Page 36 of The Rogue's Curse

“Paris—”

“Good night, Misha,” Paris said firmly. His eyes lifted over Misha’s shoulder to the door.

Dread boiled in his belly as he rose, slowly gathering the bottle of whiskey and his healing ointment. His cheeks heated with shame as he left the other man’s office, though he kept his head high. There was a soft shuffle of feet, then the quiet thump of the door closing behind him.

Dammit, Volkov, he thought. He returned to his office and stared blankly at his computer for several minutes, unable to bring himself to check his email or open a file to continue his strategizing. All he could think of was Paris’s face and the way the pleasant, happy expression had melted away, drained like wine from a glass.

He shoved his chair back, grabbed his tablet, and stormed out of his borrowed office. Instead of walking past Paris’s office, he took the long way around and headed outside into the cool of night. With every step, his irritation grew.

He was right, dammit. The other man was so stubborn that he was going to storm into a battle he couldn’t handle and get himself killed. And where would his court be then? Why couldn’t Paris just accept the help?

And why did Misha care, anyway? It didn’t matter if some vampire—some golden-hearted, gorgeous, stubborn ass of a vampire—in America liked him. It didn’t matter because he was going to handle this job, deal with Carrigan Shea, and finally go back home to London after months away. Back to his familiar, empty flat that smelled lovely and clean and rang with silence. Back to his flat that bore not one single touch of another living soul, let alone someone who cared for him.Back to meandering midnight walks that went nowhere and always led back to that same void.

God, it was pathetic, but strolling through Midtown Atlanta with Paris had been the closest to a date he’d had in nearly ten years. His job was his life, and it was both inefficient and unsafe for someone else to be a part of that. Henry was proof of that.

But wasn’t it nice to dream?

Before he realized what he was doing, Misha walked back to the infirmary to find Rhys. He found the man sitting in a cozy little room that looked suspiciously like the small bedroom that Misha slept in. File cabinets and boxes of supplies were stacked against the wall where a bed would have been in another room. Beneath the scents of disinfectant and soap, he could smell both Paris’s blood and the curse that clung to him.

“Mr. Volkov,” Rhys said, glancing up from a laptop.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Yes, but if it’s important, I can pause,” Rhys said. “No one’s going to die if I get back to this in ten minutes. I just try to write everything up before sunrise so it doesn’t pile up.”

Misha nodded to him, feeling uneasy. “I wanted to check on the young man we brought in.”

“You still can’t talk to him,” Rhys said. “St. Anthony’s hasn’t run the bloodwork yet.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” Misha said.

Rhys pushed back from his desk and stared up at Misha. Despite being smaller than him and seated, Rhys had a strangely large presence that put Misha on edge. He’d been warm and gentle with Avery, and even jovial with Paris, but his tone was cool and businesslike now. The other man didn’t like him, and he wasn’t sure why.

“St. Anthony’s is a private hospital in town. Eduardo Alazan is a partial owner, and they have vampire staff who can handle bite victims. They’ll also do medical testing that we can’t do,” he said. “Shea and his people have been keeping them busy with mutilated humans.”

“I see,” Misha said politely. “That must be a useful resource.”

Rhys nodded, apparently unmoved by his weak attempt at diplomacy. “Is there anything else?”

Misha glanced back at the door, then stepped inside. “I want to ask you about Mr. Rossignol. He’s rather stubborn about letting on that he’s hurt. I’m not asking you to undermine his authority. I’m a blood witch, and I can probably help if I know what’s going on.”

At the words blood witch, Rhys sat up in his seat, eyes twinkling with curiosity. “I’ve heard rumors,” he said. “Our friend Shoshanna can brew a respectable nouvelle vie, but if you could do better…”

“Better? With a day’s work, I can brew something that makes a nouvelle vie look like watered-down cough syrup,” Misha said.

At that, Rhys’s brow furrowed. “She’s very talented.”

“I didn’t mean…” Ah. His cheeks heated as he realized how arrogant he’d sounded. “I only mean to say that I have extensive training in this area. I’ve sensed Shoshanna’s protections, and I can already tell she’s capable of magic I can’t possibly grasp,” he said.

At that, Rhys seemed mollified.He folded his lean arms over his chest and said, “Mr. Volkov, I’m afraid that I answer to Mr. Rossignol.”

“But I would—”

“And while human laws about privacy do not apply here, I do have a certain code of ethics regarding my patients. Therefore, you would have to remind me of your superior position as a representative of the Sanguine Crown for me to reveal information about one of our leaders if it affects ongoing missions,” Rhys said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His eyebrow arched to punctuate his statement, a quiet invitation to Misha to play along.

“Well, in that case, consider this an explicit threat to your livelihood on behalf of the Sanguine Crown,” Misha said.

At that, Rhys chuckled and said, “You’ve twisted my arm. Have a seat, Mr. Volkov.”

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