Page 79 of The Rogue's Curse

“He’d made more apprentices since I was such a disappointment,” Misha said. “One of them came to drain my blood while Frasier was away, and I had enough energy to fight her off. She tried to use her magic to subdue me, but I snatched it back from her. It was like a chemical reaction…like an explosion, they said. And the witches from Thanatos all felt it. They’d been tracking Frasier with the Crown for a while, and they said it was like someone shot off a flare in the middle of the night. They found us and freed me. And then we hunted him down.”

Misha dared to look up at Paris. “I killed him. It was a test. If I hadn’t, they would have killed me. He barely hit the ground before the witches subdued me, and I woke up months later in a Crown prison. They’d drained me, drugged me, starved me out, so I was barely able to hold my head up. No threat to them at all. Thankfully, they know the same tricks I do now, and they made me tell the truth.”

Paris nodded. “So they know you didn’t participate willingly.”

Misha nodded. “That’s right. But with the power I had, they wouldn’t let me go, either. Some of the coven wanted to kill me outright because of how I had gotten my power. Killing the other apprentice and Frasier had made me stronger. I didn’t have good control yet, because I’d spent years with power simmering in my veins but not using it. So I was told I could give it up—meaning give up my head—or I could work for the Crown,” he said.

“For how long?”

“For always,” Misha said. “I trained with them for years to learn how to control my power, and then I began working for the Crown.”

“They can’t just keep you forever,” Paris protested.

“Too much potential danger. All blood witches are tied to the coven for life, so they don’t see an issue with it,” Misha said. He spared a smile. “It could be worse. I enjoy my job most of the time, and they pay me well. And it’s gotten better; I used to have to live with the Thanatos court, and they hated me. Twenty years ago they let me move out and get my own place, at least.”

Paris sighed. “I hate this for you.”

“I don’t. It’s really okay,” Misha said. That was mostly true, or had been until he laid in bed with a blue-eyed vampire who smelled like home.

“May I ask what happened to your parents?” Paris asked.

At that, a strangely bittersweet pang rocked through Misha. “They lived long lives, became members of their community, and died proud American citizens. I didn’t see them for a while, but my mentor Rafaela made sure that I got to see them a few times before they died,” he said. “There are still Volkovs in Minnesota. I suppose technically I’m a great uncle or a cousin five times removed by now.”

At that, Paris chuckled. “Uncle Misha,” he teased. Still holding Misha’s hands, he gently kissed his knuckles. “Thank you for telling me. If you were afraid it would make me think less of you, it doesn’t.”

“Thank you,” he said, letting out a nervous laugh. “Could we talk about something less serious?”

“I am an open book,” Paris said.

“That’s absolute bullshit and you know it,” Misha said. “Everything you say is wrapped in a dozen layers of pretense and guile.”

“Not with you,” Paris said earnestly. “Come back here.”

Misha grinned and slid back into bed. Paris rested one hand on his side, fingers lightly tracing his ribs. That simple touch felt like an electric connection, and for another brief, blinding moment, he saw that pulsing red thread. He could practically feel it beneath his fingers, searing and thrumming with energy.

“What less serious things should we talk about?” Paris asked.

“Why are you called Paris instead of Phillippe?”

“Doesn’t it suit me?” Paris said.

“Anything would suit you,” Misha said.

Paris laughed. “When I was first turned, there was another vampire in Eduardo’s court named Phillippe. After a while, people began to call him Phillippe du Carcassone, after his home city, while I was Phillippe du Paris. To be precise, I was from Marseille, but as far as Eduardo and Julian were concerned, they had found me in Paris and that was my story. I eventually conceded the name, as Monsieur Carcassone had seniority in the court, and was very irritated that he had to share it with a cocky new vampire.” He nudged Misha’s shoulder. “Why do you go by Misha?”

“It’s what my mother called me. And it sounds so much more approachable than Mikhail,” he said drily. “Does it not?”

At that, the other man laughed. “It does, especially when you say it like you’re firing a musket.” He pantomimed firing a gun as he pronounced Mikhail with a comically harsh tone.

“You would insult my native language?”

“All languages pale in comparison to French,” Paris said.

“Spoken like an obnoxious Frenchman.”

“I am an obnoxious Frenchman. How else could I speak?”

To his surprise, Paris laughed, then granted him another kiss that drove the thoughts from his mind. All his confidence and competence faded into the background with Paris’s mouth on his, Paris’s hands sliding up his back. It was not that this beautiful man made him feel weak or foolish, but rather that by comparison, nothing else was all that important. Paris felt like the sun, warm and bright and inevitable. For just a few minutes, Misha could simply exist in that glow.

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