by Sarah Piper
And if Charley had any doubts, her exile from the man’s bedroom had sealed the deal.
To make matters infinitely worse, he was supposed to bring her some aspirin after her shower, but he’d been locked in the study with his brothers for at least two hours, talking about who knew what. Duchanes? Rudy and the demons? Her master plot to rob them of their most precious heirlooms?
If that was the case, Charley hoped they wouldn’t all turn on her at once.
One vampire—her vampire—she could handle. But five?
He’s not your vampire anymore, dumbass.
Letting out a deep sigh, Charley sat on the bed and pressed her fingers to her temples, gently massaging. The weight of the day had finally caught up with her. Her head ached, and her neck and shoulders throbbed in earnest, every tiny movement sending a bolt of pain down her spine.
Fucking Rudy.
At least they had a plan now. A sketchy, bare-bones, insanely dangerous one that could easily backfire, but it was a hell of a lot more than she’d had this morning when her dickbag uncle wrapped his hands around her neck.
A soft knock on the door startled her from her thoughts, and the vampire finally entered, carrying a bottled water, two ice packs, and an unopened box of aspirin.
“Dorian,” she breathed, her eyes glazing with tears at the sight of him. Tears of relief, tears of joy, tears of frustration… It was all swirling together inside, making her heart pound.
His presence had always affected her, no matter how calm, cool, and collected she pretended to be on the outside. And now, denied his touch, all she wanted to do was give in to that seductive, magnetic pull, surrendering to the undertow, drowning herself in him.
Instead, she forced herself to remain still, a pleasant smile plastered on her face as if the distance between them was perfectly acceptable.
It was the worst kind of torture.
Dorian’s gaze swept down from her face to her baggy sleep shirt, stopping to rest on her exposed thighs.
A tiny smile touched his lips, his eyes glazing with desire, but before he took another step closer, he shook his head and blinked it all away.
When he met her eyes again, she saw only disappointment. Only pain.
“I apologize for the delay,” he said. “Turns out we didn’t have any pain reliever in the manor—I had to make a quick run into town.”
“You went into town? For me?”
“I didn’t want you to suffer, Charlotte.” He passed her the water and opened the aspirin, shaking two into her palm.
After she downed the pills, he knelt on the floor by her side and instructed her to lie back in the bed.
Too exhausted to argue, she settled herself against the pillow and closed her eyes.
With a clinical but gentle touch, Dorian arranged the ice packs on her shoulders and neck, careful to ensure there wasn’t too much pressure. The cold seeped into her skin, instantly soothing her aches.
“Better?” he asked, his voice soft and intimate.
“Much. Thank you.”
With her eyes closed, it was easy for Charley to pretend this had all been a misunderstanding. That he was here because he loved her, because he wanted to take care of her, because he’d promised to look out for her.
“This should ease the swelling,” he said. “Try not to move around too much.”
For a few sweet moments, she lost herself in the liquid honey of his voice and the feel of his breath on her cheek, bargaining with God and the devil and anyone else who might’ve been listening to please, please let her have one more night…
But Dorian had fallen silent, the air between them so still, Charley feared he’d left.
“Dorian?” She opened her eyes, but he was still there. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t left her side.
“I’m right here, love.” He tried to smile, but it was guarded and dim.
The longer Charley stared into his eyes, the more they revealed: the pain and disappointment she’d caused. The confusion. The mistrust. And there, running like lava beneath it all, a hot, primal darkness she couldn’t quite name.
Charley thought of him earlier in the study, crushing the glass in his fist.
The memory made her shiver.
“Too cold?” He brushed a lock of hair away from her face, trailing his fingers down her jaw.
“No, it’s perfect.” Charley sighed, a deep sadness settling into her chest.
That Dorian Redthorne still cared for her was obvious, no matter how many walls he’d erected to keep her out.
Yet for all the emotion he couldn’t hide, his thoughts remained veiled.
“What are you thinking about, Dorian?” she whispered.
He lowered his eyes and shook his head.
Charley scolded herself for pushing. “Sorry. It’s not my business.”
Not anymore.
Dorian didn’t respond, and Charley wondered if he’d finally had enough of her antics. She tried to think of something funny to say—something to get them back on neutral ground—but before she could speak, his deep, warm voice penetrated the silence once again.
“It kills me to see you like this, Charlotte. To imagine you there, totally alone, scared to death while that monster put his filthy hands on you. It killed me to see you last night, at the mercy of a crazed vampire using you to punish me. It killed me when I fed from you and watched the light drain from your eyes, and still, I couldn’t stop. I nearly killed you. I was so, so close to—”
“But you did stop.”
“It never should’ve gone that far.”
She shook her head. “You could’ve died, Dorian. It had to go that far. I’m fine.”
He sighed and caught her gaze again, his eyes full of shame and regret.
“And this?” he said softly, sliding his hand beneath the hem of her T-shirt, fingering the silver scar that peeked out from the top of her underwear, just above her hip bone. “You’ve lived your life at the mercy of monsters, and no one was there to protect you. Not even when you were a child.”
