by Sarah Piper
Dorian brushed her cheeks with his thumbs, catching her tears. He wanted to lie, to tell her some story that would allow her to sleep at night, but lies are what got them into this mess in the first place.
“There are more,” he said. “Though we don’t know how many.”
He told her about his reunion with Cole Diamante and the grays the wolves had been tracking.
He also told her about the pouch Cole had found this morning—likely the same kind she’d seen on the gray in the road.
“I’ve got a witch looking into its origins,” he said, leaving out the part about Chernikov’s involvement, “but I’m almost certain Duchanes and the Rogozin demons are behind this.”
Charlotte nodded and pulled away from his touch, turning to look out at the rolling hills. The mist was creeping in again, blanketing the grounds in thin, white clouds that reminded Dorian of ghosts.
“You need to be prepared for other possibilities, Charlotte.”
“You mean, something other than half-formed, mindless vampire monsters creeping through the woods and jumping out at cars? Burning alive in the sun? Eating people?”
“I mean…” Dorian sighed. “There’s a very good chance if the grays are traced back to Duchanes and Rogozin, your uncle’s got his hands in this mess as well.”
“Wait. You’re saying Rudy’s involved with the grays? But he’s just an art thief. What would he want with them? What would he stand to gain?”
“There’s a historical connection between your uncle and Rogozin. That alone is enough to warrant further investigation—and extreme caution.”
Charlotte dropped onto the stone bench, her eyes welling again.
Dorian could only imagine the memories haunting her now. The attack by Rogozin’s men when she was a girl? Her uncle’s threats? Her dead father’s unsolved murder? The ghoulish creature who’d crossed her path this afternoon?
Charlotte may not have been ready to hear it, but Dorian was convinced all of those things were connected.
And one way or another, he was going to find out how.
“I need to ask you something about that heist,” Dorian said, taking a seat beside her on the bench. “About your father’s death.”
Charlotte nodded.
“Why did your uncle immediately assume his brother had betrayed everyone? In my mind, it seems equally likely your father himself was the victim of a double-cross. Even if Rudy thought your father’s betrayal was obvious, why not at least look into it? Put the word out, as it were?”
“I wondered the same thing.” Charlotte pulled her sleeves down over her hands, knotting them together in her lap.
Dorian stole a glance at her profile, her skin soft and luminous in the moonlight, her jaw set even in the midst of another day of setbacks.
He knew she was a fierce woman, that she possessed a deep inner strength that had kept her alive in even the most dangerous circumstances. For all her softness, Charlotte was a fighter, strong-willed and determined, fueled by a deep inner fire he’d felt smoldering inside her many times—when they flirted, when they argued, when they played Midnight Marauder, when they fucked. She was fearless—no doubt about it. But now, sitting on the bench with her hands tucked into her sleeves, her hair in a messy bun, makeup erased by her tears and the stress of the day, Charlotte seemed young and lost and utterly defenseless.
The sight filled him with rage. He wanted so badly to sort it all out for her, but even if he could keep her safe from the supernaturals lurking in the shadows, he couldn’t change her past—including the part where she’d conspired to rob him.
“We all wondered about it,” she continued. “But Rudy kept telling us he wouldn’t waste resources on a traitor. To him, it was cut and dried—my father had vouched for the inside guy he’d used, and that guy had double-crossed them. Rudy grieved—in his own way, I guess—but after that, his top priority was planning the next score. He said he’d keep an ear to the ground, but unless he heard otherwise, we were all to assume the obvious—my father tried to screw us over, and it bit him in the ass.”
“But you said the crew was tight. Granted, my knowledge of professional thieves comes entirely from heist movies, but I’d always assumed a tight crew was like a family.”
“A really messed-up family, sure.” Charlotte went quiet, lost for a moment in thought. After a few beats, she said, “No one wanted to believe it about my father. But one by one, they all fell in line—Bones, Trick, Welshman. I was the only one who maintained his innocence. I still do. I know it sounds crazy, but he wasn’t a traitor, Dorian. He’d never do that to us. He really was an honest thief.”
