Page 77 of The Rogue's Curse

It was hard to give Paris his full focus when he was sprawled out like a lazy cat, legs splayed, his whole body gleaming with a sheen of sweat in the flickering light. The man deserved a massive bed with silk sheets, a cavernous penthouse with marble floors, but somehow, the mere fact that they’d done what they had just done made this tiny little musty room the most romantic place Misha had ever seen.

Sex had awakened a primal hunger in him, a bottomless want that only grew with every feeding, and he wanted more. More of Paris, more magic, more everything.

His whole body felt uneasy and unsettled, almost akin to nausea, and he had to take a moment to focus as he poured a drink, forcing his wild power into threads and runes to balance himself out.

Staring into the amber whiskey, he heard the slithering hiss of voices once more, that eerie sound he’d heard when they were mapping the magical barrier around Shea’s stronghold. Shadows flickered through his mind, catching at the corner of his vision. But when he whipped his head around, he saw only the cramped little bedroom, and a glimpse of that tantalizing body sprawled across the bed.

He gripped the glass and focused on that smooth surface until his roiling power settled. Finally, he fixed a smile on his face and turned to face Paris. A coy smile spread across his face, and Misha forgot that slithering, frightening sensation. The other man’s gaze was pure enchantment that entangled him and drew him closer.

Despite the pleasant sight, the smell of his curse was strong and unpleasant. Those dark, bruise-like threads were pulsing now, as if they were veins connected to some rotted heart. And stranger still was a thread of brilliant red in the midst of it, something that drew Misha closer. He’d never seen anything quite like that; if the threads of the curse were veins, the red was an artery, pulsing with fresh, pure blood. Odd. He hadn’t noticed it the night he arrived and first saw Paris’s curse.

“Are you going to stare or join me?” Paris asked, beckoning to him.

“That’s a hard choice. Look at you,” Misha said. At that, a soft smile spread on Paris’s face. Satisfied with himself, Misha handed over the glass of whiskey, then settled in next to him.

“Where’s yours?” Paris asked, sitting up long enough to take a sip. He set the glass on his chest, and Misha took it to help himself.

“We’re sharing,” he said.

Paris smirked. Still holding the glass, Misha traced the neat, precise lines of muscle on the other man’s chest. The terrible wound in his torso had healed, leaving a twisted, pinkish patch of scar tissue that would likely heal within a few more days. Only faint bruising remained, extending yellowish watercolor stains across his ribs. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got my brains fucked out,” Paris said.

Misha laughed. “I mean this,” he said, gently tapping his chest.

“I feel a lot better,” Paris said, eyes averted. “Thank you for knocking some sense into me. Or baiting me into it, as it were.”

“I’m just flattered that it was such an effective lure,” Misha said.

“You could have bargained for a lot more than making me take my medicine,” Paris replied with a laugh.

Misha bent to take another kiss from his lips, savoring the tinge of salt, the warm taste of Paris’s unique essence. He offered the glass to Paris, who took a sip before setting it aside once more. Walking his fingers over Paris’s flat belly, down to his thigh, he cocked his head. “You told me you’d tell me what happened,” he said. A twisted, ropy scar stretched from mid-thigh, nearly to his groin. “This had to be while you were human.”

Paris nodded. “I was a spy for the French when I was a young man,” he said. “Well before you were born. Perhaps before your great, great, great—”

“Stop,” Misha groaned.

The other man threw his head back and laughed. God, he adored that laugh and that smile. This was not the bland smile that masked Paris’s feelings; it was genuine and open and so bright it was blinding. He hid nothing; naked as the day he was born, utterly unashamed, he was so beautiful Misha could barely wrap his mind around it.

“Early eighteenth century,” Paris said. “I was a cocky little shit, and despite surviving quite a few missions, it was a gang of goddamned pickpockets that ended my career.”

“You were?”

Paris raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

“What do you mean you were a cocky little shit? What’s changed?”

Another rich laugh. “Not much,” Paris said. “But then I was fragile and human and should have been far more careful. I had been spying on the British and had a whole book of notes in my pocket to deliver. The little bastards jumped me in an alley. Luckily, they took only my money and my rather nice boots after leaving me to die with a slashed femoral artery,” he said, tracing the scar. “It was sheer luck that Julian Alcott was in Paris with Eduardo then. He smelled the blood, came to investigate, and killed the two brigands who were trying to relieve me of my coat.I thought that I would soon be delivered to hell by a particularly rugged-looking demon who spoke abominable French, so I asked him to take me to my employer before I died so I would be remembered for delivering on my word.”

Misha laughed. “How much of that is true?”

“Every word. How could you doubt me?” Paris teased. “I swear it. Ask Julian. I told him the Princes of Hell would have to wait their fucking turn to get their hands on me.”

Laughter bubbled up from his chest. “And you were turned then?”

“No. Julian just gave me enough blood to close the wound and compelled me to sleep. When I woke in a hospital, I had lost two days of time. Julian had attempted to make me forget, butit seems my stubbornness goes down to the cellular level. I had vague recollections, like a drunken dream, and something drew me to Julian. I wandered the streets looking for him, and I found him at a salon in Paris. The guards would not let me in, so I wandered the nearby alleys, looking for a way in. I was obsessed,” he said. “And then I saw a strange woman tucking a knife into her dress. The guards let her in, saying that she was there for dinner.”

“And you got inside?”

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