Page 44 of The Rogue's Curse

What if he could be mine?

And even if he wasn’t, what if he could at least trust Misha? His brothers and sisters knew who he was because they had been there since the beginning. There were few secrets left for them; they’d fought in the same vicious battles, had seen each other cursed one by one. But he had the choice now to show himself in a way he hadn’t since…since Alistair.

“I’m cursed. It’s hard to explain, but my dreams have a way of becoming real. If I sleep for more than a few minutes, they’ll manifest and inflict real damage,” Paris said. “And it’s dangerous to everyone around me.”

Misha rolled onto his side and laid his head on his arm. His eyes were still brilliant red, the air practically electrified with their shared arousal. “How did you get cursed?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Paris said. Before Misha could protest, he said, “Maybe another time. I just don’t want to get into it tonight. Okay?”

“Okay,” Misha said. “Since we’re sharing a room, is there anything I should know to keep myself safe?”

“I have an alarm that goes off every fifteen minutes to make sure I don’t sleep. I occasionally doze off during the day, but the timer’s usually quick enough to make sure I don’t get deep enough to start dreaming,” Paris said. Unless I dream about you, of course. “If you sleep like most vampires, my alarms probably won’t wake you.”

“Would it help if I stayed up with you?” he asked.

Paris gaped at him. “Are you serious?”

“Why would I offer otherwise?”

Because that’s not what people do. That was the sort of thing his brothers would do back when the curse first began, what some of them had done for years until he figured out a better solution. And the thought that Misha, who had known him for mere days, would put himself through the discomfort of daylight just to help…

Paris finally shook his head. “It’s kind of you, but I’ve got it under control. It would better for you to be well-rested.”

And at that, Misha nodded. “If you think that’s best. How long as has it been since you were able to sleep?”

Paris raised an eyebrow and replied, “About a hundred and eighty years.”

Misha swore in Russian and sat up. “A hundred and… I assumed it was recent. The magic smells so strong, I figured it had to be. You haven’t slept in almost two hundred years?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Don’t feel sorry for me,” Paris said.

“It’s called empathy,” Misha said. “It’s what people do when they like each other.”

Paris sighed. “I suppose.”

“I could try to break it. Curses aren’t my specialty, but—”

Paris laughed. “You can’t. It’s above your paygrade.”

What if he could?

“Sounds like a challenge,” Misha said.

“And you have plenty of challenges. Deal with Shea, and then we’ll talk,” Paris said.He glanced at his watch. “Thirty minutes. Tell me something about you. How old are you?”

Misha hesitated and glanced at him. “Ninety-eight.”

He burst out laughing. “The way you walk around and swing your dick, I figured you had to be way older than me. You’re practically a baby. Jesus, I’m a cradle robber.”

“Fuck off,” Misha said, smacking him playfully on the leg as he lay back on the pillow. His fingers drifted over the long, twisted scar along the inside of his right thigh. The light touch sent a shiver down his spine. “How did you get this?”

“Don’t change the subject. I’m asking about you,” Paris said firmly. Despite the denial, he didn’t mind that Misha kept his hand on his thigh, lightly stroking the twisted scar. “When you get around to fucking me out of my mind, you can ask again.”

Misha laughed again. God, that was a beautiful sound. There was a strange blend of flavors in Misha; he was warm and caring, yet competent and aggressive, a combination that Paris rather enjoyed. And it was lovely to see him relaxed, lying in bed together with desire scenting the air as if they were really something.

“What do you want to know?” Misha asked.

“I’ll be generous and round your age up to a hundred. Based on your looks, you were probably turned around twenty-five.”

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