by Sarah Piper
Dark Seduction
Vampire Royals of New York, Book One
Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Piper
SarahPiperBooks.com
Cover design by Covers by Juan
All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotations used for promotional or review purposes, no part of this book may be recorded, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, organizations, brands, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
v4
Contents
Also by Sarah Piper
Get Connected!
About Dark Seduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About Sarah Piper
Also by Sarah Piper
Vampire Royals of New York
Dark Deception
Dark Seduction
Dark Obsession
Tarot Academy
Spells of Iron and Bone
Spells of Breath and Blade
Spells of Flame and Fury
Spells of Blood and Sorrow
Spells of Mist and Spirit
The Witch’s Rebels
Shadow Kissed
Darkness Bound
Demon Sworn
Blood Cursed
Death Untold
Rebel Reborn
Get Connected!
I love connecting with readers! There are a few different ways you can get in touch:
Email! Send me a note at [email protected]
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About Dark Seduction
Betraying the vampire king has deadly consequences. But what if you crave the punishment?
Charlotte...
Get in, get the intel, get out. And above all, don’t get noticed.
As a master thief, those were the rules Charley D’Amico lived by.
Until she fell in love with her mark—the sexy, commanding vampire king whose cravings are as dark as his secrets.
She should be running for her life.
Instead, she’s running into his arms. Into his bed. Into his punishing, demanding mouth.
If anyone can help Charley take down her vicious uncle and keep her sister out of danger, it’s Dorian...
Assuming he doesn’t kill her first.
Dorian...
For vampire king Dorian Redthorne, love and betrayal have always gone hand in hand.
Charlotte D’Amico is no different. Her dark, sinful seduction was all a lie.
Dorian should kill her. Tear the bloody heart from her chest.
But when she comes to him for help destroying the man who controls her life—a man working for Dorian’s mortal enemies—there’s no way he’ll turn her down.
No way he’ll let her back into his bed, either.
How can he? He’s the immortal vampire king, and she’s a devious little traitor.
And traitors must be punished.
All. Night. Long.
Chapter One
Dorian Redthorne was on fire.
His blood.
His bones.
His fucking soul.
The woman’s betrayal burned through all of it, carving a path of devastation that left him hollow and raw, no matter how hard he tried to outrun it.
Manhattan quickly blurred into Harlem, into the Bronx, into the northern suburbs, finally giving way to the lush autumn woods along the Hudson River.
Still, Dorian didn’t stop.
If he stopped, he would remember. And if he remembered, the flames inside him would abate, and the darkness—so near he could feel its cold breath on the back of his neck—would swallow him whole.
So, Dorian ran, a pale streak against the black night, until he was so far removed from civilization, no human would cross his path or taste the pain of his vengeance.
As far as he was concerned, only one human deserved that now, and he had no intention of seeing her again. Not tonight. Not ever.
The flames burned hotter inside.
Dorian pushed harder, desperate to leave his reckless mistakes behind.
Vampires weren’t meant to blur such great distances over a short time, but tonight, he had energy to spare. Aside from the fact that his heart had nearly been liquified—first, by Duchanes and his demon pet, and later, by the traitor formerly known as Charlotte—Dorian had never felt better. The magical tattoos on his forearms, so faint they’d all but vanished, now shone a deep, inky black, just as they had when he’d received them centuries ago.
It was the blood.
The traitor’s blood, he reminded himself. It fueled his body as effectively as her lies fueled his rage, and by the time he’d burned through enough of both to tire out, he found himself upstate, deep in the lonely woods beyond Ravenswood Manor.
Certain he’d left humanity behind, Dorian finally stopped to take stock, leaning against a birch tree for support as the world came back into focus. It left him unsettled, his stomach rolling, his head throbbing. When he took a deep breath of mountain air, his lungs burned.
He hated that he could still taste her blood.
Hated that he still wanted more.
Hated that he still wanted her.
It hit him again, all at once.
Lies. All of it. Every word out of her mouth. Her smile, her laughter, her breathy moans, the way she’d cried out for him as he fucked her into beautiful oblivion. It was all part of her carefully constructed web, meant to ensnare him from the very start, all in service to her master plan.
