Page 41 of The Rogue's Curse

“Just let me talk,” he said sharply. “I found out about your friend Dominic.”

The happy, effervescent feeling of his brief shower fantasy faded entirely as a knot formed in his stomach. “Good for you.”

“Stop that. Please just stop being defensive and hear what I’m saying. We don’t have to do this diplomatic dance where we avoid speaking our minds,” Misha said. “I had no idea how bad things were. I spoke too aggressively, and I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings.”

For a moment, he felt as if his operating system had frozen. That blunt honesty reminded him of Dominic, who was unafraid to call him out on his bullshit but equally unafraid to take responsibility for his mistakes. He rarely tolerated Paris’s tendency to dance around issues, and was often the one who said what everyone was thinking and was too chickenshit to say aloud.

He shrugged, hoping his eyes weren’t betraying his turmoil. If Misha had seen Dominic, he had seen the depth of Paris’s shame. “You didn’t know,” Paris said carefully, praying he didn’t crack from the pressure building up behind the words.

“And now I do, and I understand you better,” Misha said. “And you have to know that it’s not your fault.”

“You don’t know us,” Paris said.

“Then let me know you. Would you have done the same for Dominic? Would you have risked yourself for him?”

“Of course,” Paris said. “But it’s not the same.”

“Why? Because you have to be infallible and save everyone?”

Paris scowled at him. “I failed one of my oldest friends. He’s lying in that bed because of me.”

“He’s there because he was fighting a good fight and one of Carrigan Shea’s people shot him. It could have just as easily have been you,” Misha said.

“Why do you give a damn? How does this get you any closer to killing Carrigan Shea?” Paris asked.

“Why are you so goddamn stubborn? Why won’t you let someone help you?” Misha said, his voice taking on a heated edge.

“Why does it matter?”

Misha threw up his hands and blurted, “Because you’re worth it, you stubborn shit. I like you, and I wish you didn’t carry all this pain by yourself. Everyone in your damned court thinks the world of you except for you. And if you would let someone get close to you once in a while, you might realize you don’t have to carry all of this alone!”

He stared at Misha, whose eyes were shifting from that deep amber to brilliant crimson. His jaw was tense, his brow furrowed in frustration. Paris was frozen in place, waiting for the but.

But you’re a terrible leader.

But you’re too weak to handle this.

But you let down the people who count on you.

There was no but.

“Well? Say something,” Misha said. “You always have something to say, so I refuse to believe you’re speechless now.”

Paris gaped at him. “I’m stuck on the you like me part. I have been an epic pain in the ass from the moment you arrived.”

Misha’s frown broke into a broad smile, releasing the aching tension. He rubbed his jaw and said,“Yes you have, but at least you’re self-aware enough to recognize it.”

“And when you say you like me, you mean…” Paris dared to ask.

“I mean that I’ve entertained the notion of you naked more than once. Carnally,” Misha said.

Paris burst out laughing. Now they’d entered familiar territory. “So has everyone in my damned court. Even Nikko told me once he wished he was bisexual so he could find out if I was as good as my reputation claimed.”

Despite his smile, fear had etched lines of tension around Misha’s eyes. And while there were times that Paris would tease, he didn’t dare toy with the man’s emotions. Not when he was so honest and sincere… Not when he’d just said aloud what Paris had wanted so badly and not dared to ask.

“Oh, if you’re worried, I’ve mentally undressed you every time I’ve seen you. But with everything…I can’t,” Paris said, shaking his head.

Instead of recoiling, Misha rose and strode closer. He bent and planted his hands on either side of the chair, staring down at Paris. “Can’t what?”

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