Dark Seduction: A Vampire Romance (Vampire Royals of New York Book 2)

by Sarah Piper

  Charlotte sighed, a chill rattling her limbs.

  Dorian was still hard, still aching with need, but the dark spell that had ensnared them both had finally dissipated, the sparks between them fizzling like fire in the rain.

  He pulled away from her, and they reassembled their clothing in silence, Charlotte’s cheeks dark, her eyes veiled.

  “I’m… sorry,” Dorian said. “For the unfortunate interruption.”

  She nodded, still not meeting his eyes. Then, in a weary, defeated voice, she said, “My sister and I are going back to the city tomorrow, Dorian. I won’t budge on that.”

  He nodded, knowing there was nothing more he could do to convince her to stay, short of taking her prisoner. “I’ll have Jameson take you home whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But… Charlotte?” He waited for her to meet his eyes again, then said, “My brothers and I will be keeping watch over you and Sasha as needed. I don’t trust your uncle or Rogozin, and just because we haven’t heard from Duchanes since the attack doesn’t mean he’s not still a threat to you.”

  Dorian held his breath, expecting her to fight back, to hit him with one of her feisty Charlotte-isms.

  Do it, he thought. Break through my walls, shatter my chains. All I need is one solid hit. Just fucking do it…

  But Charlotte only sighed, resignation filling her eyes. “I guess that’s probably a good idea.”

  A good idea. Yes, very practical. Perfectly reasonable.

  Perfectly fucking awful.

  Dorian didn’t want good ideas. He wanted bad ones. The ones that left them tearing at each other’s clothes, pulling hair, sucking and biting and tasting…

  “Goodnight, Dorian.” Charlotte yawned.

  “You’re going to bed?”

  “You’re… needed elsewhere. And I’m wiped. Today was a long day, and I want to get up early tomorrow—try to beat rush hour.”

  With nothing left to say, Dorian walked her back inside and watched her disappear up the stairs, forcing himself to stop thinking about the taste of her, the feel of her, the uncomfortable bulge in his pants—a constant hazard in her presence.

  For all his talk, Dorian knew the truth, right down to his soft fucking heart.

  She was the one who owned him.

  And once again, he’d let her slip away.

  Chapter Twenty

  The meeting was brief but grim. Gabriel had been asked to deliver a message from Malcolm, who’d been staying in the city since their argument and still wasn’t speaking directly to Dorian. Three dead humans had just been discovered in the service alley behind Bloodbath, beaten and exsanguinated, clearly the work of vampires.

  They hadn’t even attempted to hide the bodies.

  Malcolm believed it was a message from Duchanes—retaliation for the police raid against his nightclub.

  Dorian agreed, the news darkening his already oil-black mood.

  Vampires attacking humans in Manhattan. Grays attacking upstate. Demons plotting against them all.

  They were living in a powder keg, holding their collective breath to see which of the many matches would strike first.

  It was time for Dorian to make his move.

  After wishing his brother goodnight, he locked himself in his bedroom, ignoring the depressing sight of his empty bed, and called Cole.

  Despite the late hour, the wolf answered on the first ring.

  “What’re we in for, Red?” he asked.

  “I need someone who can bullshit his way through a conversation about art. Someone who can pose as an eccentric but wealthy collector.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Aiden and I can set up the meeting, but I can’t meet the dealer face-to-face. He’ll recognize me at once and immediately suspect foul play.”

  “Who’s the dealer?”

  “A high-ranking Rogozin demon by the name of Vincent Estas.”

  Cole hissed into the phone. “Fucking demons.”

  “My sentiments exactly. I don’t suppose you know anyone who might be willing to play the part?”

  “Yeah, you know what?” he asked, and Dorian could already hear the grin in his voice. “I got the perfect guy in mind. Artsy, rugged, devastatingly handsome. A wolfish charm, some might say.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they might.”

  “When do we roll?”

  “Soon—I’ll let you know. But Cole, you can’t wear flannel. You realize that, right?”

