by Sarah Piper
That was putting it mildly. Marlys was clearly avoiding him, but why? Was she upset that he’d called her out of bed the other night to help with Charlotte? That he’d left Charlotte’s penthouse in a rush before paying Marlys for her services? He’d transferred the funds to her account the very next morning, adding ten percent for the trouble.
Dorian glanced at the pouch, the soft leather stamped with symbols he couldn’t decipher. It was no larger than a child’s fist, and soft to the touch, yet looking at it now, Dorian felt a chill skitter down his spine.
Perhaps the object itself had scared her off.
In any case, something was obviously wrong. Marlys had never been so evasive or quick to brush him off before, especially when he offered double.
“You got another one of them witches on speed dial?” Cole asked.
“Unfortunately, I do not. I don’t suppose you know anyone versed in the dark arts?”
Cole sucked down the last of his coffee, then nodded. “Your boy Nikolai. He’s got witches, right?”
“That he does.” Dorian sighed, the coffee turning to acid in his stomach, but the idea was a good one.
If he wanted answers about dark magic, he needed to go to the source.
He thumbed through his contacts and forwarded the photo to Chernikov, along with a text.
I have a job for a dark witch. Discretion is required.
Dorian had just enough time to swallow another mouthful of Cole’s terrible coffee before his phone chimed with the demon’s response.
Luna Del Mar, 12:00. Bring cash. Discretion is expensive.
Chapter Seventeen
Eager to burn off the uncomfortable buzz of Cole’s coffee—not to mention the man’s smug, barely contained laughter as Dorian had confessed he’d not only agreed to help the woman who’d betrayed him, but hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her for a single fucking instant—Dorian half-ran, half-blurred his way back to the manor.
It was still early, and the main floor was blissfully silent, neither vampire nor human in sight.
Certain he was alone, he stripped off his sweaty T-shirt and raided the refrigerator for something cold to drink. He hesitated at the ice dispenser, not wanting to wake Charlotte or his brothers, but then he remembered it was his damn manor; he could do whatever he damn well pleased. If they didn’t like being startled awake by the grind and clink of the machine, well… His brothers could fuck off back to their homes out of state, and Charlotte could save her own beautiful ass from the monsters at her door.
Feeling superior and bloody proud of it, he’d just pressed his glass to the lever when a heart-stopping clatter ripped through the silence.
It hadn’t come from the ice maker. It’d come from the media room in the basement.
Charlotte.
She was in trouble.
“No!” she screamed. A crash followed, and she shouted again. “Get off! Die, asshole!”
Dorian dropped his glass and grabbed the closest weapon—a broom someone had left beside the refrigerator. He cracked it in half and blurred down the stairs and into the media room, adrenaline giving his tired, over-caffeinated muscles new life as he brandished his makeshift stakes, ready to impale the bastard who dared lay a hand on her…
But there she was.
Alone and unharmed.
Perched on a gaming platform in nothing but her long T-shirt, kneepads, and gaming gloves, her skin slick from exertion. She was panting hard, the shirt damp with sweat, the thin fabric clinging to her curves. On the screen behind her, a vampire avatar lay crumpled on the pavement, a female elf standing triumphantly behind him, one foot braced on his chest.
Midnight Marauder.
That’s what she’d been screaming about.
“For fuck’s sake,” Dorian said.
“You.” Charlotte spun on her heel to face him, her eyes flashing as she stabbed his chest with an accusatory finger. “You deleted me! I had to set up a whole new profile!”
He tossed the broken broom handles to the floor. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I can’t believe you.” She popped her hands on her hips. On the screen behind her, the larger-than-life she-elf mimicked her every move, shoulders squared for a fight.
Dorian felt like he was getting scolded by both of them.
“Me?” he said. “Who gave you permission to be here?”
“Aiden. And before you get all bent out of shape—yes, I signed the stupid NDA.”