“And the other man?” Dorian asked. “The insider your father brought on?”
“Vanished with the artwork. That’s the great mystery.”
Dorian shook his head. It was all so obvious to him, but Charlotte didn’t seem to get it. “Charlotte, Rudy was involved in this.”
“Of course. He was my father’s brother and second-in-command, right up until—”
“I’m talking about your father’s death. If he didn’t pull the trigger, he knows who did. He was calling the shots all along. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
Charlotte looked away, absently playing with her hair, untwisting and re-twisting her bun. She’d heard his words, but she neither agreed nor disagreed, offering nothing further. Dorian sensed this wasn’t the first time she’d considered the theory, but she’d obviously dismissed it back then, just as she was dismissing it now.
Denial and self-preservation were powerful forces.
“Think about it, love.” He reached for her hands, and her hair tumbled down over her shoulders, wild and beautiful, filling the air with the citrus-and-vanilla scent he loved. Dorian had to resist threading his hands into those auburn locks, pulling her mouth close to his.
Instead, he traced his thumbs over her palms in slow, gentle circles, focusing on the feel of her skin, on the familiar softness and warmth he kept on craving no matter how badly he tried to stop.
“Think about what?” she asked.
“Even if he’d found irrefutable evidence of your father’s betrayal, no thief on your uncle’s level would let that kind of score vanish without a trace.”
“What choice did he have? It was just… gone.”
“I don’t buy it. We both know what kind of man Rudy is. There’s no way he’d turn his back on a seventy-million-dollar score he’d spent months planning. No way he’d chalk it off to a double-cross. He’d have men on the street immediately, shaking down every criminal and lowlife he’d ever worked with until he’d exhausted all possible avenues.”
Charlotte considered this, but then shook her head. “We had other work, other clients, other scores. We had to move on. There was no time to chase after a ghost. As far as Rudy was concerned, that’s all my father was.”
“But it wasn’t about your father—don’t you see?” Dorian slid closer to her on the bench, their thighs brushing, a familiar heat simmering in the air between them. “It’s ego. Trust me, love. The only way Rudy walks away from that kind of money—and the potential blow to his reputation—is if he knows the money never disappeared at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“It sounds to me like Rudy set your father up.”
The longer they talked, the more holes Dorian poked in Charlotte’s old theories. He felt bad being so blunt about it, but she needed to be disabused of the notion that Rudy had any loyalty to her father’s memory, to Charlotte, or to any of the other members of his crew. It was obvious to Dorian that Rudy had sold them out five years ago, just as he’d likely sell them out again after the Ravenswood heist.
Only this time, the demons were involved.
For all Dorian knew, they’d been involved last time too.
Regardless, Charlotte’s and Sasha’s lives were at stake. And Dorian—no matter what had transpired between them, no matter what he’d have to walk away from when all was said and done—would
find a way to put that bastard down for good. To finally give Charlotte and Sasha their lives back.
“I made the list you asked for,” Charlotte said. “All the artwork I could remember from the missing cache. Do you think it will help?”
“It will definitely help.”
“What about that Estas guy? Do you think he knows anything?”
Estas. The name echoed through his mind. Dorian had already decided the art dealer was the logical next step; tonight’s conversation with Charlotte only solidified his determination.
This morning, after he’d updated Cole on the situation with Charlotte and her sister—and Cole had given him the requisite amount of I-told-you-so shit about his obvious feelings for Charlotte—Cole had jumped at the opportunity to help nail Rudy to the wall. He’d been on standby ever since, awaiting word from Dorian on the plan.
Now that Dorian had the list of artwork from the missing cache, that plan was finally solidifying.
“How do you feel about Maui?” he asked suddenly.
Charlotte’s brow furrowed.