  “Believe it or not, Red, I do own a suit.” Cole laughed. “It’s older ’n shit, but still fits like a glove. Powder blue too. Real nice.”

  Dorian sighed. “Send me your measurements, wolf. I’m calling my tailor at once.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fuck. That. Guy.

  By the time Charley and Sasha returned to the city the next morning, Charley was on fire with determination.

  She had a new assignment. No, not one from her asshole boss. One she’d given herself. One she couldn’t wait to accomplish.

  The credit card disaster may have thrown her for a hell of a loop, but Jersey girls were nothing if not resourceful. If Uncle Rudy thought she was going down that easily, he was in for a rude fucking awakening.

  Hopefully in a coffin. Nailed shut. Encased in cement. Dropped in the ocean.

  She felt it in her gut—the sea change coming her way, the vestiges of her old life drying up and falling away like the autumn leaves. It was time to bring the bastard down. Time to find her way out of the game. Time to start over.

  And with the help of one very dark, impossibly sexy vampire, Charley was going to do just that.

  But first? She needed to figure out this money situation.

  And that meant hitting the pause button—better yet, the delete button—on the fantasy playing on repeat in her mind.

  Dorian’s commanding tone, making her wet with every word.

  That smart mouth is going to get you in trouble one day, Ms. D’Amico…

  His hot kiss, descending on her flesh.

  Is that what you want, little prowler?

  His tongue, deep and relentless and divine.

  Tell me what else you want from your monster, love…

  Nope.

  Delete, delete, delete.

  Last night was a mistake. An epic, heat-of-the-moment, ought-to-be-illegal mistake that needed to make like her Miss Demeanor profile and go poof.

  From that moment forward, Charley was officially on the VDD—Vampire Dick Detox. And by dick, she also meant mouth. And fingers. And…

  Focus, girl. Focus.

  Standing inside her penthouse, her head at least eighty percent back in the game, Charley took a deep breath, downed an espresso, and got to work.

  All she needed was one idea. One game-changing idea that would save her suddenly broke ass and end her dependence on Rudy for good.

  You’ve got this, girl. Come on.

  It was true. Despite her monied existence, Charley knew how to tighten the purse strings. It was a hard lesson, but one she’d mastered quickly after her mother walked out, leaving Charley and her dad in the double-wide they’d rented, nothing to call their own but a few half-empty cupboards and a rusty 1990s Toyota Corolla with questionable brakes.

  Somehow, with a bit of sacrifice and a whole lot of ingenuity, the D’Amico dad-and-daughter duo had made it work, finding creative ways to weather the storm until her father discovered his true calling as a criminal mastermind, finally launching them into wealth and status.

  Illegitimate wealth and status, but a status that had kept her fed and comfortable for a long, long time.

  Charley looked around the penthouse now, taking stock of her beautiful furniture, the pristine home accessories, the luxury items lining her multiple closets.

  She’d come a long way from her trailer park days, but as the saying went…

  You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl.

  And
just like that, the scrappy, resourceful Jersey girl re-emerged.

  And that bitch knew just what to do.

  Charley grinned, the idea solidifying in her mind.

  No, she didn’t have cash.

  But she did have a whole lot of expensive shit—shit Rudy had paid for. Shit that could be sold, pawned, and quickly converted into those sweet, beautiful greenbacks she so desperately needed.

  Starting with the closet full of designer dresses she’d never actually liked, shoes that made her feet hurt, and jewelry she’d rather flush down the toilet than wear again, Charley got busy.

  One outfit at a time, she dressed and accessorized herself like Barbie, shooting enough selfies for a celebrity Instagram feed. Each outfit reminded her of its corresponding heist—the forest green wrap dress and emerald tennis bracelet from the Killian job, the black pantsuit from the Washburn-Higgins job, the sable sweater dress and Louboutin pumps from the Porterfield assignment. As she stripped them from her body and placed them in the sale pile, she felt like she was shedding more of those desiccated leaves, revealing the soft, new growth underneath, almost ready to emerge.

