Page 58 of The Rogue's Curse

“I thought male witches would be warlocks,” Paris said. “Sorcerer?”

“No,” Misha said. “Not a male witch. Just a witch.”

“It just sounds wrong.”

“That’s because you’re sexist,” Misha said.

Paris’s jaw dropped. “I am not sexist.”

Misha grinned, prompting a dazzling smile. “You know, sweet Allison would have probably ridden you like a mechanical bull if you’d asked.”

“I know,” Paris said. “I didn’t want her. I want you.”

Three words. Words of power, words that should have been inscribed on stone tablets and sealed away, only to be uttered with the greatest of care. And they rolled off his tongue so easily, resonating down to Misha’s bones.

“You seemed comfortable with her. I presume you’ve been with women before,” Misha said. Paris’s expression faltered. “I’m not judging. I’m just curious.”

At that, Paris relaxed. “Yes,I’ve been with women. I suppose by modern parlance, I would be bisexual…or is it pansexual? I like attractive, intelligent people. When I was much younger, there was not such fine nuance, and the fact that I also enjoyed fucking women meant nothing to those who would scorn me for so-called homosexual depravity. And you?”

“Other than a few fumbling kisses when I was a boy that confirmed I was not particularly interested in women, I am entirely committed to homosexual depravity,” Misha said.

Parislaughed.“I have quite close relationships with a number of women, and while I certainly enjoy sex with women, my heart has been drawn to men for most of my life,” he said.

His heart, such a well-protected treasure. It seemed to Misha that Paris was not only the right hand of Julian Alcott, but the swift blade, the steely spine, the eyes, the ears, and it left little room for him to simply be a person, to be someone who loved and was loved.

He was messy and complicated, with jagged edges that threatened to prick and scrape. And yet, he was such a fundamentally good man, the likes of which Misha had truly never known. The realization that he had lived nearly a century without meeting such a man struck him as inexplicably sad, while making him thoroughly grateful to be where he was.

Paris’s watch chirped, and he slapped at it to silence it. Then he leaned closer to kiss Misha’s brow before sliding out of bed.

“You could stay,” Misha said.

Paris shook his head. “After all of that, I will certainly fall asleep if I do. And then we will have far worse problems. You sleep. I’ll be here.”

I’ll be here.

How strange and comforting.

Misha closed his eyes and sank into a lovely darkness, safe and secure.

13

If Paris still needed to breathe, he would have held his breath as he watched Misha take the carefully stored vials of Lilah’s blood from his pocket. As it was, he clenched his fists so tightly that his short nails dug into his palms.

At his request, Kristina and Sasha had returned to the compound to meet him and Misha. In their absence, Shoshanna and Alistair had built Misha a respectable workshop in Building Five, with two big workbenches, a wall-mounted monitor, a refrigerator, and a towering stack of cardboard shipping boxes labeled Fragile and Rush Delivery. Taking up a former classroom, the workshop was the only occupied space in the building, and Paris would have been a liar if he claimed that he’d not considered that no one would hear him and Misha if they participated in some adult extracurricular activities here.

They had bigger priorities, of course, but there was no harm in being prepared for better days.

Paris had already done his own tests; he still had blood-stained clothing from their failed raid on the Constitution building, when he’d taken several chunks out of Shea’s hide. He thought Lilah’s blood smelled familiar, but he didn’t trust himself. He had to be certain.

Misha held one of the vials out to Kristina and one to Sasha. Each uncapped it and brought it to their nose. Kristina’s brow furrowed, and then she dug into her backpack and unearthed a wrinkled black top. The smell of old blood wafted through the room; he vaguely recognized it as the shirt she’d worn when she and Sasha escaped, when she was still bound to Shea. She pressed it to her nose, then returned to the vial. With a sheepish grin, she said, “Paris, can I? I need to make sure I’m not just smelling vampire.”

He nodded, and she approached, rising on her toes to sniff at him. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder as her lips brushed across his throat.

Back and forth she went like a bomb-sniffing dog, and finally, she nodded. “It smells like him. What about you?” she asked Sasha, handing him the shirt.

After pressing it to his face, Sasha nodded and said, “They’re connected.”

Paris let out a heaving sigh. “Thank God and the blessed virgin,” he muttered.

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