Page 78 of The Rogue's Curse

“I intended to break in, then thought better of it and told the guards at the door the woman was there to kill someone,” he said. “I was right. She was a hunter, and she was to open a back door to allow her allies to come in. Julian asked me to come in and poured me a drink. I told him my sad story, and before you ask—no, he still didn’t turn me.”

“A tease,” Misha said.

“My feelings exactly,” he said. “He told me that I would have to leave my family behind, but I had nothing to leave behind.”

Sorrow twisted in Misha’s gut. “What do you mean?”

“I was born in Marseille in 1712. Plague wiped out much of the city, including my entire family. I don’t know why I was spared. I suppose I’ve always been abominably lucky,” he said bitterly.

“And Julian finally gave in?”

Paris nodded. “Eduardo’s husband convinced him. He was with Julian the night we first met. A fine, loyal soldier, he told Eduardo. So, Eduardo gave the order, and Julian made the offer,” he said. “And from the day I woke up as a vampire, I was at his side.”

“What is it like to know your Maker so intimately? You’ve been close for nearly three hundred years, if I’m doing the math correctly,” Misha said.

“I’m thankful that we’ve remained close. It can be beautiful, and it can be infuriating. But I still love him dearly,” he said. His smile faded. “Can I ask how you became a vampire? You’ve alluded to it several times, but I’m presuming it wasn’t a good experience.”

“Being turned wasn’t so bad. What came after was considerably worse,” Misha said. He took a sip of the whiskey before handing it back. “I was born in England.”

“That explains the accent, but how the hell did you end up Mikhail Volkov?”

“My parents were Russian Jews. They fled Russia at the turn of the century,” he said. “I actually never even visited Russia until I’d been a vampire for decades. I wanted to go to university, but we didn’t have money, so I worked to save. Instead, I worked in a pub, and I eventually met a man named Beckett Frasier. He told me that he saw something special in me, and he recruited me to work for him. Occasionally, he paid me to let him feed.”

Paris’s gaze darkened. “Did you… Never mind. It’s not my business.”

“Did I sleep with him?” Paris’s brows perked. “No. He was straight, and I was in the closet,” Misha said. “Then I got in over my head. Frasier had his hands in all sorts of shady business, and war was on the horizon. He offered me enough money to move my parents and sisters to America if I became a vampire and worked for him. So I did.” His throat tightened. “I traveled with them to help them settle in because they didn’t speak English very well. Several years later, their flat was turned to rubble when London was bombed. But I was long gone by then.”

Paris sat up, his eyes aglow with interest. “And what did you do?”

“Well,” Misha murmured. “I thought Frasier was…I guess the modern term would be a white-collar criminal. Not hurting people, but moving some illegal goods, offering some magic here and there. He was much worse. He was a blood witch, too.”

“Is that how he knew you had power?”

“Yes. He could smell it on me.” He fixed his gaze on Paris. “I don’t want to tell you this part. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I’m afraid of what you’ll think of me.”

Paris’s head cocked, and he reached out to stroke Misha’s cheek. “You don’t have to share what hurts if you don’t want to.”

His story was no secret within the coven, nor within the upper echelons of the Sanguine Crown. But just once, it would be nice for someone to hear it and see him differently than they did.

“I continued to work with Frasier for a while. I tried to convince him we should help with the war efforts, but he kept pushing it off. He was more interested in traveling and making as much money as he could while gaining power. And he was very disappointed that my power had not manifested more strongly. I was a glorified chemist, as far as he was concerned. So he decided he would take stronger action. You see, the coven forbids it, but you can make a blood witch,” Misha finally said. “All of the witches that serve the Court of Thanatos were born with their power, and turning into a vampire ignited it. In some cases, they were discovered by the coven while human and turned for that reason. But not Frasier. His Maker was thrown out of the coven for flaunting the rules, and Frasier was born in blood. There’s a ritual that involves…” His stomach twisted in knots. “It involves sacrifice. So much blood. It was—”

He stole a look at Paris, who looked stunned. Was that disgust? Curiosity?

“I didn’t want it,” Misha blurted. “I told him no. I fought him, even tried to kill him. But he was so much stronger, and he used his power to subdue me. And then he made me drink. I don’t know how many people died to give me power. One would be too many, but it was far more.”

“He made you…” Paris said quietly. “Because he was your Maker?”

Misha nodded. “I can’t help thinking that if I had been stronger, more focused…maybe I could have resisted. But his will took over me.”

His throat closed, and he couldn’t bring himself to finish. And sometimes, I enjoyed it. Even as his mind screamed out in protest, and his soul shrank away in disgust, there was a visceral hunger in him that drank the blood eagerly and reveled in being powerful.

He stared at his hands, wishing he hadn’t breached this wall. The warm affection of being with Paris had vanished, leaving him empty.

Suddenly, Paris’s hand covered his. He looked up, but his paramour was staring at their hands. “Don’t run away from me,” he said quietly. “Please.”

With his chest tightening, Misha nodded, folding his other hand around Paris’s. Somehow, this felt even more intimate than when they’d been entwined, bodies locked together. “I put up a fight, but he was always stronger. Eventually, he got tired of me complaining and resisting. Said I was no fun anymore. So he locked me in a cage and drained my blood over and over. I was like a battery for him, constantly giving him power. When I got too weak, he would bring me someone, and I would drink until…until they died. If I tried to stop, he made me finish. And then he would begin again. I lost weeks, months at a time.”

“How did you get away from him?”

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