In their short but explosive time together, he’d covered her body in kisses and caresses, exploring every inch. He’d lingered on the scar before, undoubtedly curious about its origins, but he never pushed for the story.
Now, he knew the story. It was all part of her life, part of who she was—who she’d grown up to become. Yes, she’d lived at the mercy of monsters. And nothing Dorian could say would make it any less terrible and brutal.
But she’d lived. Wasn’t that the point? She’d survived. That was worth something, right?
His touch lingered, and Dorian closed his eyes, the muscles in his jaw tensing.
Charley didn’t have the words to make it okay—not for either of them. So instead, she found his hand beneath her T-shirt and squeezed.
He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm, the warm touch of his lips searing her cool skin.
Closing his eyes, he breathed her in, blazing a trail of soft, fluttery kisses from her wrist to the inside of her elbow, his stubble scratching the sensitive skin. With her free hand, she ran her fingers through his hair, urging him closer, the feel of his soft, thick mane as familiar to her as his touch, his kiss, his scent.
The ice packs slid from her shoulders, but Dorian’s tender kisses were a better balm, brushing her injured flesh with no more than a whisper of lips and breath. Slowly, he worked his way up her neck to her chin, across the line of her jaw, up to her ear.
With a soft but possessive growl, he breathed the words she’d been aching to hear for an eternity. “It wasn’t a dream, Charlotte. It wasn’t a lapse in judgment. And try as I might, I can’t promise you it won’t happen again.”
Charley’s heart banged wildly, her chest heaving with desperate breaths as the current of Dorian’s electric touch flowed through her body.
He pressed a kiss to her temple, tracing a delicate pattern across her forehead and down her nose, slipping his fingers through her hair, cradling her he
ad in his strong, protective hands. All of her pain and regret melted away.
His lips hovered teasingly. Charley wanted so badly to take him, to press her mouth to his, to welcome the hot, wet slide of his tongue.
“I can’t control myself around you,” he whispered. “You unseat me at every turn.”
“Then let go. Just for tonight.”
Unblinking, Dorian considered her words, his gaze soulful and passionate and so vulnerable it made her heart hurt. Looking into his eyes was like getting a glimpse into a parallel world—the life she could’ve had if only she’d made a right turn instead of a left.
Dorian leaned forward, the barest brush of his lips flooding her core with heat and desire. Her thighs clenched, every nerve tingling with anticipation. She parted her lips, seeking the familiar warmth of his kiss, no longer caring what it meant—if it even meant anything at all.
Forever, for a night, for one single minute—she just wanted to taste him again.
But at the last possible second, Dorian pulled away, his face going blank as he reined in his emotions and shored up all the old walls.
The room turned as cold as the icepacks sliding down her chest.
Rising from the floor, he ran a hand through his hair and let out a soft sigh. “You should get some sleep. We’ll talk again in the morning.”
Charley pressed her fingers to her lips, still tingling from the near kiss. She ached for him, her body wound tight, every need unfulfilled, her heart tearing in two. “Dorian, please don’t—”
“No,” he said firmly. Edged in anger, the sudden resolve in his tone startled her. “It can’t happen again. Ever. I mean that, Charlotte. We’ve got enemies in common, and because of that, I’m willing to help you—to keep you and your sister safe.”
“So that’s it?” Her head spun, the floor dropping out from under her. “You’re only helping me because we’ve got enemies in common? Are you listening to yourself?”
His only response was a glare.
“That’s bullshit, Dorian. I know you don’t trust me, okay? I know I fucked up. But you can’t look at me the way you do, and say the things you say, and touch me like that, and nearly kiss me, and set my whole body on fucking fire, and expect me to believe you don’t care about me.”
“What you believe is irrelevant.” Dorian’s eyes blazed with fresh anger. “Regardless of my feelings for you, that’s as far as our arrangement goes. If you’ve got other ideas, show yourself the exit.”
“If I’ve got other ideas? You’re the one who practically jumped me! And what was all that, ‘it wasn’t a dream, try as I might, I can’t promise you it won’t happen again’ bullshit?”
“Apparently this is me, trying as I might.”
“You’re driving me insane! You can’t just—”
“Good night, Charlotte. I’ll see you in the morning.” With that, Dorian clicked off the lights and stalked out of the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Charley alone with her guilt, her regret, and an ache between her thighs that would remain forever unquenched.
She readjusted the ice packs on her shoulders, trying to get comfortable, but it was no use. Her whole body was vibrating from Dorian’s touch, her head throbbing, a single refrain echoing between her ears.
If only… If only… If only…
If only she and Dorian had met under different circumstances.
If only she’d been honest with him from the start.
If only she’d been born to a different family.
If only she’d made different choices.
That last one stung the most, because for the first time in the dumpster fire that was her life, Charley was finally starting to realize her own responsibility in lighting the fucking match.
For more than a decade, she’d been a willing criminal. Ignorantly, yes, but Dorian was right—it’d still been a choice. One she’d make again to keep her sister safe.