“You just couldn’t wait, could you.” Dorian shook his head. The adrenaline was fading from his blood, but the anger was fresh—anger that she’d made him so worried, anger that his ridiculous mind still allowed him to care.
But as his eyes drifted down from her face to her breasts, his resolve faded. It was hard to stay mad; those two perfect orbs stretched the fabric of the shirt teasingly, their dark centers raised beneath the thin cotton like a forbidden invitation to touch.
To tease.
To taste.
The kneepads urged his fantasies in another dangerous direction, flooding his mind with memories that made his balls ache.
“My stats,” she said, counting down his apparent violations. “My high score. My outfits. My badges. Everything. You just…” She made a starburst motion with her fingers. “Poof! And I’m gone, just like that.”
Dorian dipped his head, trying to hide his smile.
“This isn’t funny, Dorian Redthorne! You erased me!”
“Yet here you are, love. In the flesh. And feeling much better than you were last night, I see. I take it the ice helped?”
When he met her eyes again, she was smiling too.
They faced off in silence for a moment, each trying not to laugh, the tension quickly evaporating.
“Good morning, Ms. D'Amico,” he finally said.
“And good morning to you too, Mr. Redthorne.” Her gaze slid down to his torso, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “Why are you half-naked and sweaty?”
“I was on a trail run. I’d just returned home when I heard the—well, what I assumed was a struggle.”
Charlotte grinned and pressed a hand to her chest, the T-shirt riding up her thighs to reveal the satin, rose-colored triangle of her panties.
Fuck, what he wouldn’t give to press his mouth to that silky scrap of fabric…
“And you charged in to save me,” she said. “Brandishing a broken broom. My knight in shining… half-nakedness.”
Dorian raked his eyes over her scantily clad body. “I see we’re well matched in that department.”
“Twinning, as my sister would say.”
She’d been teasing him, but now her eyes filled with raw desire, a deep and desperate look that nearly undid him. His cock bulged obviously behind the thin running shorts, picking a fight with his brain.
Just one more time.
Don’t be daft.
What’s the harm in giving each other a bit of dark pleasure?
She was plotting to rob your estate, you bloody idiot...
“Charlotte,” Dorian said, finally forcing out the words, “I meant what I said last night. We can’t—”
“Play Midnight Marauder?” She grinned again, deftly steering them away from a topic that clearly made them both supremely uncomfortable. “Yeah, I figured you’d say no. That’s why I waited until you left, and asked Aiden to set me up down here. Had I known you’d erased me from existence—”
“Virtual existence. And what did you expect?” He raked a hand through his hair. “You damn near broke my bloody heart, woman.”
Fuck.
He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Not like that. Quickly, smoothly, he hit the button on the wall to raise the second platform and booted up his Bone Crusher avatar, not sparing Charlotte a glance.
The media room at Ravenswood was significantly smaller than the game room in Tribeca, but still well-equipped, and soon they were both situated on their platforms, helmets and face shields in place, ready for a rematch.
> “There’s only one way to settle this,” he said, scanning Charlotte’s new stats. In the few hours he’d been gone, she’d done pretty well for herself, racking up a dozen KOs. Dorian was impressed. “Let’s go, Miss Demeanor.”
“Oh, Bone Crusher. Sweet, sweet Bone Crusher.” Charlotte laughed. “Miss Demeanor’s dead. You killed her, remember? The name is B.O.B. now. Guess what it stands for.”
“I can only imagine.”
“Breaker of Balls.” She crouched into position, cracking her knuckles. The she-elf onscreen followed suit. “Bring it, vampire king.”
Ignoring the sight of her long, toned legs, the T-shirt hiding nothing as she crouched on the platform, Dorian nodded brusquely. “Oh, I shall bring it.”
“Oh, I shall bring it,” she mocked. Her English accent was bang on. “Shall you bring a spot of tea and some dainty little biscuits as well? Perhaps a bit of jam from your pantry?”
Dorian turned to say something witty, but the moment his eyes left the screen, she threw a sucker-punch. He tried to duck, but he was a beat too slow. Bone Crusher took a direct hit to the balls.
