Page 46 of The Rogue's Curse

Paris sighed. “It’s hard to nurture a relationship when you can’t sleep with someone,” he said. “Most people don’t appreciate being kicked out of bed right after sex.”

“That sounds like an excuse,” Misha said.

“Maybe it is,” Paris mused. He glanced at his watch again. “You should rest.”

“I need to do something first,” he murmured. With a soft smile, he rose, then bent to kiss Paris, soft and sweet. Then he smiled and said, “Good night, Paris.”

“Good night, Misha.”

10

From above, he heard the screams of the doomed souls who crossed Beckett Frasier’s path. The air hung thick with the smell of blood and death, and worst of all, something in him hungered. Something in Misha wanted to join in the obscene revelry, to drink every last drop and grab more of that power for himself. His willpower was shredded by pain and exhaustion, but he clung to the tiniest thread with trembling fists. If he gave in, there would be nothing left of Misha Volkov.

He tried in vain to pull himself free from his bindings, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before Frasier came in search of more blood. Day after day, month after month, he drained Misha dry to take the power that boiled in his veins. It’s an elegant sort of cannibalism, Frasier would say drunkenly as he guzzled down the distillation of his apprentice’s blood.

He tugged in vain at his bound wrists. What the hell was the point of fighting?

Then, a miracle. A glimmer of hope.

A thread snapped, then another. The rope on his wrist gave way. With a cry of triumph, he yanked his wrists free, then rattled the bars of the cage.

Unlocked.

Misha burst out of his prison and sprinted down the hall. His weakened muscles gave way, and he stumbled up the slick stone stairs. That tiny ray of hope, like a beacon in the dark, got him moving again. He crawled up the steps to the heavy metal door, then hauled himself up by the handle.

Behind him, a mocking voice called, “Misha! Where are you?” That eerie voice scraped down his spine, and he shook the door furiously.

“Let me out!” he bellowed.

“Misha!”

He slammed both his hands against the door and unleashed a storm of magic. Red sparks swirled around him like embers in a fire.

He didn’t care what happened to him, but he couldn’t go back in that cell. He would go mad from it.

Fiery light exploded from his hands, and the door flew open. With a sob of relief, he sprang through, then plowed headlong into more steel bars. All around him, voices screamed and cruel faces jeered. Frasier circled the cage, laughing at him. And worst of all, a young woman knelt in the cage, her throat bared. The air stank of her terror.

“Where did you think you would go?” he asked. “Where the hell did you think you would run? It’s time you drink up. I need you strong again.”

He was right. And Frasier wouldn’t even allow him the mercy of death. It was not the pain he feared, but the monster he would become if this continued.

With a flash of fiery red in his eyes, Frasier seized that tiny shred of Misha that remained and yanked it. Misha knelt, and hated himself because that poor woman smelled so good he could barely keep himself from tearing into her. Frasier pushed him further, pulling on his will like puppet strings.

Tear her throat out.

No!

Drink, Misha.

I can’t—

He shouted in protest, tried to shove the girl away before his jaws closed, but she was getting closer and death was coming and—

Firm hands gripped his shoulders, and something slapped his cheek just hard enough to sting. A familiar voice broke through the madness, more real than anything around him. “Wake up, Misha! Wake up.”

That voice felt like a beam of light, a warm pull on his hand to draw him out of the darkness.His eyes flew open. The first thing he noticed was the brilliant blue eyes filling his vision. The second thing he noticed was the lovely scent of Paris Rossignol. And finally, he noticed the scorch marks on the ceiling, spiderwebbing out from a burnt crater directly above him.

“Did I—” he blurted, sitting up and looking around himself. Vein-like burn marks stained the sheets, and there was a deep, ripped slash across one palm. He’d unleashed magic in his sleep. God, it had been more than a year, and of all the times…

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