“For our romantic getaway,” he said. “I do hope it suits you, because I’ve already chartered a private jet and booked a very expensive, very lush package at a gorgeous seaside resort for the whole family. Sasha too.”
Dorian pulled out his phone, then emailed Charlotte the reservation details. A moment later, her phone beeped with the notification.
Her smile lit up the misty night. “Maui? Really?”
“Forward that to your uncle—proof that you’ve secured the weekend at Ravenswood for him, as ordered. That should at least buy you a bit of breathing room.”
Her smile dimmed. “Oh, right. That’s… Thank you. It’s brilliant.” Charlotte turned away to redo her bun, then forced a laugh Dorian suspected was for his benefit. “I guess you’ve thought of everything, Dorian Redthorne.”
“It’s in my nature, love. Business strategy, tying up loose ends, et cetera.”
“I’ve never been to Hawaii.”
“No?” Dorian’s thoughts drifted to the islands, conjuring up images of the two of them swimming at the resort’s private beach at dawn, chartering boats and dining on extravagant seafood dinners, cruising the coastline beneath the stars…
He rose from the bench, dropping the pointless fantasy. The jet, the expensive package—it was all a sham. Reservations booked and paid for, but never to be used, all to make Rudy believe he’d gotten the upper hand.
With any luck, the bastard would be dead before the yacht even left the harbor.
“When this is over,” Dorian said, “perhaps you can take your sister. I’m sure you’d have a lovely time.”
A wounded look flickered in her eyes, a pain that threatened to knock down the last of Dorian’s walls. He had the urge to bend down and scoop her into his arms, carry her up to his bedroom, and peel away every last layer of clothing, every last scrap of fear and doubt. He ached at the memory of her soft skin, her silky kiss, her tight, hot flesh…
But that kind of fantasizing could only end in heartache.
“I’d like you and Sasha to stay the duration,” he said coolly, using the tone he normally reserved for his staff. “Until we’ve taken care of your uncle and Duchanes.”
Charlotte looked up, surprised and a bit confused. “Here? At Ravenswood?”
“Your uncle suspects you’ve tricked me into falling in love with you. Lovers spend their nights together. As for Duchanes…” He curled his fists, resisting the urge to pummel the stone bench. “It’s not safe for you in the city. Not until we’ve located him and eradicated the threat.”
“After what I saw today,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, “you can’t tell me we’re any safer here, Dorian.”
“Here I can at least keep an eye on you.”
“Every minute? Of every day? Because that’s the only way I’d feel safe anywhere right now.” She closed her eyes, a shiver rolling through her body. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and broken. “Besides, I need to get back home. I’ve got some things to take care of.”
“What things?”
“Just… some personal things.”
“What personal things?” he demanded.
“Seriously, Dorian?” She opened her eyes and got to her feet, that beautiful fire sparking to life once more. “I’m not your staff, or your younger brother, or your loyal subject, or even your fucking girlfriend. I don’t owe you an explanation about my personal affairs. In fact, you don’t even get to ask about my personal affairs. You surrendered that right the minute you decided we were over.”
“I’d just discovered you were a thief, woman! What was I supposed to do? Roll out the bloody red carpet? Yes, do come in, make yourself at home, take anything you’d like. Shall I fix you a sandwich and a drink while you’re fleecing me?”
“I said I was sorry and I meant it. You don’t get to keep throwing it in my face. Do you need to hear it again? Fine. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!”
“Not as sorry as I, believe me.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on you.”
“Eyes. Right. That’s what you laid on me.”
Dorian shook his head, a bitter laugh rushing from his lungs. “You seduced me, woman. All part of your con, no doubt.”
“I seduced you?”
“What else do you call it when a woman wantonly throws herself upon a man at a private auction, distracting him from the fact that she’s—oh, right. Plotting yet another heist!”
“You are so full of yourself, highness. It’s a wonder your brothers can fit in the manor with your ego taking up so much room!”
