Page 34 of The Rogue's Curse

“What do you need? I’ve got work to do,” Paris said.

“Work I was sent to assist with,” Misha said, rising to close the door behind Paris as if he’d been properly invited in. After Paris slumped into his chair, Misha sat in the other chair and took two glasses from the paper bag. He filled each glass with a generous pourof the expensive whiskey. He sniffed at one, then pushed the other to Paris. “You said you’d drink it with me.”

“Don’t you have work to do?”

Misha’s neutral expression slipped for a quick moment, betraying an angry undercurrent before he regained that bland smile. “Paris, can I be direct with you?”

“Please do.”

“You need to pull your head out of your ass before you get yourself killed. It seems to me that deep down you have the ability to lead wisely, but you are not using it,” Misha said calmly, punctuating his words with a sip of whiskey. As if he hadn’t just insulted Paris down to the core, he nodded appreciatively and said, “This is quite good.”

“I didn’t ask to lead,” Paris said. “I—”

Misha’s smile evaporated as he leaned forward. “I know you’re injured, presumably from your previous encounter with Shea.”

“And I can still handle myself,” Paris said. “I didn’t get to this position because I back down from a fight.”

One dark eyebrow arched. “That isn’t always a virtue. Furthermore, it’s not just about you. You endangered me by not being honest about your condition. You left me vulnerable.”

“You were fine,” Paris said. “Are we done here?”

Misha let out an irritated sigh. “Do you measure your integrity in how much suffering you endure? I think you want a fight because if you spill enough of your own blood, you can convince yourself you’re putting up a good fight against an enemy that terrifies you. That pride will get you killed.”

Paris set the glass down with barely contained anger. Whiskey sloshed over his hand, and he flung it off irritably. “I am sick to fucking death of people telling me who I am and what my behavior means. And you, of all people, don’t know the first thing about me.”

“I would like to,” Misha said quietly. He was sincere in a way that Paris envied, not an ounce of pretense. And just like that, Paris’s anger evaporated and left only a residue of sheer stupidity clinging to his brain. There was no further lecture, no more scolding.Misha simply stared at Paris for a few seconds, then took another sip of his drink. “Try it. It’s good.”

With a sigh, Paris took a drink. “I have good taste,” he said weakly.

They drank in silence for several minutes, tension filling the room like smoke. After finishing off half his glass, Misha dug in the paper bag and took out a dark glass bottle and two dark washcloths.

“How many potions and salves do you carry?” Paris remarked, watching Misha’s graceful hands unscrew the cap.

“I’m a proper witch, so the answer is as many as I need,” he said with a faint smile. The other man’s eyes narrowed, and he brushed at his own cheek. “Would you let me tend to your face?”

A tingle ran down Paris’s spine. He was perfectly capable of putting an ointment on his own cheek. He’d managed to keep himself alive this long, and he didn’t need Misha’s help.

And still, he nodded, because the mere thought of Misha touching him was enough to make him forget all his worries.

Misha rose and leaned over Paris. With a gentle touch, Misha tilted his chin to the side and dabbed a cold ointment onto his cheek. The smell of it was pleasant, like crushed herbs and strong tea.It stung, but he was so focused on the feeling of Misha’s hand cupping his chin, he couldn’t think of anything else. His clean, masculine scent enveloped Paris, reminding him of that delightful dream.

“I am here on behalf of the Crown,” Misha said quietly as he gently treated the long, deep cut inflicted by his living nightmare, “so that you don’t have to do all of this by yourself. I don’t think you’re a fool, but you would be foolish to keep trying to handle this alone.”

His throat tightened. “I’m used to protecting my family. Not the other way around.”

Misha turned his chin up, and instead of pulling away, Paris looked up to meet his amber gaze. For the thousandth time, he was struck with the memory of that dream and how everything had felt so right.

I found you.

“Is that because no one has ever tried to protect you, or because you won’t let them?”

At that, Paris chuckled and pulled out of his grasp. He could not have felt more naked if Misha had torn his clothes off and shone a spotlight on him. “You tell me,” Paris said.

“I know the answer,” Misha said. “I’m curious if you do.”

“I thought you were here to take off Carrigan Shea’s head, not to get inside mine,” Paris said.

“I can multitask,” Misha replied. He started to gather the bag, but Paris lunged to grab his wrist. A shock ran down his spine at the feeling of Misha’s skin, but instead of warmth in his eyes, Misha looked terrified and yanked his hand away.

---