Page 19 of The Rogue's Curse

There with his prize, Paris could think of only one thing he wanted to do. Well, perhaps two, but he didn’t fancy cold cobblestones on his ass, and so he sank to his knees to do the other. The first taste of Misha on his tongue, the feel of him stretching his lips wide…it was everything beautiful in the world.

You are mine, he thought again and again. He wanted to leave his mark on this beautiful creature, so he could not forget. He wanted pleasure to overwhelm Misha’s suffering, for him to understand that Paris would push back everything that could harm him. He would give pleasure and joy, and Misha would never want anyone else again.

When he finished, swallowing Misha down like sweet wine, Paris gently touched his hand, leaving a lovely red mark. Those same red lines twisted over his own hand, up his arm, and pierced his heart.

The pain was exquisite, but it soon faded to a prickling heat that made him feel alive. A soft heartbeat pulsed in his chest, startling after centuries of near-silence behind that cage of bone. Lightning arced across the sky, leaving a light that slowly faded. In one moment he was kneeling, and in the next, he lay with his head in Misha’s lap.

Misha gently stroked his hair and murmured. “You’re safe here. Rest. I’ll watch over you until you wake.”

He dared to close his eyes, and for the first time in untold years, he rested. He welcomed the sweet blackness, an enveloping unawareness and respite from all that troubled him. He was safe with Misha, who would let no harm come to him.

The ground rumbled beneath them. His eyes flew open.

Oh, shit. He was still dreaming.

Black figures, insectoid and slithering, crawled across the sky. Their bodies were void, a yawning absence where there should have been substance. He sat bolt upright and recoiled as black claws emerged from Misha’s mouth and split him open like a flimsy costume. Glowing silver-blue eyes ignited from the bloody shreds of flesh, and then he was on his back with the monster snapping its jaws at him.

“No!” he protested. He fumbled into his pocket and found the leather edges of his journal. When he yanked it out, blood dripped from his slashed face onto the pages.

This is a dream. Wake up, his own writing said.

Paris sat bolt upright with a clipped cry of pain. Blood soaked his shirt, which was ripped open in two clean slashes. Sooty black residue speckled his skin.

One hand drifted to his cheek, where he found another deep slash still trickling blood.

“Bordel de merde,” he swore, squeezing his eyes shut before lurching out of bed.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

With a growl, he bolted to the window and flung open the blackout curtains. Sunlight blinded him and poured across the room. He pressed himself into a corner and surveyed the small room.

No dissonant shrieking or shadowy abominations. Always a good sign.

He checked his watch. Eleven thirty-two in the morning. He yanked the curtains closed, then launched himself toward the door to inspect it. For the first time, he was grateful for the dingy white linoleum and stark white walls. He saw no sign of the creature’s passage here, but he had to be sure.

Bracing himself, he swiped at the wound on his chest to gather the soot-like substance, bringing it to his nose. The smell of decay and deep, dark magic buffeted him, and his stomach lurched.

Fighting back nausea, he burst into the hall and hunted for the scent. The carpeted floor was clean, with no telltale tracks. He forced himself to recall the dream; he had seen Alistair and Shoshanna, who were far across town. They were safe. He checked on Nikko and Olivia, standing at their door to listen for her heartbeat. She breathed softly, and there was no hint of the nightmare’s stench. Sasha and Kristina’s room was silent, but he caught no smell of decay nor fresh blood. Finally, he crept to Misha’s room.

That perfect smell hung in the air, even hours after the man had gone to bed. Was that what he had smelled in his dream? Trying to recall only reminded him of his curse.

He ran up and down the halls, hunting for that foul stench. Up and down, he hunted every corner of the building.

Finally, he was satisfied that the nightmare hadn’t fully materialized. He retreated to his bedroom, where he had a comfortable chair and no bed. In his defense, he hadn’t even been in the cozy chair, where he often read during the day. Instead, he’d been seated in a stiff, utilitarian chair at the desk. Blood stained the yellow legal pad where he’d been taking notes.

Christ.

He checked his phone. He’d texted Jonas Wynn at eleven twenty, and was awake and on his feet by eleven thirty-two. Three minutes remained on his current alarm, which was clearly not a foolproof strategy to keep him awake anymore. In ten minutes, he’d fallen asleep deep enough to dream up a nightmare. Not one of his worst, but it could have been a disaster if he hadn’t woken up.

Thanks to Armina Voss, Paris Rossignol had not slept a full day in over one hundred and seventy years. The fact that he hadn’t was a testament to his morality, no matter what anyone might think of him. He could not bear the risks, especially when he lived in close quarters with nearly everyone he cared for. A brief slip-up hurt only him, but if he fell into deep sleep, the dangers to those around him were unthinkable. Poor Kristina and Sasha had come face to face with one of his nightmares the day he failed to kill Shea, and they still looked at him sideways.

Alba Venegas had told him once that he was lucky to be a vampire, for more reasons than the obvious eternal good looks and super-strength. A human would die from sleep deprivation, but his body could keep up with healing whatever damage was done. “Your mental health, on the other hand…” she said, giving him a knowing look as she trailed off.

His mental health, indeed.

Before his curse, he had never truly appreciated the value of a good night’s sleep. Sure, he had crashed into bed after long nights, grateful for the blissful darkness and soft cushion against his aching body, but he couldn’t comprehend how important it was to simply escape the world for a time, to have nothingness instead of something all the bloody time. There was no silence, no blackness or void, no slipping into numbness.

There was no break, and this current fuckery with the splitting of his court had only reinforced how thoroughly exhausted he was. Emptied out, a shriveled husk of a man. Everyone was afraid and desperate these days. Even his brothers who had found their soulmates felt it, which infuriated him. They should have been enjoying their long-denied peace, but Carrigan Shea was sticking his dick in the hornet’s nest at every chance he got.

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