Dorian groaned. “Living up to the new name, I see.”
“That’s what you get when you sleep on B.O.B.”
“Noted,” he said. Onscreen, Bone Crusher regained his balance, faking her out and landing a solid right hook that sent Breaker of Balls skittering backward.
Charlotte huffed out a curse.
“Do you know what your problem is, Breaker?” he asked.
“Lack of decent competition?”
“No, love. You fight dirty.”
“Gets the job done, doesn’t it?”
“In Midnight Marauder, yes. But you lack technique. In a real fight—”
“I’d just grab your broom handle. And no, that’s not a euphemism.” She crouched low and kicked, trying to sweep Bone Crusher’s legs out from under him, but he evaded the move with a quick hop, responding with a fierce kick to the chest that knocked Breaker flat on her back.
He could’ve ended it right there—pounced on her and gone in for the kill. But then he pictured Rudy—that greasy, despicable thug—jumping her in an alley, catching her totally unaware. He pictured Duchanes, biting into her neck. He pictured those other two vampire fucks from the fundraiser, batting her around the grass like a cat toy.
Rage boiled up inside.
“Listen to me, Charlotte,” he said urgently. “In a real fight, you might not get a second chance—the other man won’t look away. You’ve got to stay cool under pressure. Smart. You’re not a large woman, so chances are you’ll have to outthink rather than out-fight your opponent.”
Charlotte removed her helmet and turned to face Dorian, her eyes somber and serious. The fact that she hadn’t taken advantage of his momentary distraction told him she understood the gravity of his warning.
Suddenly, their little skirmish was no longer about a video game vendetta. It was about reality—Charlotte’s reality. And the moment either of them forgot about that, her life—or Sasha’s—could end.
Yes, Dorian could and would—with a fucking smile on his face and a song in his heart—rip out throats and crush skulls and behead anyone who so much as breathed on Charlotte in his presence.
But she wouldn’t always be in his presence. Especially once they dealt with her uncle and eliminated the threat of Duchanes.
After that, Dorian realized with a sick twist in his gut, he’d likely never see her again.
“You want to take the most effective shot you can,” he said now, recalling the scrappy fights of his misspent human youth, knocking around in the stables with the other restless noble boys. “One that will take even the largest opponent down fast. The average man—and this goes for vampires and demons too—will expect a woman to kick him in the balls, scratch his face, or try to squirm out of his grip. But what’s most effective?”
“Aside from fifty-thousand volts up the ass?” Charlotte shrugged. “Punch him in the gut?”
“You could try that, sure. But unless you’ve got proper technique and enough power behind the hit, it won’t make a difference, and you might break your hand.”
“Then I have no idea. I’d probably go for the eyes or the balls.”
“Eyes are okay. But even better? A direct hit to the knee or a stomp to the foot. You can’t always wriggle your way out of someone’s grasp, especially with a man twice your size—even more especially with a supernatural man. But you might be able to knock a knee joint out of place or crush the small bones of his foot, right at the instep. No matter how big and powerful he is, that kind of impact can take him down. Even if it’s just for an instant, it might be the instant that buys you an escape and saves your life.” Dorian nodded toward the screen. “Let me show you.”
He set her up in a few different positions, walking her through alternate scenarios—being grabbed from behind, rushed from the front, pinned on the ground. After a few tries, she started to get the hang of it, so Dorian booted up a new match—no more hand-holding, no holds barred.
Bone Crusher grabbed Breaker’s arm and twisted, spinning her around backward and wrapping a meaty arm across her chest. Holding her in place on the screen, real-life Dorian resisted the urge to tell Charlotte what to do.
After struggling for a few seconds, Breaker of Balls finally raised her knee, then slammed her heel down hard, smashing Bone Crusher’s foot. As his avatar hobbled backward, she spun around and jammed a heel squarely into his knee. He crumpled to the ground, clutching his leg in agony onscreen. Breaker pressed her advantage and finished him off with a kick to the face that laid him flat.
