Page 16 of The Rogue's Curse

“Why are so many of you staying here together? Is this an Auberon tradition?” Misha asked as he gently blotted his face dry.

Paris chuckled, though anger flickered briefly in his expression. “One might accuse several of us of dangerous levels of codependency, but no… Well, actually…” His brow furrowed in a comical expression. “I guess that’s not wrong, either. Under Eduardo’s reign, we had an apartment building that was built specifically for vampires, sunproof and so very convenient. And then bloody Carrigan Shea burned it to the ground.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Misha said.That must have been the one in the news story Ophelia sent him.

The other man shrugged, but his casual gesture didn’t wipe away the bitterness in his voice. “Olivia tells me that material things can be replaced, but people can’t. But I…” He shook his head. “You have better things to do than to hear my sob story. It’s easier to protect each other when we’re together, and this place is what we could find on short notice. Let it suffice to say, I look forward to a time when we can all have our own homes again and I do not have to hear or smell everyone’s business. Some rooms are not as soundproof as their occupants wish they were.”

He quickly brushed his teeth, not looking at Misha until he was done. “I’ll leave you alone. Good evening, Misha,” he said, padding toward the door. He paused and looked back. “What’s your drink of choice? Or are you strictly business?”

A pleasant warmth fluttered in his chest. “I appreciate a good whiskey. I’m not picky.”

Paris nodded. “Good night.”

Butterflies danced in his belly as he watched Paris go. He was gorgeous, with a wry wit that Misha enjoyed. And he felt a deep sorrow for the man’s loss, for their entire court. Blessed with long lives, most vampires moved like glaciers rather than humanity’s quick-flowing rivers. Once they were established and comfortable, they felt no need to move, no need to make big changes. Paris and his vampire family had likely been in their old homes for decades, entirely comfortable in their lives.

Even worse, this abrupt change had been a violent storm that left shattered ruins in its wake. He hoped that he could help them rebuild, or at the very least, eliminate one of their problems to lighten the load.

Upon returning to his room, he quickly drained the bag of blood, then flopped into bed. Usually, he went to sleep with the problems of the workday still dancing through his head, but not today. Instead, a handsome Frenchman paraded through his mind, eyes twinkling with mischief.

This was not good. He had been single for a few years, and he did not need the distraction.

Then again, when in Paris…

He groaned. Go to sleep.

* * *

The nightmare began as it often did. Horrible, gnawing hunger. Bloodied ropes dried and crusted over with a thousand layers of his blood bit into his wrists. Wood splinters bit into his skin with their cruel teeth, poisoning him while sunlight beat across his back like a whip.

No, he protested weakly, tugging at his bound wrists.

The world was dark and noisy, with soft moans and whimpers of pain forming a dreadful chorus. The stink of sweat and blood pervaded the air. Despair hung heavy around him, like thick smoke.

Not again.

Frasier didn’t even open the cages anymore. Gravity did his dirty work for him as he jabbed his filthy, rusted needles into Misha’s chest and sides, letting his blood pour down into two dirty flasks.

Perhaps he had never been freed. Perhaps all his life was a dream.

How long could a vampire survive being drained of blood? Each miserable day was a revised answer to that question, as he hadn’t died yet.

The needles withdrew, but he felt no relief, just a sickening wash of nausea as his body struggled to adjust to the lack of blood. Everything hurt, and his only hope was to fall unconscious again, to sink into that deep sleep that would swallow up weeks and months at a time.

“Oi,” a strange voice barked. The sharp voice pierced the haze.

Misha managed to lift his head, and instead of Beckett Frasier’s cruel grin, he saw sheer terror through the bars of the cage. Hands pressed against both sides of Frasier’s face, then twisted his head around with a chorus of snapping bone. His captor crumpled to the ground, revealing a beautiful, bronze-haired man with a wry grin.

“I found you,” he said proudly, pale blue eyes shifting to brilliant red. The stink of the prison faded, filling instead with a rich, woody scent spiced with something exquisite—pure comfort and satisfaction.

“I know you,” Misha replied, his voice rough and cracking. “Paris?”

“I found you,” Paris said again. Though he carried neither keys nor weapons, Paris simply reached for the heavy metal door of the cage and pulled it open. With a gentle touch, he grasped Misha’s hands, and the bloodied ropes disintegrated. His legs gave out, and he grabbed the other man for balance.

The pain of his wounds evaporated as Paris gently touched his cheek. “I’ve been looking for you for an eternity,” he said. “I’m sorry it took me so long to find you.”

“It’s all right,” Misha said. “I was—”

Warm lips sealed to his, and the world fell away. He wanted to protest that he was in no condition to be kissed—good God, the smell of him—but there was no speaking with Paris holding him, kissing him, teasing his tongue in a way that spoke of such sin and sweetness. With no words, he said, Everything will be fine. Always.

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