Page 47 of The Rogue's Curse

Unfazed by the mess, Paris gently took his hand and said, “Is something wrong?”

He sat up slowly and winced. Even with the sun hidden behind closed curtains, daylight left him feeling achy and drugged. “It’s been a while, but I occasionally have nightmares about the past,” he said. “And sometimes I try to defend myself without realizing it. I’m sorry to bother you, I just—”

Paris shook his head and said, “Are you safe now? Do you need to…” He trailed off and let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know. Defuse or let off steam or something?”

He met the other man’s gaze and smiled, even with the specter of ancient ghosts lingering in his mind. “I’m fine now.”

“Sit here,” Paris said. He trudged into the bathroom and ran the water for a moment.

The fear of the nightmare still clung to Misha. Something flickered across his vision, and he whipped his head around to follow a shadow skittering across the room. But he was still alone. No shadows. He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and opened them again to find nothing there.

The spark of magic that always burned in his chest was unstable, like it was roiling and splashing against his ribs from the inside. With his eyes closed, he slowly worked his hands as if he was balling up bread dough, then stretching it into a long strand. The repetitive motions helped, and when he felt more stable, he envisioned asimple sigil. Slowly moving his hands, he coaxed his power into the form of the sigil, like stretching string around nails, just as Rafi had taught him years ago.

This had to be from Paris asking how he was turned. After the other man went to bed, he’d lain awake, debating how he would tell Paris about Frasier and just how bad his bloodline was. How bad he could be if he wasn’t careful. Paired with the thoughts of walking into a vampire prison, it must have provoked a nightmare.

Paris returned with a damp cloth and perched on the edge of the bed.Working quietly, he took Misha’s wrist and gently cleaned the bloody wound. “Do you have your healing ointment that you used on my face?”

“It’ll be…” He hesitated. He wanted to say, It’ll be fine. I don’t need help. But he saw that yearning in Paris’s eyes and realized that for the first time, he was seeing the man unguarded, no stone walls to block out the warmth of that fiery spirit. There was that kindness and warmth he’d wanted so badly. “It’s in my bag. Inside zipper pocket.”

He watched as Paris rifled through his bag and found the small black glass bottle, then returned to tend to his hand. The wound would heal fine on its own, but he was enchanted by the way Paris fussed over him.

Misha had not begun their conversation last night with the intention of getting on his knees, though he was pleased things had taken that course. He’d merely wanted to apologize, and when he watched Paris putting up wall after wall with the expert precision of a mágissa casting protective wards, he’d gotten so frustrated he just blurted out, Because I like you.

Those had been words of power as strong as any incantation. His accidental spell pierced all the shields and wards protecting Paris Rossignol. And even as Misha was telling himself, Don’t do this, you’re here for business, he couldn’t stop himself. Once he got that first taste of Paris’s lips, when he felt the way Paris melted into him, his spine curving just so to get closer, he was done for. Paris had taken the bait, and Misha was ready to do whatever it took to spring the trap.

Before he knew it, he was following his instincts that screamed at him to keep going, to keep touching, to chase that wild heat of pleasure.

But this had to be short-lived, and they had to be careful. He was here for work, and hopefully, in a few short weeks, he’d be on his way back home. But what was the harm in a little fun while he was here?

Paris finished tending to his hand, and then smiled up at him with a soft, warm expression that made it extraordinarily difficult not to pin him down and suck his soul out through those full lips. “Better?”

“Much better,” Misha managed.

“Do you think you can go back to sleep?” Paris asked. “I’ll just be in the other room if you need something.”

“I’ll be fine,” Misha said, settling back into bed. “Thank you.”

Nerves swirled in his belly as Paris rose and closed the door behind him. Through the door, Misha heard the quiet click of a keyboard, then the soft tap of fingers on a table.

Come back and lay with me, he thought. But instead, he closed his eyes and sank back into a dark, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Shortly before sunset, he woke to the sound of a shower. He yawned and rose, sitting on the edge of the bed and hoping that Paris would emerge naked.

Alas, the universe was not that kind.

Moments after Misha sat up, producing a tiny creak of springs, Paris walked out with a towel slung around his waist. The offending fabric still allowed a lovely view of his flat belly and narrow hips. He smiled around a toothbrush and managed to say, “Good evening.”

The wound on his chest looked ugly, though it made Misha sympathetic more than anything. Paris was tall and whipcord lean, with sharply defined muscle that usually lay hidden under his well-tailored clothes.

He returned to the bathroom to rinse his mouth, then leaned on the door to regard Misha. “We have an appointment at the Mausoleum at nine thirty. The Vasilieva arranged a blood delivery for us that we’ll pick up there in case you’re hungry.”

“Excellent,” he said, rising from bed and stretching. Paris’s eyes followed him, scraping over him from head to toe as he smiled appreciatively. Misha approached, blocking his path out of the bathroom. “Is it too presumptuous if I…”

Paris flashed a wicked grin at him, and Misha bent to take another lingering kiss. His resolve to make Paris wait for sex until he’d fully healed was rapidly waning. It was a bit petty to use sex as leverage, but if it made Paris take care of himself, then it was worth it. Still, there was a growing part of him—quite literally—that wanted to bend him over and show him exactly what he meant when he said, I’ll take care of you.

It was Paris who broke away, holding Misha’s face firmly between his graceful hands. “You may have willpower, but mine is fading,” he said.

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