“Bone Crusher!” the game voice boomed. “You got housed!”
“That’s how it’s done, woman! Yes!” Dorian stripped off his gloves and hopped onto her platform, wrapping her up in his arms. “You did it! Look at that!”
“Did you see that?” she asked, looping her arms around his neck. She was beaming ear to ear, glowing with pride.
“I certainly did, love. The bad guys don’t stand a chance.”
“Does that really work?” she asked.
“You housed me, didn’t you?”
“Don’t I always?”
They both laughed, and for a moment it was as if they’d been transported to another realm, unaffected by everything else as their warm, slick bodies pressed together perfectly, hearts beating in sync. Charlotte slid her hands into Dorian’s hair, her breath hot against his bare chest, the hard length of him pressing into her abdomen as he buried his face in her neck. He lowered his mouth to her skin, tasting her salty flesh, breathing in her scent.
Devil’s balls, how he wanted to stay there with her, to hold her for the rest of eternity.
But letting his guard down was foolish. It was dangerous. And it only made the pain of their inevitable departure that much more unbearable.
Dorian pulled back, unable to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I got a bit carried away. We should probably just—”
“Eat,” she said brightly, turning her back on him and hopping down off the platform. “I’m starving. Loser makes breakfast, right?”
Dorian shook off the weight of his regrets, telling himself for the hundredth time this was all for the best, ignoring the sting of her apparent rebound.
“Breakfast,” he said. “All right, Breaker of Balls. I think I can manage that.”
After their regrettably separate showers, Dorian whipped up a feast of mushroom-and-cheddar omelets, sourdough toast, and strawberry-banana smoothies. The sound of the blender brought his other house guests round, all of them crowding into the breakfast nook again, just as they’d done last night.
Everyone but Malcolm.
It was just as well. Dorian wasn’t ready to face his brother yet. Not after the things they’d said to each other last night.
Forget knives and fangs. When it came to family, vicious truths had a way of cutting deeper than both.
Still, with Colin, Gabriel, and Aiden no
dding appreciatively over the omelets, Sasha brightening the room with her impossibly sunny smile and endless tales of college life, and Charlotte singing the praises of those smoothies, Dorian thought again of that secret, hidden wish nestled inside him—the word that not so long ago had set his very teeth on edge, but had somehow snuck back into his heart, making itself at home.
Family.
It was a moment, a snapshot, perfect in all the ways but the one that mattered most:
It wasn’t real.
Chapter Eighteen
“Want to know what I love most about your boyfriend?” Sasha flopped on the end of Charley’s bed—rather, her guest bed—and grinned. “I mean, there are a lot of things, right? But the whole pretending-to-sleep-in-separate-bedrooms thing? That’s proper, next-level, old-world hotness right there, and I’m here for it.”
“I told you, Sash. He’s not my boyfriend.” And we aren’t pretending. Charley fluffed the pillows, trying to put the bed back in order after her night of tossing and turning alone.
After Dorian had left her, she’d tried to distract herself by compiling the notes he’d asked for—everything she could drum up about Rudy, about his known associates, his hangouts. She also made a list of the missing artwork from the One Night Stand heist.
After completing her homework, she’d only gotten a couple of hours of sleep, interrupted with alternating nightmares about Rudy strangling her to death…
And about losing Dorian.
When she woke up at dawn, she’d realized the latter had already come true.
“Then what is he?” Sasha asked now. “Just some rando who invited us to his manor and cooked us chili and omelets and looks at you like he wants to spend the rest of his life licking you like an ice cream cone? A thing that would be a lot easier if he skipped the whole separate-beds nonsense?”
Charley rolled her eyes and swatted Sasha with a pillow. “Shouldn’t you be off pestering Aiden? I thought he was going to teach you how to play chess today.”
“Aiden…” Sasha leaned back on the bed, letting out a dreamy sigh. “Speaking of licking someone like an ice cream cone.”