Page 23 of The Rogue's Curse

The other man’s nostrils flared. “It’s magic-related. I can smell it.”

Ignoring the comment, Paris said, “Olivia spoke to the administrators at the Mausoleum. They’re expecting visitors the night after next. Is that enough time for you to prepare?”

Misha nodded. “Plenty. I’d like someone from your court to travel with me.”

“I’ll go,” Paris said.

The other man’s brows arched, but he nodded. “That will be fine.”

“We just picked up movement on the security system at our former headquarters,” Paris said. “I’m going out to investigate. Care to join?”

Misha glanced at his computer and nodded. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and save ourselves a trip to New York. Give me an hour to eat and arm up.”

6

The gleaming high-rises of downtown Atlanta blurred past the windows, granting a welcome distraction from Paris and his full lips. It was impossible to forget the sight of him licking those lips clean and flashing that devilish smile up at him. That fever dream felt more real than the last year of Misha’s life, and that was going to be a serious problem if he didn’t wrangle himself into control. This was business, and there was far too much at stake to let his cock take over tactical planning.

Perhaps he should have taken up Olivia Pierce on her offer of a hotel room, where he could relieve the growing ache in his groin without worrying that every vampire in the building was going to smell his lust and know exactly what—and who—he was thinking of.

Paris exited the busy interstate, then immediately jolted to a stop as a car zipped across the intersection in front of them. “Welcome to Atlanta,” Paris said, craning his neck before hitting the gas to lurch into traffic. “Even the humans with their terribly breakable bodies drive as if they have a death wish.” They drove for several more blocks; then he wheeled into a parking garage and parked on the roof.

When they emerged from the car, Paris opened the trunk, then unlocked a flat plastic case to reveal an impressive collection of guns and knives. He stripped off his jacket to reveal a holster. After tucking a handgun under his left arm, he sheathed a knife under his right. It did not help Misha’s efforts to remain focused when he noticed the way the Frenchman’s light sweater strained across his back. There was a utilitarian elegance to his muscular build; he was tall and slim, but with the sharp definition of muscle that came from years of training.

“Any preferences?” Paris asked. “I assume you couldn’t bring much on the plane.”

“I’m not too picky,” Misha said, inspecting the weapons to keep from staring at the other man’s chiseled shoulders. Except for his enchanted blades, he had never been particular about firearms. With reasonable skill, a good marksman could use any weapon. After perusing Paris’s small collection, he picked up a handgun. Paris gave him a clip filled with polished, dark wooden bullets engraved with familiar runes. They’d come from the Crown’s armory, where he’d spent many hours practicing his magic in his early years. After loading the gun, Misha thumbed on the safety and holstered it under his arm.

Paris handed him two blue plastic syringes. “We have a connection to the Shieldsmen, which comes with certain dubious benefits. This is their poison blend, and it’s nasty. Be careful.”

He eyed the device, finding a small button on one end. “Push and stab?”

“With those observational skills, it’s no wonderthat they pay you the big bucks,” Paris said wryly. He put on a jacket to cover his weapons and nodded to Misha. “Ready?”

“Almost,” Misha said. He opened his own bag and took out a zippered pouch. The other man’s eyes followed his hands as he withdrew two glass vials filled with dark, viscous fluid. He handed one to Paris, who eyed it warily. “It’s distilled human blood infused with an antitoxin.”

Paris thumbed off the cap and sniffed at it, then wrinkled his nose. “And it protects against…”

“Wood, primarily,” he said, gulping down his own. The grassy taste was familiar, his own blend that he’d developed ten years earlier. “If you get hit with that poison or wooden bullets, it won’t incapacitate you. You’ll have a queasy stomach at worst.”

Paris’s eyes widened, and he drank it down eagerly, though he winced at the taste. He carefully handed back the vial. Misha took a second vial from the bag, this one with a dropper. Carefully, he placed a drop of thick greenish liquid on his tongue and swallowed.

The other man’s eyes narrowed. “What now?”

“Open,” he said. There was the tiniest flicker of amusement on Paris’s face as he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, and God, all Misha could think of was that vivid dream that was so real he could practically feel hands on his thighs, digging into that muscle like he was trying to hold Misha still. Clenching his jaw tight, he let a single drop fall onto Paris’s tongue and tried desperately not to think about what devilish magic that tongue could do.

“When does the trip start?” Paris said mildly.

Misha chuckled and said, “Within ten minutes, we’ll smell human. Shea’s people might alert to strange vampires, but there are more than four hundred thousand humans in this city.”

For the first time, Paris looked impressed. After putting away his magic supplies, Misha checked his athame, a magic-infused knife, then slid it into the leather sheath under his jacket. Armed and ready, they headed for the stairwell and down to the street.

After several days of travel and sleeping in less-than-ideal quarters, it was delightful to be outside in the cool night air. The mundane smells of exhaust and cooking food grounded him, although he was soon entranced by Paris’s scent. For a moment, they were simply two men enjoying a leisurely stroll beneath a blanket of stars. He often enjoyed late-night walks in London, savoring the lovely chaos of nightlife and neon lights. On those solitary nights, he walked alone, hands empty and heart aching.

But this…

I found you.

And God, what a revelation to be found.

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