Page 57 of The Rogue's Curse

“Oh,” Misha said. “Because—”

“Because I like you, you stubborn little shit,” Paris mocked. He laughed, and before he could speak again, Misha lunged in to kiss him. There was a soft, surprised mmph! before Paris parted his lips and welcomed the kiss, tongue teasing at his upper lip. Slowly, in a lovely rumble of laughter, they lay back together, kissing slow and gentle.

Paris shifted to loom over him, tenderly brushing hair back from his brow. The skimming of his fingers over Misha’s skin was a decadent delight, every nerve ending crackling with the fresh blood of feeding. A kaleidoscope of expressions shimmered across his handsome features, his lips parting as if to speak. If he’d entertained any concern or jealousy over the human woman, it burned away in the warmth of Paris’s touch. Blue eyes were filled with wonder as he traced the plane of Misha’s jaw, then the curve of his lower lip.

And then Paris simply bent to kiss him again, seeming to find a better way to express himself. For a long, lazy stretch, Misha forgot where he was. The world could have burned beyond the door of their cheap, dingy motel room, and he would have been perfectly content there in Paris’s shadow.

He was disappointed when Paris broke away, holding his chin lightly. “You should get cleaned up.”

“Do I smell terrible?”

“You smell good enough to eat,” Paris said. “But you’re absolutely filthy and I cannot, in good conscience, let you go to sleep this way.”

“Let me?”

“Yes, let you,” Paris said, raising an eyebrow. He pointed across the room. “Take a shower and I’ll tuck you in.”

Misha groaned and rolled his eyes, carefully peeling off his shirt as he went. He glanced back and found Paris watching him go. The coy smile sent a shiver down his spine, and he slipped into the bathroom.

He’d taken a few hard blows in the scuffle, but most of the damage had been self-inflicted as he drew blood to use his power. Bracing himself, he stepped under the hot spray of the shower and gritted his teeth as a dozen cuts and slashes stung. Blood washed down the drain; much of it his, but it was mingled with unfamiliar vampires and dhampir, too.

Bland soap and shampoo felt like a luxury spa as he washed off grime and sweat. For the first time since he’d woken, the reality of the situation hit him. He’d been in bad shape, and it was his own fault. Rafi had warned him over and over to never overdo it, never to risk himself that way.

Humans are little more than cattle. Vampires are replaceable. Mágisses are priceless, she would say, even as he winced. He’d never gotten entirely on board with that philosophy, but he was careful, and had been lucky to not often find himself in a situation that truly forced him to choose between himself and another.

For the briefest of moments, he’d considered leaving Paris behind. He had not been trained to be a hero, but to survive and fight another day. Most people were expendable in the eyes of the Crown. His mentor would have said that if Paris was worthy, he would make it out. And if not…

And hot on the heels of that cold, calculating thought came a tidal wave of emotion, such a powerful, heated denial that it nearly bowled him over. There was no way in hell he was leaving Paris to fight alone, and Lady Zehra Demirci herself could fuck off if she disagreed.

Still, even knowing he’d gone far beyond his limits to fight back, the feeling of failure stung far worse than his injuries. He had—with Paris’s help—completed the task he came to do by collecting Lilah Whitlock’s blood. It was not his job to deal with the Mausoleum or all the turmoil of the tiny Durendal Court.

But it concerned Paris, and with each passing day, what concerned Paris concerned Misha. This close to sunrise, Misha felt far too exhausted to think about the implications of those entangled concerns.

He rinsed his hair and emerged from the shower. When he pulled the door open, he heard Paris scold, “Stop before you come out. If you’re going to deny me sex until I drink your damned potion, then you better come out of there with a towel over that ass. Being a tease is one thing, but being a monster is another.”

Misha chuckled and said, “Throw me a towel.” He held out his hand and caught the tossed towel, which he slung around his waist before emerging. Even with his groin covered, he felt the lingering pass of Paris’s eyes, full of desperate hunger. “Come lay down with me.”

“Misha, you’re playing with fire,” Paris warned.

“I’m going to fall asleep before we can get into much trouble,” he said. He eased into bed, and Paris’s eyes scraped over him. He reached out and lightly ran his finger down Misha’s arm, tracing along the thin cut from his elbow to his wrist.

“Do these need to be dealt with?” Paris asked.

Misha shook his head. “They’ll heal overnight.”

“Your magic causes you pain,” Paris said.

“Only when I use fireworks,” Misha said. He shrugged. “It’s—”

He went silent as Paris kissed his palm, then his wrist. Almost reverently, he took Misha’s other hand and did the same. It was hard to resist the urge to pull away, but he was fascinated by the earnestness, the lack of self-consciousness. No one had ever tended to him so gently. Even in his studies, his mentor had simply told him to wash up and let them heal on their own. Paris’s soft touch was not magical, but it held unimaginable power.

And as if he hadn’t just shaken Misha to his core, Paris lifted his head, smiled, and lay back.He rolled onto his side, and for a moment, Misha forgot why he was there. It felt cozy and natural, lying in bed and looking into those lovely, bright blue eyes. For all his stubbornness and machismo, there was such gentleness and warmth in Paris. He was a different man entirely behind closed doors, when he stepped out from behind the stone wall. How fortunate Misha was to be in his sights, to bask in his warmth like the sun.

He reached out to stroke Paris’s cheek, that skin soft and warm beneath his stinging fingers. When he smiled, his cheek curved into Misha’s palm. “Thank you for not leaving me,” Misha said.

“You would have been fine without me,” Paris said. “You’re a fucking wizard.”

“Witch,” Misha said.

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