by Sarah Piper
He left without another word, Malcolm trailing after him, shaking his head as if he were judge and jury in all things Redthorne. Aiden offered a sympathetic smile, then followed them out, leaving Dorian and Charlotte to work through their monumental differences alone.
“Tell me one thing, Dorian,” she said. Some of her anger had faded, but she still gripped the fire poker. “And don’t lie to me.”
“You have my word.” Maybe his word didn’t mean much to her in that moment, but Dorian felt the need to offer it anyway.
She turned away from him, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him another second—couldn’t bear to see his face when she finally asked the question on her mind. “The times we were… together. Did you compel me to be with you?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” he said gently.
More than anything he wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms, to show her with his touch and his kiss when every last word had utterly failed. But he couldn’t—not now. She was too upset. Too angry.
“Really?” she snapped. “Because an hour ago, I thought I knew a lot of things. Primarily, that vampires were a myth. Yet here you are, tearing out people’s hearts, turning them into—”
“Not people, Charlotte. Vampires.” His composure crumpled, the reminder of how close she’d come to death unleashing a new fury inside him. “Duchanes vampires who would’ve done unspeakable things to you, bled you dry, and tossed your corpse in the river without so much as a backward glance had Gabriel and I not intervened.”
“Duchanes? As in, the same asshole from the auction? I saw him earlier.”
Dorian nodded solemnly. “The vampires that attacked you were members of House Duchanes.”
“House Duchanes? What does that even mean?”
“Essentially, a house is a vampire coven or family—usually one of considerable means.”
She took in the information, her brow furrowing. “That means you and Malcolm and everyone… You’re House Redthorne?”
“Precisely.”
“One of the vampires who attacked me… He said something about the Royal Redthornes. Are you guys…” She swallowed hard, shaking her head as if the word had gotten stuck inside. “Are you royalty?”
Dorian folded his arms over his chest, impatience flaring. “Yes, the Redthornes are the ruling vampire royal family. But that’s hardly the crucial—”
“You’re a prince, then?”
Silently he held her gaze, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he waited for her to figure it out.
“King?” Charley pressed a hand to her throat, her voice notching up a few octaves. “You’re a fucking vampire king?”
Dorian closed his eyes, the reality of the situation descending upon him like a storm.
Charlotte had somehow broken his compulsion, shattering even his previously successful attempts. It was a nearly impossible feat for a human—one that had even eluded hunters trained for centuries to resist vampire magic.
Yet here she was, a woman who’d entered his life like a tempest, unravelling every spell, reclaiming every memory he’d stolen, turning his entire world upside down.
And now, she’d be immune to all future attempts at compulsion—from Dorian or any other vampire. Within the walls of Ravenswood and without, anything she heard, anything she witnessed would remain lodged in her memories until the day she died.
To say she was a risk was a gross understatement. She had the power to expose him, to destroy his family and their kind. To destroy everything his father—for good and for ill—had built and protected.
Now, it was Dorian’s responsibility to keep this family safe. To keep their secrets buried, no matter how much his brothers despised him.
By all means, he should end her life. Take care of it, just like Gabriel had demanded.
But for Dorian, it was too late. His heart would not allow it, no matter how great a risk she posed.
Charlotte was nearly murdered by the beasts of House Duchanes—a near-miss that had filled him with a terror darker than any he’d ever known, even in his bleakest hours.
Tonight, as Dorian carried her unconscious body up the hill, he’d made a solemn vow to protect her.
And he intended to keep it… or die trying.
But he wasn’t about to share that with Charlotte.
“Not a vampire king, Ms. D’Amico.” He blurred into her space and wrenched the fire poker from her hands, hurling it into the wall with a force that splintered the oak wainscoting. “The vampire king. So unless you’re eager to find out just how much power a two-and-a-half-centuries-old royal vampire whose already developed a taste for your blood possesses, never threaten me again.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
A fresh string of profanities gathered on Charley’s tongue, but before she could let ‘em rip, Dorian folded her into his arms, lifted her off the ground, and tipped the whole world sideways.
Charley’s stomach dropped right down to her feet, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut to stem the tide of nausea. When she finally opened them again, she and her captor were no longer in the study.
“What the hell did you do?” she breathed.
“It’s called a blur.”
“Yeah? I’m pretty sure you left my internal organs behind.”
Dorian kicked a door closed behind them, then set her on her feet.
“Just breathe,” he said again—refrain of the hour. “The feeling will pass.”
She did as he asked, and the new room slowly sharpened into focus.
The master bedroom.
It was massive and imposing, with deep red walls, dark wood paneling, and gorgeous hardwood floors covered in Turkish rugs. Ornate tapestries hung over the windows, and every piece of furniture looked as if it belonged in some ancient British castle rather than in a mansion in Upstate New York.
A colossal four-poster bed dominated the back wall, each intricately carved column the size of a small tree. The whole thing was topped by a huge oak tester, with black-and-gold damask curtains hung from each corner.
The room was truly fit for a king.
A creepy one.