But Sasha hadn’t always been a factor, had she? Charley had worked with her father and his crew for years before Sasha arrived, and even though she’d never dreamed of standing up to her father back then, maybe she could have.
Maybe she should have.
Charley closed her eyes, dismissing the pointless thoughts. No good ever came from lingering in the past. All she could do now was move forward.
Tomorrow, and every day that came after, was a new day. A built-in second chance that everyone got, no matter how badly things had turned out the day before.
So tomorrow Charley would do better. She’d work hard with Dorian to dig up the kind of dirt that would silence Rudy for good.
And then, one day at a time, she’d build a new life. A better life.
Maybe even a decent one.
Charley opened her eyes, heart cracking beneath the weight of one last realization:
It just won’t be with Dorian Redthorne.
Chapter Sixteen
Dorian always preferred to run at dawn, well before the sun rose high enough to make his eyes ache. In the city, he had to contend with garbage trucks and buses and all manner of pedestrian traffic, even in the early hours. But here in the mountains, his only obstacles were the trees, easily dodged as he threaded his way through the forest.
In the city or the woods, Dorian had been running regularly for decades, and the fresh air and physical exertion had never ceased to clear his head, calming him through even the most challenging business conflicts, stock market fluctuations, and irritable run-ins with his father.
But today, even after a punishing twenty-mile run, Charlotte’s blood still pulsing through him like a fiery elixir, her beautiful face stayed lodged in his mind like a bad dream he couldn’t shake.
Dreadful, conniving woman.
The words came easily, but deep down, despite all the lies and schemes, Dorian knew Charlotte wasn’t a bad person, or even a particularly devious one—just a desperate woman who’d been dealt a shite hand, made a few wrong turns, and gotten herself so deep into the game she no longer believed there was a safe way out.
Dorian was adamant about not letting her back into his bed—or his so-called soft heart, for that matter. But he couldn’t turn his back on her, either.
He’d promised to help her and Sasha, and that was that.
His family, on the other hand…
No. That was a rattlesnake nest he wasn’t quite ready to poke again.
Shaking off the memories of last night’s argument, he revisited his conversation with Charlotte, combing through her story for details he might’ve missed. For something—anything—they might be able to use against Rudy.
Rudy.
Dorian could hardly think the name without seeing red, his entire body tensing for a fight.
But they’d find something. He knew they would. Rudy had spent the better part of his life committing heists and fencing stolen artwork, likely to demonic clients. There had to be a trail.
Dorian crested a rise, Cole’s cabin now visible in the distance. He shifted course and headed toward it, forcing himself to go back to Rudy.
To Charlotte.
To her father.
To the One Night Stand heist.
The missing artwork.
The Hermes and LaPorte.
Vincent Estas...
Vincent fucking Estas.
Dorian sucked in a sharp breath. That was it—the linchpin connecting Charlotte’s uncle to Rogozin’s organization.
Charlotte’s attack by Rogozin’s men had happened decades ago, but the One Night Stand robbery was committed just five years ago, and Estas sold at least two pieces of the stolen artwork even more recently, which is how the LaPorte and Hermes pieces ended up in Dorian’s collection.
If Dorian needed any more proof that Rudy was working with Rogozin, Estas was fucking it.
Suddenly, Dorian felt as if his shoes were winged like the Greek god’s, speeding him down the other side of the rise toward Cole’s place.
He had his man.
He just needed a plan.<
br />
And maybe… a volunteer.
“Found another one of them fuckers this morning,” Cole said, handing Dorian a mug of coffee the consistency of motor oil. “He was in rough shape. Looked like the sun got him pretty good—probably been out there since yesterday.”
Dorian took the chair at the small kitchen table and forced down a swallow of the black sludge. “I assume you killed him?”
“Staked him on sight. Had some kinda pouch ‘round his neck though. Nabbed it just before I ended it—thought you might wanna see.” Cole shuffled through some of the clutter on the table and unearthed a small leather pouch tied with a red cord, knotted at intervals in a way that didn’t look accidental.
“Did you open it?” Dorian asked.
Cole shook his head. “Figured I shouldn’t mess with it before I showed you.”
“Good thinking.” Dorian brought it to his nose and took a quick whiff. It was pungent and herbal, tingling with magic.
Dark magic.
“We need a witch,” Dorian said.
“Thought you Redthornes were fresh outta witches?”
“I keep a freelancer on hand.”
“Right. The one who ignored you when you hooked up with Chernikov yesterday?”
“Something must’ve come up. She’s normally quite reliable, if not outrageously expensive.” Dorian removed his phone and snapped a photo, then sent it to Marlys.
Are you available this afternoon? he texted. I’ve got a magical object of unknown origin that needs analysis and a tracing spell.
Her response came at once. Where did you come by this?
I will answer your questions in person, he replied. Can we meet?
Sorry. I’m not available.
As always, I’ll make it worth the trip.
I’m not available, she replied again.
I’ll pay double.
I’m sorry, Dorian. I’m booked for the foreseeable future. I advise you to seek another witch. In the meantime, do NOT open that pouch.
“Problem?” Cole asked.
“Apparently, she’s not as reliable as I believed.”