“And you’ve got an attitude problem the size of the Empire State Building. It’s a wonder your sister hasn’t run for the bloody hills!”
“Run for the… You know what? Just… just bite me, vampire.”
He grabbed her and blurred her against the stone wall, pinning her wrists above her head, trapping her body with the hard press of his hips.
Her eyes flashed with a mix of anger and desire, her breath quickening right along with her heartbeat.
“That smart mouth is going to get you in trouble one day, Ms. D’Amico,” he warned.
“Let. Me. Go.” She struggled against his hold, glaring at him as if she could conjure demon fire of her own.
Dorian swept his gaze from her eyes down to her mouth, full and soft and kissable. He recalled that night in the basement at the fundraiser, the first time he’d lost control and stolen a taste of her exquisite blood.
A pulse of desire throbbed in his balls.
“Is that what you want, little prowler?” he whispered, tightening his grip on her wrists, grinding against her warm, soft body.
She gasped at the press of his stone-hard cock, arching her hips to meet him.
His muscles trembled with barely contained lust, his blood racing, pulse pounding like a drum between his ears, drowning out the sound of her frantic heartbeat. The scent of her desire flooded his senses, the energy between them crackling like a gathering storm.
Her earlier taunt echoed.
Bite me, vampire…
Dorian wanted to bite her. To absolutely ravage her.
“Fuck,” she breathed, her eyelids falling closed. She cursed again, then shook her head, leaning back against the wall, her resistance evaporating. “Option two. I want option two.”
He was on his knees in a heartbeat, yanking down her thin leggings and lacy black thong, burying his face in the smooth, wet heat that had fueled his fantasies for weeks.
Tonight, there would be no teasing, no holding back, no exquisite restraint.
Only his raw, primal hunger, unleashed and untamed, reclaiming what was rightfully his with every delicious stroke.
Taking her.
Marking her.
Owning her.
Charlotte fisted his hair and gasped, and he gripped her thighs and plunged his tongue inside, fucking her with deep, wet strokes,
the savory taste of her filling his mouth and driving all else from his mind. She pulled him closer and rocked against his face, her own desires as insatiable and demanding as his.
Another moan escaped her lips, her fingers tightening in his hair. “You’re… still… a… monster…”
Yes, he was a monster. Dark and depraved. Wicked.
Savage.
He growled against her flesh, her warmth radiating across his lips. Why had he denied himself the pleasure of such divine seductions?
No more. She was his.
His to command. His to fuck. His to claim.
His fangs descended, the exquisite burn driving him harder, and he grazed them over her clit, flicking it with his tongue until her thighs quaked and her blood rushed to the surface, darkening her pale skin. And then, certain she was teetering on the edge, he plunged inside her once again.
“Oh, fuck. That’s… Oh, God. Right there… I’m… Don’t stop… Fuck! Dorian!” She shattered for him, as she always did, with a wild bucking of hips and hot, breathy moans, his name on her lips like a curse, like a prayer, like the last words of a woman who’d looked upon the face of death and no longer feared her imminent demise.
Dorian rose to his feet, drunk on the taste of her, dizzy with lust as he unzipped his pants, fisted his cock, and pushed it between her bare thighs. “Tell me what else you want from your monster, love.”
“More,” she whispered, fisting his shirt. “I need—”
He claimed her mouth in a deep kiss, his own still glistening with the evidence of her desire.
She bit back a whimper of pleasure and arched her hips, but before he could give her what she wanted—before he could fuck her against the wall, so hard and deep he left no lingering doubts about his claim—a whispered curse and a dramatic clearing of the throat shot across the darkness like a warning.
“Dorian,” Gabriel called from the shadows, his tone laced with annoyance. “You’re needed in the study.”
Dorian stilled inside her. Never before had he so longed for his brother’s swift demise. “Now?”
“It cannot wait.”
“Fuck,” he whispered, burying his face in the crook of her neck.