“I take it this is your bedroom, highness?” she asked, forcing a little more sass into her voice. As it was, her skin was covered in goosebumps, her heartbeat thrumming at a fevered pitch.
Vampires.
They were all vampires.
Her brain was still railing against the idea, even though she knew—deep down—it was true.
Malcolm, with his holier-than-thou attitude and mistrustful eyes. Gabriel, the brother with the biggest stick up his ass. Colin, with his kind dimples and shiny hair. Aiden, with his cute jokes and sparkling eyes. The men that had attacked her.
Even Dorian, a man she’d been inexplicably drawn to from the start—the proverbial moth to the flame.
“It is,” he finally replied.
“You blurred me up to your bedroom?” Charlotte let out a nervous laugh. “I think you were confusing my screams of protest with my screams of passion.”
“Not likely. I can assure you, the difference is quite distinct.”
“Then let me make something even more distinct. This?” She gestured between the two of them. “…is not happening. And don’t you dare try any of that compulsion bullshit again. There’s a word for that, Dorian. Forcing a woman to—”
“I’ve already told you—I did not compel your desire. Even if it were possible, it’s a line I would never cross.”
“Why?” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against one of the bed’s oak columns. “Because you’re such a nice chap?”
His eyes blazed again, two embers in a face of stone. “Because even the most evil among us have their limits.”
A shiver rolled through her body, but she stood her ground. “Then how does it work? You just… erase people’s memories whenever you feel like it?”
Dorian shoved a hand through his hair, clearly flustered.
&n
bsp; But Charlotte wasn’t going to let this drop.
“A skilled vampire can compel humans to forget recent events or conversations,” he said. “He can manipulate memories to make you believe you saw something other than the truth. He can order you to perform certain acts, or say certain words, or even take your own life. But he cannot compel a woman to want him.” He stepped closer, trapping her against the column, glaring down at her with those intense eyes. Then, brushing his fingertips across her collarbone and taking a deep draw of breath, “He cannot compel her body to respond to his touch, nor to create the unmistakable scent of her darkest desires.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, the shiver finally breaking through, rattling her from head to toe.
It would’ve been so easy to give in. To push aside everything she’d seen tonight—to bury it with her guilt and shame and all the other dark things she kept locked in a box—and fall into his eager embrace.
But she wouldn’t. Not this time.
She looked up at him again and shook her head. “I’m not sleeping with you tonight, Dorian. Forget it.”
Dorian sighed and took a step back, breaking their connection. “I didn’t bring you here for sex, Charlotte.”
“So we’re gonna sit around and play Scrabble, then?” She shoved against the column behind her, but it was as immovable as solid stone. “God, this thing was probably made in the middle ages.”
“Renaissance, actually.” He glared at her, broody as ever.
“Seriously? Fine. I’ve got a better game. Twenty questions. Me first.” She popped her hands on her hips and glared right back at him. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you’re a… a bloodsucking vampire king?”
“And when, pray tell, would I have done that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe before you—”
He rushed at her again, wrapping her in another impossible embrace, pinning her arms at her sides. His mouth was so close, she thought he might bite.
Images of their insane kiss in the basement flashed through her mind, the coppery tang of blood lingering in her mouth.
“Before I what?” his whispered. New fire raged in his eyes, a hot mix of lust and anger, and beneath his firm hold, Charlotte felt the unmistakable power coursing through his veins. It wasn’t just his superstrength, his speed, his commanding tone. It was something that ran much deeper, pulsing from the very core of his being.
A two-and-a-half-centuries-old vampire king…
Charley swallowed the knot of fear in her throat, trying to remain absolutely still. She didn’t think there was a right answer to his question, and even if there was, she didn’t trust herself to keep her voice steady.
But rather than press her for a response, Dorian simply released her, turned his back, and headed for the door. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
“Wait. That’s it?” She followed after him, mind reeling from the whiplash he’d caused. “You dropped the biggest bomb in history on me, and now you’re leaving?”
“You’ve made it quite clear you’re not looking for company tonight.”
“Company, no. Answers, yes.”
Keeping his back turned, he lowered his head and said, “I’ll answer your questions, but first I need to discuss some things with my brothers.”
“Brothers, right. You mean your vampire coven? House? Whatever?”
“In this case, I mean both.”
The words felt heavy and cold, and they hung in the air between them, setting Charley’s mind spinning again.
The men he’d introduced as his brothers were also his vampire house. So that meant… They were also literally his brothers?
How was that possible, unless…
Oh, God. Dorian, Malcolm, Gabriel, Colin… they’d been turned into vampires at the same time. Maybe even Aiden too.
A tiny arrow of sympathy pinged her heart, cracking the hard wall she’d tried so hard to plaster over it.
She drew a breath to ask another question—a million other questions—but Dorian was already shutting down, his shoulders bunching with tension, the air thickening between them.
“As I said, I’ll return as soon as I can,” he said. “In the meantime—”
“Wait! My driver!” Charley blurted out, suddenly realizing she’d lost her purse in the mayhem. She hadn’t texted Travis about her plans to stay. “I must’ve dropped my phone in the gardens. If he doesn’t hear from me, he’ll come looking—”
“He already has.” Dorian turned and glared at her, a flash of triumph shining in his eyes. “I told him you wouldn’t be requiring his services, as you’re staying the weekend.”