  A few hours later, one quick posting on her building’s community Facebook page—Dozens of luxury brands! Gently used—some never even worn! Cash only, everything must go!—and the penthouse “garage” sale was officially on.

  By lunchtime, her neighbors had already shelled out over a thousand bucks, more than happy to take the beautiful dresses and jewels off her hands.

  To them, it was a steal.

  To Charley, who was done with stealing, it was a lifesaver.

  No, a thousand bucks wasn’t enough to live on in New York City—not for long. And maybe it was small potatoes for someone like her billionaire vampire social media tycoon.

  But still. They were Charley’s fucking potatoes.

  And for the first time in her life, she started to see the faintest glimmer of light illuminating a new path. The one that would lead her and Sasha out of the now and into the someday she’d been dreaming about.

  By the end of the day, Charley had a lot more space in her closets… and close to three grand in cash in her hot little hands. She stashed the day’s earnings in a box of tampons in her bathroom and grinned at herself in the mirror, that tiny ember of hope inside flickering back to life, warming her heart.

  Operation Fuck That Guy was in full effect.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Half a million,” Aiden said, leaning back in Dorian’s FierceConnect office chair and propping his feet on the desk. “That’s as low as the man is willing to go.”

  Cole let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of dough for a statue of a cat, Red.”

  “Technically, she’s a lion,” Aiden said. “Well, half lion, half woman. Sekhmet was an ancient Egyptian warrior goddess known for drinking the blood of her enemies.”

  Cole grunted. “You don’t say?”

  “It was actually her downfall. After a particularly brutal slaughter, she was so crazed with bloodlust, the only way the gods could stop her from destroying all of mankind was to trick her into getting hammered on beer they’d dyed to look like blood. Quite crafty, that lot.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” Dorian scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Cat, lion, blood of the enemy, what did it matter? Five hundred grand—in cash, no less—for a gilded statue the size of his arm in which Dorian had absolutely no interest… It was bloody extortion.

  Still, his gamble had paid off, and for that, he was grateful.

  Dorian knew he needed to get close to Estas. He was the link who could eventually reveal—intentionally or not—the demon connection to Charlotte’s uncle, along with other damning evidence they could use against the rotten bastard. After reviewing Charlotte’s list of the artwork from the One Night Stand heist, the idea had taken root.

  Apparently, the collector they’d robbed was particularly fond of the Egyptian deity; the list contained several statues and busts. Hoping Estas still had access to at least one of them, Dorian had Aiden contact the demon, posing as the assistant of a wealthy collector interested in Egyptian art.

  Emphasis on wealthy.

  Now, they had the demon on the hook. As for their next move, that’s where Cole came in, posing as the collector interested in the statue. If all went according to plan, he’d meet with Estas, make the buy, and establish a rapport.

  Dorian wasn’t sure what came next. Getting a foot in the door had to come first. He’d figure out the rest later.

  “He wouldn’t budge on price,” Aiden said.

  “I suppose I haven’t got a choice, then,” Dorian said.

  Aiden shrugged. “Not if we want to get close to Estas. A real wheeler-dealer, this demon. Cole needs to earn his trust, mate. Cash is the only way to prove we’re serious. Unless you’d rather your pretty little thief be involved.”

  Dorian glared at Aiden, but there was no real ire behind it, just as there was no ire behind Aiden’s dig.

  This morning, as they drove together from Ravenswood to the city, he’d finally come clean to Aiden about Charlotte’s involvement in the planned heist. He’d already told Cole and didn’t want to keep his best friend in the dark.

  Aiden was understandably upset—he’d grown rather fond of Charlotte and her sister during their brief stay at Ravenswood—but in the end, he was on Dorian’s side.

  If Dorian was willing to set aside his anger and mistrust in order to help her, then so was Aiden.

  Cole had expressed the same sentiments.

  Dorian was more than grateful for the backup, but setting up a deal over the phone was very different from meeting the vile demon in person. And not just any demon, but a demon who worked for their enemies, dealt in black-market art, and was very likely connected to the murder of Charlotte’s father.

