris. “Do you have ulterior motives for Mr. Volkov?”

Paris shook his head. “No, ma’am. I love him,” he said. Her eyes narrowed. “The only motive I have is to make him happy and keep him safe.”

“Ma’am, if I could make a suggestion,” Misha said. Her eyes cut to him. “I’ve lived in London for years, and much of my work is independent. Would you allow me to work for the Crown and live in Atlanta instead? There’s a rather busy airport there, too, and—”

“I’m aware of the airport situation,” she said irritably.Her eyes lifted to Rafaela, who drove the thin knife into Paris’s neck again. He let out a clipped groan as Lady Demirci leaned forward. “Do you intend to manipulate Mr. Volkov into acting against the Crown?”

“No,” he bit out.

“What are your intentions for your new court?”

“To mind our own fucking business,” Paris said. He let out a growl, and reached behind him to squeeze Rafaela’s wrist. Slowly and deliberately, he pulled out her knife and twisted her wrist, forcing her to drop the blade. In the blink of an eye, three guns were trained on him. He put his hands on his legs and said, “I’m not here to cause any trouble. But I’ve done nothing wrong, and I will not be treated like a war criminal by a power-hungry witch and a secretary with delusions of grandeur. I have done more to uphold the laws of the Sanguine Crown in two months than most vampires do their entire lives.”

The faintest smile curved Zehra’s lips, and Misha prayed that she wasn’t about to go for Paris’s head.

“Lady Demirci, may I speak freely without six inches of metal in my spine?” Paris asked.

One of her dark brows arched. “You’ve all been speaking your minds this whole time, haven’t you? We’re here to talk, so spit it out.”

“You know of the Auberon, and you know that we have always been scrupulous and disciplined,” Paris said calmly. “Our war with the Shieldsmen in the nineteenth century was a last resort, and even then, we fought to keep it quiet even at our own risk.”

“I did not ask for a history lesson,” she said.

Despite Lady Demirci’s sharp words, Misha saw only the tiniest flinch on his lover’s face. He was impressed that Paris was so calm and tactful, keeping his fear and anger on a tight leash. “I suggested that our court split from the Auberon and remain in Atlanta because we faced another threat we could no longer ignore. Carrigan Shea was a menace to humanity, and I care about human lives, even if they are not sacred to vampire law. But your priority is the law, which he disregarded with impressive thoroughness. His behavior jeopardized our secrecy, and thus the safety of all vampires. With him eliminated, our court will return to our previous way of life. We intend to live quietly, drinking and gossiping to our hearts’ content, and perhaps making Atlanta a safer city through our presence. Neither I nor Julian Alcott have any desire for power beyond our court, and we have no intention of asking Misha for anything he is not permitted to do. If I may be honest, I spent much of the last two hundred years suffering the fallout from our last war. All I want to do now is to be a decent man and live in peace,” Paris said.

Lady Demirci leaned back, then glanced at Ophelia. “Get us a drink,” she said. “The rest of you, get out.”

The silence hung thick in the air as the rest of the Elder’s entourage left the room. “You are a bold man, Mr. Rossignol,” Lady Demirci finally said.

“I am,” he said.

She stared at him in silence for what felt like years. Paris was calm, though Misha could smell the fear boiling in his blood. Finally, Lady Demirci nodded slightly and said, “I do not appreciate that you ignored direct orders, Mikhail.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“I don’t think you are,” she said mildly. “I think you’re sorry that you got into trouble. Be honest.”

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