Charley folded her arms across her chest again, biting back a smile. She really wanted to be pissed right now, but the idea of Travis slithering his way out of an argument with Dorian made her damn near giddy. “And he accepted that?”
“Not… at first.”
Her eyes widened, but Dorian shook his head.
“I compelled him to accept it. And then I compelled him to hand over your belongings and return to the dank hole from which he slithered forth.”
At that, a small laugh escaped. “Sometimes, I call him the Snake.”
Dorian offered a thin smile in return, but the momentary levity wasn’t enough to erase everything that’d happened.
Charley let out a heavy sigh. Her own guilt and deceptions collided in her mind with Dorian’s, all the secrets and lies exploding into an epic headache. But right now, she couldn’t give in to the pain, couldn’t share any more laughs with Dorian Redthorne.
She needed to hold onto her righteous anger.
Yeah, she was a thief and a con and a total fucking fraud, and she was most likely going to hell.
But he was an immortal monster. And from the looks of things, she was about ten seconds from becoming that monster’s captive.
“You can’t keep me here,” she said anyway, as if the words alone would make it true.
“I can, and I will.”
“So I’m your prisoner?”
“You’re my responsibility.” Dorian sighed, his shoulders sagging under some new weight. “What those vampires did to you tonight was an act of war, and my brother and I responded in kind. By killing members of another greater vampire house on our property, House Redthorne has drawn a line in the sand that cannot be undrawn. You are as much a target as we are now, and there’s no telling how and when House Duchanes will attack again—only that they will. So when I tell you to stay put, Charlotte, trust that I have my reasons.”
“But I—”
“And trust that it’s not a request.”
“Dorian, wait—”
He left in another one of those annoying blurs, no more than a smudge in her periphery, slamming and bolting the door behind him.
Charley ran to it and yanked on the ornate handle, but it was no use.
He’d locked her in.
Trapped.
Caged.
Imprisoned.
Adrenaline flooded her insides.
“Fuck this bullshit right now.” She darted over to a window, shoving aside the massive tapestries and pushing up the sash. Cool night air slid over her skin, bringing with it some of the calm rationality she’d abandoned the moment she’d seen Dorian in a tux tonight.
How can a man who looks that good be so damn bad?
She didn’t have the answers. All Charley knew was she hated that he’d locked her in here, that he’d given her orders, that he’d used his considerable power against her. She hated that she’d become a target in some vampire war that was probably going on long before she came into the picture and would continue long after she left.
Most of all, she hated herself for the truth, shining bright no matter how desperately she kept trying to paint over it.
She craved that immortal monster’s touch. Now, more than ever.
“I need to get the hell out of here.”
Glancing out the window, she tried to calculate how far the drop
was. It was too dark to tell, but pretty damn obvious that an escape attempt from here would only end one way: with Charley splattering on the cobblestones below.
She fisted her hair, growling in frustration.
The door was bolted. The windows too dangerous. She had no phone. There was no way out.
Not until Dorian fucking Redthorne decided to set her free.
Dorian fucking vampire Redthorne, she amended.
In a flash, all of Sasha’s vampire books and movies rushed through Charley’s mind. Vampires had weaknesses, didn’t they? Garlic, holy water, stakes…
Stakes. That was it.
She scanned the bedroom, her eyes landing on a spindled table beside the bed. She removed the antique lamp that sat on top, gripped the table with both hands, and smashed it against the floor.
From the splintered pieces that remained, Charley selected the largest, sharpest spindle. Then, deeply channeling her inner Jersey Girl, she gripped her new stake, took a fighting stance a few feet in front of the door, and waited for that motherfucker to come back through it.
“Say hello to my pointy little friend, your highness.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sipping his scotch in the chair before the roaring fire, Dorian made every attempt to leash the fury snapping and growling inside him.
Tonight had been a grievous disaster.
Duchanes had vanished.
The woman whose blood had damn near sent him into a spiral of madness and desire was presently locked in his bedroom, probably devising an escape plot—or one to murder him.
Armitage had left with the other guests, but the truth about the party’s abrupt end would certainly reach his ears soon, if it hadn’t already. Now, even if the old mage was still keen on the merger of their companies, Dorian doubted anyone in the Armitage line would so easily accept a bound partnership for Isabelle—including Isabelle herself.
Dorian couldn’t blame them. After all, how could he protect a bound witch if he couldn’t even protect one of his most vulnerable guests?
His fingers tightened on the glass, mind churning.
He had no clear idea what had prompted tonight’s attack against Charlotte. Though he suspected his refusal of Duchanes’ many ridiculous offers—an alliance, blood slaves, Jacinda’s services—had put House Redthorne on the coven’s shit list, Dorian never would’ve predicted such a strong retaliation. It was an extreme response guaranteed to unleash hell on the offending party, and as little as he thought of Renault Duchanes, he’d never considered him a blatant, suicidal fool.
