Page 40 of The Rogue's Curse

Paris had never particularly liked imprisoning their enemies. Back when they’d first come to America, they were trying to play Piotr and strongarm him into leaving without openly declaring war. They’d kept some of his people barely alive so Piotr couldn’t protest to the Crown that they were killing his followers. But in the long term, any vampire dangerous enough to be removed from the chessboard was dangerous enough to lose their head. It wasn’t as if they’d be rehabilitated. Same with the Shieldsmen. Killing them was best, but enthralling them was a better option if they wanted to keep their hands clean.

As paradoxical as it was, the Mausoleum had always seemed both cruel and cowardly. The Auberon hadn’t sent anyone there for more than sixty years before breaking their streak with a prisoner who wouldn’t confess who the so-called new king was. Yet as much as he hated it, keeping Lilah and Kieran alive might prove to be the Durendals’ salvation.

A tight connection had them hustling across the Charlotte airport, only to find that their second flight was delayed due to mechanical issues. He quietly updated Misha on the court’s movements in their absence, while Misha confirmed that Olivia had ordered the supplies he needed to get to work as soon as they returned with a sample of blood from one of Shea’s followers.

Both of them watched the time anxiously as the plane took off nearly an hour late, forcing them to do the calculations of where sunrise would find them. Provided there were no further complications, they still had time to get to White Plains, pick up a car, and get to a hotel without facing the sun. Thankfully, they managed to get into a rental car and hit the road with an hour to spare before dawn.

While he’d expected a fuss, Misha put up no objection to letting Paris drive. He let a coy smile slip as he admitted he was used to driving on the left side of the road and didn’t want to risk it. GPS directions brought them to a high-end hotel, where Paris briskly walked up to the counter and asked for a reservation for one of his aliases, Alex Belmont.

The chipper young woman at the counter nodded and said, “Yes, sir, I have your suite ready.”

“Suites,” he said. “Plural, yes?”

“It looks as if I’ve just got the one room,” she said apologetically.

His belly twisted into a nervous knot, and he glanced back at Misha, who shrugged. “My assistant surely booked two.”

“Is there something for Killian Ford?” Misha asked.

The woman nodded, typing rapidly. “Ah, I see. Mr. Ford didn’t check in, so the reservation was canceled. We had a late check-in request for Mr. Belmont’s reservation only. I’m so sorry. We have a college visitation this weekend, so we’re entirely booked.”

“But—” Paris protested.

Misha nudged his shoulder and said, “It’s fine. We’ll share.”

The woman nodded and said, “I do apologize for the inconvenience. It is one of our executive suites, with a pull-out sofa and a fully separated king bedroom. I’ll also waive the fees for the minibar to compensate for the inconvenience. Again, I’m terribly sorry for the mix-up.”

Paris chuckled and said, “No need to apologize, love. Thank you.”

Under other circumstances, he might have been secretly thrilled at the prospect of being forced to share a luxurious hotel room with a man like Misha. But it would be impossible to keep his curse a secret with his alarm shrieking every fifteen minutes. Perhaps he could pace up and down the halls all day like an utter lunatic.

The suite was a nice change after weeks of living in a dated room that had once been under the purview of a state institution. It had sharp, minimal design with pops of color amidst silver decor; it was a bit generic, but he certainly didn’t mind the improvement.

“I’ll sleep out here,” Misha said, setting his carry-on next to the pale gray sofa. “You can take the bedroom.”

“You take it. I don’t sleep much, so it would be wasted on me,” Paris said.

The other man eyed him with that incisive, I see right through you, gaze. “I hear you don’t sleep at all.”

“People do love to talk, don’t they?” Paris said mildly. He reached for Misha’s bag, and startled with the other man caught his wrist.

“Look, I don’t do well with being passive-aggressive. Can we just talk openly?” Misha asked.

Paris eyed him and said, “We can talk openly if you give me ten minutes to wash up and pull my head out of my ass.”

At that, Misha flashed a wry smile that ignited a spark in his belly.“That’s a daunting task. Can you manage it in only ten minutes?”

The jab cracked the tension, and Paris let out a nervous laugh as he retreated to the bathroom. He took a shower and briefly entertained the idea of calling for Misha to come and join him. That was one way to get over whatever was going on.

Instead, he scrubbed himself clean, put on comfortable clothes, and emerged to find Misha already in loose pants, pulling on a t-shirt. His muscular frame looked appealing, but Paris was transfixed by the smattering of scars across his back, which he quickly covered as he turned.

“Better?” Misha asked.

“Flying makes me feel grimy,” Paris said, settling into a stiff armchair that looked far more appealing than it felt. The long flight left his back aching.

Misha chuckled and said, “Agreed.” He sat on the couch, folding his legs casually. “Look, I know I upset you yesterday.”

“It wasn’t—”

---