  Just like her bloody uncle.

  “Estas works for Rogozin,” Dorian said. “We aren’t exactly walking into friendly territory. And Cole’s going in as a spy. If anything were to tip Estas off about our true motives…”

  Dorian sighed. He didn’t need to spell it out; demonic hellfire could roast a wolf shifter as easily as it could a vampire.

  But it was more than that. Much more.

  Aiden narrowed his eyes, immediately picking up on Dorian’s unease.

  “Why are you so cagey?” Aiden asked.

  As usual, the vampire could see right through him.

  Dorian pulled the top folder from the stack on his desk and tossed it to Aiden.

  “What’s this?” He flipped through it, scanning the report.

  “It’s the dark witch’s analysis and tracking details on the pouch Cole found on that gray.”

  “Bloody hell,” Aiden whispered. “They’re resurrecting them?”

  “That was her assessment, yes.”

  “But how? When the grays die, they turn to ash as sure as any other bloodsucker.”

  “Not if they’ve got one of those pouches.” Dorian clenched his jaw, reining in his frustration.

  According to Chernikov’s witch, the pouch contained the symbols and ingredients of two extremely ancient, extremely advanced, and highly illegal demonic spells. One prolonged the precise moment of death indefinitely, preventing a slaughtered vampire from turning to ash. The other resurrected him, infusing him with demonic energy that allowed him to essentially rise from death again and again to continue his mindless mission.

  Fuck. Kill. Feed.

  It meant that the grays wearing those amulets couldn’t be killed—not unless the pouches were removed or destroyed first.

  And since grays couldn’t heal like other vampires, whatever wounds they sustained, whatever killing blows, they’d suffer through them without reprieve.

  Dorian almost felt sorry for the gruesome creatures. Their existence wasn’t comfortable by any means, nor was it their fault. The dark amulets only ensured their endless torment. And, if enough could be produced, made for one hell of an indestructible army—particularly against humans
. Not because the amulets were difficult to remove, but because—according to the witch, anyway—they were just the first-pass prototypes.

  In her opinion, it was highly likely the witch who’d created the spells would continue to refine them, eventually devising something that didn’t require the grays to wear anything external—anything that could be destroyed.

  Dorian summarized the rest of the witch’s findings, sparing Aiden the trouble of further reading.

  “Now, that’s some six-ways-from-Sunday fucked-up shit,” Cole said, scratching his beard. “I don’t suppose Chernikov’s witch has any idea who’s makin’ these things?”

  “She knows exactly who’s making them.” Dorian sighed, recalling the kind, blue-eyed witch he’d met at his fundraiser. The same witch who’d—under Duchanes orders and probably a good bit of duress—devised the poison that had nearly decimated him. “Jacinda Colburn. The witch bound to House Duchanes.”

  “And the hits just keep on coming,” Aiden said. Then, glancing at Cole, “Dorian’s right to be concerned, mate. Maybe we should find another way to get to Estas. If he’s working for Rogozin, and they’re involved in this business with resurrecting grays, I don’t think you should go anywhere near it.”

  “Look,” Cole said. “I appreciate the concern, guys. But you said it yourself, Red. We want evidence against this Rudy sonofabitch? Estas is our man. We follow the stolen art—that’s our best shot. Besides, if I ran off with my tail between my legs from every demon, dark witch, and bloodsucker to cross my path, they’d probably castrate me and revoke my membership card to the shifter race.”

  Dorian wanted to argue, but he’d learned long ago that once Cole set his mind on something, there was no talking him out of it.

  Especially when he’d made a promise to a friend.

  Besides, this truly was their best shot. If there was evidence to be found against Rudy D’Amico, it started with Vincent Estas. Dorian knew it in his gut.

  Dorian leaned forward, knocking Aiden’s feet off the desk and turning back to Cole. “You realize you’re putting yourself at great personal risk, Cole.”