And what was the plan, he wondered? Liquidate his art estate? Was it that simple?
Or was she after a bigger prize?
Tucked into his waistband, the notes and floor plans he’d found under her bed burned into his skin. Not for the first time, he wondered if she was working for his enemies. Duchanes, Chernikov, any number of foes seeking information that could weaken the Redthornes’ royal standing… There were almost too many to count.
Was this what she’d tried to apologize for? Weak and fading in his arms, sputtering out her final confession before death claimed her?
If you find…
Forgive me… I didn’t…
Her words floated through his mind, twisting him up inside. He’d drained her to within an inch of her life, yet she was the one apologizing…
No. Guilt clawed at the doors of his heart, but Dorian refused to grant it entry. Never mind his vow to protect her. To keep her from harm.
Her treachery negated all of it.
How could he have been so blind? So willfully ignorant?
He glared down at his cock as if the damn thing might have a ready explanation, but that only served to deepen his depression.
Last night, that cock had been buried between her thighs, in her hands, in her soft, wet mouth. And for those brief moments, when all else faded away and there was only Dorian and the passionate, beautiful, insatiable woman in his bed, he’d almost felt…
Bloody hell.
He squeezed his eyes shut as the searing pain scored his chest anew. It didn’t matter what he’d felt. Didn’t matter that he’d wanted to die when Duchanes put his filthy hands upon her. Didn’t matter that she’d saved his life, risking her own by offering the vein. Didn’t matter that the taste of her blood had left him drunk and euphoric, the memory stirring his cock to life again even now.
Dizzy with rage and ruin, hands trembling with the sudden itch to rend some poor living creature in two, Dorian fell to the ground like a beast. Frantically, he tore at the earth, fingers plowing through the mud and the stone and the brittle bones of the dead, as if he could somehow dig his own grave and bury his miserable heart.
He dug until he hit water, until his back ached, until his fingers bled.
Still, the pain did not abate.
A scream of fury boiled up inside him, but when he opened his mouth to curse her very name, he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
Charlotte D’Amico…
The taste of it so close to his lips brought her beautiful face to his mind, and deep in the dark cavern of his soul, the devil rattled his chains.
It wanted out.
It wanted to destroy.
It wanted to consume.
And for the first time in forty-nine years, one month, and twenty-four days, Dorian was ready to set that monster free.
He rose to his feet, blood dripping from his fingertips, panting like a ghoul as he scented the air for prey.
Fuck. Kill. Feed.
The mantra hammered through his skull in time with his heartbeat.
Fuck. Kill. Feed.
Some dim, faraway part of him knew it was wrong, knew he had to fight it, knew he couldn’t lose control.
Fuck. Kill. Feed.
But that part of him—the human part—cowered in the shadows as the devil gathered strength.
Fuck. Kill. Feed. Fuck kill feed fuck kill feed fuck kill fe—
The snap of a twig, the whisper of the night breeze through the pines, and a new scent reached his awareness, wild and musky. Dorian spun on his heel, hackles raised.
Wolves.
The shadows came alive with them—nearly a dozen. They surrounded him, growling and snapping, closing ranks until they’d penned him in completely.
He tried to blur out, but his movements were slow and uncoordinated, the long-distance travel and emotional turmoil finally catching up with him. He stumbled and swayed, and the wolves descended, knocking him onto his back.
Dorian landed a good kick to a soft snout, but the favor was returned with a sharp bite around his ankle, another piercing his shoulder. Pain sizzled through his skin, burning up his leg and down his arm, finally unleashing the desperate howl he’d been holding back all night.
Dorian tried to kick again, but he had nothing left. No fight. No wits. He was a shell with a blackened heart, his final words a hoarse scream.
The wolves clamped down harder, sending twin bursts of agony through his limbs.
He was about to close his eyes and welcome his end when a man crept out from the dark woods, his nude flesh streaked with mud, leaves and sticks tangled in his matted hair.
“Ease off, boys,” the man said. “He ain’t one of ‘em.”
