by Sarah Piper
“Right about what?” he asked. “You’re the one who invited the bloody demons.”
Dorian pointed at the bar, where the vampires and the demons lined up a dozen bodies deep, all of them waiting for one of Jacinda’s magic brews. “Not six weeks past, you and I sat at that very bar after the Bloodbath massacre. And you told me the witch would be working for you, looking damn good while doing it, and winning customer service awards in no time.”
“Three for three,” Dorian’s woman Charlotte said, her hazel eyes glittering. Since their recent engagement, the pair had only become more disgustingly sappy. Everything seemed to make them smile now.
It ought to have turned his stomach, but deep down, Gabriel couldn’t have been happier for his brother.
Not that he’d ever show it.
“This calls for a toast.” Colin, who’d finally pulled himself away from his new medical practice long enough to share a few drinks tonight, raised a glass of warm blood, his dimples flashing. “To our little brother. Not only was he finally right about something, but he’s managed to survive for hours in an actual suit, trapped in a room full of drunk supernaturals, and he hasn’t committed a single murder yet.”
At this, Gabriel cracked a smile. “The night is still young, Dr. Redthorne.”
“To wonders never ceasing,” Dorian said with a broad grin. Then, with a note of true pride in his voice, “To Gabriel. To Obsidian. To fresh starts. Congratulations, brother.”
“Here, here,” Colin said, and all of them clinked glasses—Gabriel, his brothers and Aiden, Charlotte and her sister Sasha, Cole. Even Isabelle had turned up, everyone gathered to celebrate tonight’s grand opening, to show the supernatural world that in the wake of Augustus Redthorne’s death and the end of his terrible reign, the Redthorne royal family really was eager to welcome a new era of peace.
Dorian with his newly formed council and strategic alliances.
Gabriel with his club where all were welcome… until they weren’t.
On the surface, it seemed the evening had been a smashing success, both for the larger community as well as Gabriel’s family. Everywhere he looked, his patrons were enjoying themselves immensely, drinking too much and dancing just enough, laughing, forging new friendships and one-night affairs.
Here at the Redthorne’s table of honor, genuine affection and happiness flowed among his brothers as freely as the booze.
It was almost too good to be true. Too good to trust.
The empty place at the far end of the table, set with an untouched glass of blood and a white rose, was an ever-present reminder of just how fragile everything really was.
In the weeks since Malcolm’s betrayal and death, none of them had ventured to talk about it, but Gabriel knew their fallen brother was never far from anyone’s thoughts. Gabriel dreamed about him still, and sometimes, when Colin laughed a certain way, or Dorian gestured with his left hand instead of his right, or Gabriel caught his own gaze in the mirror at an odd angle, it felt as if Malcolm had returned to him, just for the briefest moment.
A hello? A goodbye? A warning? A figment of his imagination?
Perhaps a bit of everything.
Shaking off the morbid thoughts, Gabriel turned away from the empty space and looked around the club. In addition to Jacinda, he’d hired dozens of other servers. Most of them had transferred here from his former properties in Vegas, still owing him one favor or another. All of them had been chosen for their professionalism and discretion.
Yet his witch—who was neither professional nor discreet—had proved to be the most popular by far. With so many patrons waiting for her attention, it was as if the other bartenders and staff didn’t even exist.
Not that Gabriel could blame them.
Every time she leaned over the bar to hear another request, the straps of her top shifted, revealing another inch of creamy skin, another unexplored curve he wanted to map with his hands and mouth.
“Problem, Gabriel?” Dorian asked, grinning as if he knew something Gabriel did not.
“I’m not paying that devious little witch to flirt with the seedy supernatural underbelly of this city.”
“As a bonafide member of that seedy underbelly, I resemble that remark.” Cole, who’d surprised them all by washing the wolf stink from his hair for tonight’s celebration and donning a suit that wasn’t made of flannel, grinned. “Tell you what, Little Red. I’ll flirt with her for free if it’ll help get your princely panties out of a bunch.”
