Page 63 of The Rogue's Curse

And he didn’t want to say as much, but Olivia had a history of being overbearing with her sister to the point of driving a sharp wedge between them. Dani was sensitive to Olivia’s attempts to control her, but Paris could get away with calling Dani on her shit in a way her twin couldn’t.

Her gaze softened. “Thanks. I just got freaked out. And I’m so worried they’re going to go after Nikko,” she said.

“They probably will,” he said.

“Paris!”

“What?! Do you want me to lie to you?” he spluttered. “I could order him to stay here.”

“You won’t, because you need him to fight,” she said. “And you also know he won’t do it unless I tell him I need him here.”

“Which you won’t, because you know he can do some good out there,” Paris said.

She sighed heavily. “I hate this.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not always this way. And I truly hope that we can put an end to all of this soon. And then all you will have to think about is what pretty dresses you want to wear and staying hydrated to ride your blonde stallion to your heart’s desire.”

Her lips pursed in a smile. “That’s a nice thought.”

“It is, isn’t it?” he teased. He tapped lightly on the door and said, “Well, you know where to find me if you need me.”

She nodded, then said, “Wait. I came out swinging, and I didn’t get a chance to ask how you are. Julian said it was rough.”

“Look at me,” he said. “Pretty as ever. And I almost forgot. I killed Niall Ross, and Misha did the honors of eliminating that red-headed harpy Joanna. I gave them your regards.”

At the word Niall, Olivia’s handed drifted to her neck. “Good. If you get to Lilah before Nikko does, feel free to do it again,” she said.

“It would be my honor,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat to her before walking out and heading to Building One. His heart gave a single, thunderous boom against his ribs as he walked into the building and immediately smelled Misha’s presence. He felt like a giddy schoolboy seeing a crush as he followed the scent up to the second floor and found the blood witch in one of the partially renovated dorm rooms.

Sitting in a folding chair was a middle-aged man named Edward, a veravin who had faithfully served the court for years. The man smiled at the sight of Paris and stood. “Good to see you, Mr. Rossignol,” he said politely. They shook hands firmly.

“You as well, Edward,” he said, ignoring the man’s ever-terrible French pronunciation. There was a certain charm in the butchery.

When Misha held out a metal cup, Paris noticed the thin red slivers along his fingers, showing the aftermath of his magic. He didn’t like that using his power could hurt Misha, and he fought the urge to fuss over the wounds.

Edward accepted the cup, sat down, and took a tentative sip. His eyes widened, and then he drained the rest of it eagerly. The distinct smell of spiced apple cider filled the room, and he wondered if Misha had spiked it with something. After swallowing the last of it, Edward stared into the cup with a smile.

Paris took a tentative step closer, and then recoiled when Edward went stiff and gasped. He tugged at his shirt collar and coughed violently. “What did you do?” Paris barked.

Misha touched his shoulder. “It’s fine,” he said, settling next to Edward. He gently rubbed the other man’s back. “Just breathe. You’re fine.”

Edward’s face was bright red, but he nodded and dug his fingers into his thighs, forcing himself to draw a deep breath. Slowly, his breathing slowed, but his heart raced furiously. And strangely, Edward’s dark brown eyes lightened to a brilliant red, almost like Misha’s. His scent changed, a sharp and prickling edge that humans didn’t usually have.

“Go ahead,” Misha said.

He stared at Misha. “Is he okay? He doesn’t look so good.”

“He’ll be fine, I promise,” Misha said. “He’ll have the best sleep of his life, and then a pretty nasty hangover. Otherwise, he’ll be good as new. I promise.”

Still feeling unsettled, Paris sat on the edge of the stiff mattress and crooked his finger at Edward, who sat next to him.

“The throat,” Misha said.

Paris met his gaze, then glanced at Edward. There was an edge of fear that left an acrid scent in the air. “Is it all right for me to bite your throat? I’ll use your arm if you’d prefer.”

Misha Volkov might have been an expert in his field, but Paris had taken care of their veravin for decades. He had no intention of terrifying poor Edward, who was absolutely neurotic about his health and had cultivated a regiment of supplements that made him taste incredible.

“That’s fine,” Edward said with a dreamy smile. His eyes were still red, though he was breathing normally now.

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