The wolves retreated—all but the one clamped around his ankle. A pup, Dorian realized. Warm blood leaked from the fresh wound in his shoulder, soaking the earth.
“Long way from the city, nightwalker.” The man crouched down beside Dorian’s prone form and extended a hand, unperturbed by his own nudity on the chilly autumn night. “Thought you old-ass vamps knew better than to provoke a wolf on his home turf.”
Dorian took the offered hand and let the man haul him to his feet. He swayed again, and the wolf attached to his ankle bit down harder.
“And I thought you stopped taking in stray dogs in the eighties,” Dorian said. “Yet here we are.”
A collective growl rumbled through the pack, but the man fisted Dorian’s hair and gave his head a playful shake, a grin splitting his mud-streaked face. “God damn, it’s good to see you, Red.”
Through the pain, the rage, the sheer exhaustion, Dorian smiled, his chest filling with an old, familiar warmth.
“You as well, Cole. Now, if it’s not too much trouble…” He gestured at the ferocious little mutt still attached to his ankle. “Would you kindly remove this fucking beast from my person? Or would you rather I tear his head off and feed it to the others while you watch?”
Chapter Two
“Rogue vampires?” Dorian asked. “In these woods?”
“Been trackin’ the fuckers all week.” Cole handed him a mason jar filled with something he’d poured from a dusty brown jug. “They keep slippin’ the traps.”
Sitting at a dingy linoleum table in Cole’s backwoods kitchen, an icepack on his shoulder and the wounded ankle bandaged and propped up on a chair, Dorian sipped the moonshine. He was fairly certain it would eat through his stomach lining—the stuff could probably strip the paint from his cars—but at least the burn distracted him from the blistering pain of his wounds.
Contrary to popular myth, the wolf bites wouldn’t kill him. But they would take a few days to heal, leaving him to suffer through every excruciating moment.
Dorian glanced out the kitchen window, searching for the wolf who’d bit him. A few patrolled the perimeter, the rest of them still scouring the woods for the rogues. The sight of so many wolves in one place was beyond unusual these days, especially at Cole’s place.
He’d always preferred his own company to the complex, often violent dynamics of pack life. It was something he and Dorian had in common.
“And your new friends?” Dorian asked. “How did they get involved in your little hunt?”
Cole took the chair across from him and set the jug of moonshine on the table, pushing aside a pile of junk—pizza boxes, a palette sticky with acrylic paints, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, half-spent joint balanced on the rim.
Dorian tried to recall the last time he’d seen the man—five years ago, maybe six. There was a time—after everything had gone to shit and Dorian’s brothers had left New York—when they’d hike the woods together almost every weekend, often with Aiden in tow. But Cole had become even more reclusive than Dorian in recent years, often losing himself in his next masterpiece for weeks or months at a time.
Dorian had missed him, he realized now. Cole’s land truly was a favorite place, just like he’d told Charlotte. Like so many things in his life, it reminded him of simpler times.
Perhaps that’s why he kept returning, long after his old friend had retreated.
Perhaps he was searching for that elusive connection to brighter memories, just as Charlotte sought her father through their shared love of art.
Charlotte…
Dorian took another sip of his drink, obliterating thoughts of the traitor before they sank their claws in any deeper.
“Called in a few favors,” Cole said now. “They’re helping me with the search. Last thing I need is a bunch of rogue killers making themselves at home on my property.”
“How many are you tracking?”
&n
bsp; “A dozen, give or take. Hard to tell with all the mud.” Cole took a long pull from his drink, then shook his head. “All month, things ain’t been right. I could feel it, Red. The woods, the air… I’d go out there to paint, and I’d get them chills on the back of my neck, like someone was watching me.”
Dorian shifted in his chair, holding back a shiver that had nothing to do with the ice on his shoulder.
“Few days back,” Cole said, “the animal carcasses started turning up. Four deer so far, and two black bear cubs, along with a shit ton of raccoons and rodents. One look, and I knew exactly what we were dealin’ with.”
“How so?”
“Too brutal to be a natural predator, but too…” He stared into his glass, searching for the word. “Too specific to be human hunters.”
“Specific?”