“Try it and you’ll be choking on my princely panties.” Gabriel tore his gaze from the bar and hissed into his bourbon. “She’s got them all under some sort of spell, no doubt.”
“Seems your patrons aren’t the only ones the witch has entranced,” Dorian said.
In the long silence that followed, Gabriel looked up to find all of them watching, some smirking, some outright laughing, all of them one more comment away from getting banned from Obsidian for life.
“Brilliant observation, King Shitehead.” Gabriel grabbed an ice cube from the champaign bucket and chucked it at his eldest brother’s smug face. “You do recall she’s the same witch who tried to murder you? Am I the only one who remembers?”
“And forcing her behind the bar is your idea of vengeance, then?” Dorian laughed. “I’m honored, brother. Truly. Remind me not to die in battle, lest you put the enemy troops to work mending your clothes and shining your floors.”
“That’ll teach ‘em to mess with you Redthornes,” Cole said, and they all cracked up.
“Forgive me, Gabriel.” Aiden rubbed his stubbled jaw as if he were deep in thought. “I’m a bit behind in royal politicking, not being a prince myself, but is it typical to provide one’s prisoners with a furnished apartment, a clothing allowance, and a paying job?”
“And tips,” Gabriel admitted, gritting his teeth. “What? It’s only fair. Bartending is grueling work.”
And she was damn near running herself ragged, too. Dashing back and forth from her customers to the register, mixing drinks, cutting fresh garnishes, smiling at even the worst of clients.
Fending off their filthy advances, no doubt.
Charlotte tried to hide her laughter with another sip of her wine. Failed miserably.
“I have a plan, you know.” Gabriel downed the last of his bourbon and set his glass on the table, harder than he’d meant to. Bloody hell, after fifty years apart, nary a word spoken among them, he’d forgotten what an exhausting lot his brothers could be. “Right now, Jacinda is our only link to Duchanes and our best shot at defeating this bloody curse. Or have you conveniently forgotten about that too?”
“And she’s on board with helping you?” Charlotte asked skeptically. “Honestly?
“Not only that,” he said with a smirk, “I think she’s actually starting to like me.” He thought back to the way she’d fixed his tie tonight, the soft touch of her hand on his chest.
Charlotte’s laughter exploded in earnest. “That is some serious Stockholm Syndrome shit right there.”
“I think I liked you better before you became a bloodsucker.”
Still laughing, Charlotte said, “And I never liked you, so I’m actually okay with that.”
Sasha piped in next. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Gabe, but if kidnapping is your idea of building trust and getting someone to like you, you probably need therapy. My interpersonal psychology professor says—”
“Don’t call me Gabe. Bloody hell, girl. Are you even old enough to be in here?”
Sasha shrugged and picked up her caramel appletini. “I’ve got connections.”
“Perhaps I should kick them out as well.”
Sasha laughed and stuck out her tongue, and Gabriel couldn’t help but smile. Even in her most annoying moments, Sasha’s exuberance had a way of making everyone laugh. That, along with the fact that Aiden was damn near in love with the girl, was the only reason Gabriel had allowed her to break the no-humans rule.
“It’s been well over a mon
th,” Colin said. “Chernikov’s demons are all but gone. No trouble from Duchanes. Perhaps he’s given up.”
“No word from Duchanes is not the equivalent of no trouble.” Gabriel looked out across the sea of supernatural faces crowded into the club—vampires and demons from every powerful family in New York, witches and mages, shifters he’d never even seen before. “Someone must know something. Must have heard a rumor, a whisper. Vampires like Renault Duchanes don’t simply ride off into the sunset, never to be heard from again.”
“Perhaps he met an untimely death at the end of a pointy object?” Charlotte offered.
“You know damn well luck don’t work that way, Charles,” Cole said, and Gabriel nodded. As much as the thought of Duchanes impaling himself on a stake filled him with a special kind of joy… No. He’d know it if the bastard were dead. He’d feel it.
“It’s opening night, brother,” Dorian said, clamping a hand over Gabriel’s shoulder. “Enjoy yourself. Whatever secrets are locked up inside the hearts and minds of these reprobates, they’ll still be lurking there tomorrow.”
“Now, about this witch,” Aiden whispered to Sasha, as if none of the rest could hear. “I do believe he’s got a bit of a crush.”
Sasha giggled, looking younger than even nineteen. “Ya think?”
“All right, brothers.” Gabriel rose from the table, eager to leave his meddling family behind. “Enough gossip.”
“Bored of us already?” Colin asked.
“Not so much bored as longing for the days when we skipped the chit-chat and jumped right to beating the bloody hell out of one another.” He laughed, a bit of the knot unbunching from his so-called princely panties. “Enjoy your evening, brothers. I need to mingle, lest our unsavory guests forget who’s actually hosting this night of debauchery.”
“You’re going to charm the secrets out of them, aren’t you?” Charlotte asked with a sly smile.
“I’m starting to understand why my brother keeps you around,” he teased, leaning in to kiss his future sister-in-law’s cheek. “When you’re not busy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, you’re actually pretty damned brilliant.”
Chapter Twelve
The booze, the music, and the blood supply were holding strong.
Gabriel’s patience, however, was not.
In the hours since he’d left his brothers, he’d been propositioned by no less than a dozen female vampires, groped by several of the males, jostled, spilled upon, crashed into, and—thanks to a trio of drunk, overeager alpha wolves trying to impress their fated mates with their terribly uncoordinated dance moves—suffered no less than three broken toes.
Thank the bloody devil for vampire healing.
Despite the abuse he’d suffered at the hands—and feet—of his own patrons, Gabriel was no closer to learning anything about Duchanes as he was the day he’d interrogated Jacinda.
Either the bloody supernaturals didn’t understand his less-than-direct questions, or they were all playing hardball.
Now, standing on the balcony that overlooked the main level, he watched his brothers at a distance, laughing and sharing stories. He wished he could join them—forget about politics for one more night. He couldn’t recall a time when they’d all seemed so genuinely happy.
Certainly not while their father had been alive.
A wave of revulsion rose in his chest, but he swallowed it down. Augustus Redthorne was a dark cloud whose passing had brought long-sought relief, finally given them permission to breathe again.
But the previous king’s passing had also come with complications—one of them being Renault Duchanes, the bastard Augustus had allegedly sired… and then promptly scorned.
Leaning over the balcony railing, Gabriel scanned the crowd, wondering who among them might be harboring his family’s enemy. Who among them might be willing, for the right price, to betray that enemy’s trust.
And what was that right price? Money? Allegiance?
Jacinda. The name whispered through his mind. Not for the first time, he wondered how badly Duchanes wanted his witch returned. If he wanted her returned at all.
Fuck. Everything was always so bloody complicated in this city. In Vegas, Gabriel had built an empire that catered to every man’s sins simply so he could cash in on them later, every indulgence a down payment on some future favor owed. The strategy had served him well, but he was beginning to think he couldn’t replicate it in New York.
Never before had that fact been so clear. Here among the supernatural elite, leverage was less about sin and more about subtlety. The fine art of pressure and persuasion.
Politics.
With Augustus dead and gone, the game belonged to his brother now, and he would’ve loved nothing more than to leave Dorian to it.
But Dorian couldn’t do it alone. Not if he wanted to survive.
Shame burned in his gut, that old, sharp-edged companion. Fifty years ago, he’d walked away from his brother during the darkest days of his life. At the time, he thought it was his only option.
Gabriel wouldn’t make that mistake again.
He would find Renault Duchanes and tear the heart from his chest. He would break this dark curse. He would protect his family in all the ways their father never had.
“There you are, Prince!” The exasperated call broke into his thoughts, and Gabriel turned to see Jacinda speeding toward him along the narrow balcony, her face flushed. “Shit! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Panting slightly, she propped a hip against the balcony, her bare stomach glistening, the lean muscles of her abdomen rising and falling with every rapid breath.
Alarm spiked in his chest, and he reached out to cradle her elbow. “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, we’re just… We’re out of mint.” She sucked in another breath and glanced up at him, her blue eyes wide, cheeks pink. “Just wondered if you’d stashed it somewhere I hadn’t checked? I really thought we’d ordered enough.”
“Mint?”
She laughed. “You know, leafy green stuff? Goes in drinks? Tastes… minty?”
“Bloody hell, woman. If we’re out, we’re out. Use peppermint schnapps.”
She looked at him as though he’d just suggested the blood of live puppies.
“I thought something happened,” he tried to explain. Too gruff. Too cold.
“Um. Something did happen.” She spoke slowly, as if he were a dense child. “We ran out of mint. I can’t make my Heart of Thorns without it.”
“Then make something else, for fuck’s sake!”
“Seriously?” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re mad at me because I want fresh mint?”
Gabriel pressed his lips together, trying not to taste the scent of her blood. Her skin. Even now, knowing she was perfectly safe, he still couldn’t shake off the bad mojo.
Seeing her running toward him like that, nearly breathless…
No, it wasn’t anger that had him on edge. It was fear.
For a split second, he’d thought she’d been threatened or hurt, and it had fucking scared him. Not because he’d lose his so-called leverage or his connection to Duchanes and the curse.
But because he didn’t want her to come to harm at Obsidian.
He didn’t want anything bad to happen to her, period.
A new wave of anger washed through him, this time at himself. He’d taken the witch against her will. He’d been holding her captive for over a month, barely sparing a single kindness. Everything he did for her—the clothes, the apartment, the supplies—was all in his own best interest.
So why the fuck was he suddenly so concerned about her well-being?
“You’re the head bartender, Jacinda,” he snapped. “Figure it out.”
Hurt rippled in her gaze, but then it vanished, replaced with her usual fire. “Message received, dickhead. Guess I’ll just give ’em boring-ass rum and cokes instead.”
“I don’t care what you give them. Don’t ever raise the alarm for something so
ridiculously mundane again.” He released her elbow and stomped off, back down the spiral staircase to the main level and straight out into the misty Manhattan night.
He returned fifteen minutes later with a grocery bag full of her precious mint—packets of clipped leaves, jars of dried ones, bottles of extract, three potted plants she could tend to her heart’s content, and—just to be extra rotten—three packs of spearmint gum and a bottle of mouthwash.
Finding her behind the bar once more, Gabriel elbowed his way through the throng of eager patrons and passed over the bag.
She eyed him skeptically, then finally peeked inside, a smile lighting up her face. “Are you serious right now?”
“I smell like toothpaste right now,” he grumbled.
“Thank you, this is perfect!” She beamed at him again, the earlier hurt and anger replaced with something much sweeter. Much more dangerous. “If you weren’t such a dickhead, Prince, I might actually kiss you for this.”
“Fortunately for both of us, I am such a dickhead.”
Jacinda’s smile didn’t falter. She held his gaze, her eyes bright and beautiful in the dim space. A few more of her curls had fallen loose, skimming her silver-dusted shoulders. All around them, vampires and demons and mages chattered on, laughing, shouting. Music floated on the air, the heavy base thrumming through his bones. But for a moment, everything faded to a din, leaving Gabriel and Jacinda suspended in time and space, connected by that strange, electromagnetic current.
Maybe it was magic.
Maybe it was imagination.
Maybe it was all a fucking game.
Her glossy red smile finally faded. She bit her lower lip. Gabriel stared at her mouth, wondering what she tasted like. What her tongue felt like. Whether their kiss would be soft or ravenous. Whether his lips on hers would unleash a sigh or a moan.
Whether she’d call him dickhead or Prince or Gabriel…
Heat pulsed through his cock. Again, he tried to convince himself that his need—his obsession—was strategic. Duchanes. The curse. A bartender. Something safe. Logical.
