Dark Deception: A Vampire Romance (Vampire Royals of New York Book 1)

by Sarah Piper

  It was too late.

  The man took a breath and leaned in close. But before he could utter the words that would finally sway her, three assholes stepped out of the shadows, surrounding them.

  In a flash, he turned to face the trio and pushed Charley behind him, positioning her between the oak at her back and his rigid body, spring-loaded and ready to fight.

  One of them glared hard at her man, his facial piercings shining in the moonlight, eyes lighting up with an insane, inhuman hunger that had Charley immediately reaching for Beyoncé.

  “Been looking for you, bloodsucker,” the pierced guy said. “Nice night for a little payback, ain’t it?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Brimstone soured the air, followed by a wave of heat that sent Dorian into a coughing fit. As the first spark took root inside his chest, he felt his tender pink lung tissue turning black, and in that moment, he knew two things.

  One, he would die before he’d let any harm come to his woman.

  And two, he had approximately three seconds before he was completely incinerated.

  Without another thought, he rushed forward in a blur, colliding with Metalhead just as Blondie mysteriously dropped to the ground in a fit of spasms. For the second time in a handful of hours, Dorian sank his fangs into Metalhead’s artery, the putrid taste filling his mouth, temporarily easing his cough. He’d just noticed the stun-gun wires protruding from Blondie’s chest when another vampire blurred into view, smashing into the third attacker a mere instant before the demon got to his woman.

  The new vamp tore into the demon’s throat with his bare hands, his signet ring flashing in a river of dark blood.

  Fucking Duchanes.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” the woman cried out. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Dorian didn’t know who she was asking—him, Duchanes, the rotten demons themselves—but there was no time to answer. He needed to grab her, blur her someplace safe, and wipe her memories.

  Now.

  He dropped Metalhead on top of the still-trembling blond demon, glancing once more at Duchanes.

  “Go,” Duchanes said. “I’ll take care of them.”

  “You can’t kill them,” Dorian warned. “They’ll—”

  “I’m not a newborn, Redthorne. You’d do well to remember it.” Duchanes finally released his prey, dropping him onto the pile with the others, the demon’s heartbeat faint but present.

  Dorian shook his head. As much as he appreciated the assist—odds were, he would’ve been a pile of ash if the vampire hadn’t shown up—Duchanes wasn’t known for his altruism. And why the hell had he followed Dorian and the woman into the park in the first place?

  “I said I’d take care of it.” Duchanes removed a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from his hands, paying special attention to his ring. “Get the woman out of here before the poor thing has a heart attack.”

  Dorian turned toward the woman, who continued to stare at the scene before her, her eyes wide with horror, mouth opening and closing as if she couldn’t remember how to breathe.

  He offered Duchanes a nod of thanks. The interrogation would have to wait.

  “Come on, love. Let’s go.” He reached out for her, but she flinched away.

  “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare fucking touch me!”

  Her words stung, but Dorian couldn’t blame her.

  He couldn’t honor her request, either. The longer they stayed, the more likely trouble would find them.

  Ignoring her protests, he wrapped his arms around the woman and blurred her back to the street, safe in a sea of strangers once again. She wobbled on her feet, her body instinctively reacting to the unnatural speed as her brain tried to process everything she’d seen.

  Dorian hated what came next, but there was no way he’d leave her in this state. The demon attack, the brutal vampire counter-attack, the blurring… Such nightmares were his curse to bear; he wouldn’t allow them to darken her memories. Not now. Not ever.

  Taking her face between his hands, he held her gaze and spoke softly, willing the compulsion to do its work. “You and I enjoyed a lovely, uneventful stroll through the park. We saw nothing out of the ordinary—just shared a few laughs and a lovely goodnight kiss.”

  He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted to compel her to accept his invitation home, but that was a line he wouldn’t cross, no matter how desperately he wanted her in his bed.

  The woman blinked rapidly, then finally nodded, the color returning to her cheeks, her breathing soft and even once again.

  “Holy shit.” She gazed up at him, then at the street, confusion creasing the skin between her eyebrows. “What… what’s going on?”

  “Are you all right?” Dorian didn’t have to feign the concern in his tone, though she’d never know his true reasons. “You nearly fainted.”

  “What? I’ve never fainted in my life. I… Wait…” She pulled out of his embrace, then spun around, scanning the park behind them. “Those dickheads in the park… I thought… What the hell happened?”

  Dorian bit back a curse. In his efforts to keep his mental meddling to a minimum, he hadn’t taken the compulsion far enough.

  “What do you remember?” he asked cautiously.

  “I’m not sure.” She pinched her forehead and let out a soft sigh. “We were kissing under the tree, and those guys came out of nowhere. One of them said something about payback? After that it’s… Everything’s kind of a blur. Did someone help us? I feel like… No, that can’t be right.”

  He smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Just a couple of punks trying to score some quick cash. And you’re right—a jogger came by and helped chase them off.”

  “Really? And I didn’t fight back?” She opened her purse, frantically digging through it. “Damn it. Where’s Beyoncé?”

  “The situation unfolded rather quickly,” he said, closing his hands over hers. “You must’ve dropped it in the confusion.”

  She bit her lip, likely trying to reconcile his version of events with her own. Despite his best efforts at a convincing tone, Dorian knew it sounded like bullshit, and he waited for her to make the obvious suggestion about calling the police and filing a report.

  But she said nothing more about it, accepting his explanation with little more than a long, shaky exhale. “I guess I’m a little overwhelmed. Still processing, you know? That was fucking weird.”

  Dorian nodded. He still hadn’t processed it himself. He’d been a mere heartbeat away from oblivion. He’d smelled the brimstone, felt the heat in his lungs. They were going to unleash hellfire, certainly killing him.

  As for the woman…

  A shudder wracked his body. Dorian didn’t even want to think about what they would’ve done to her in his absence.

  Yesterday, the very idea of demons even setting foot in Manhattan would’ve been preposterous—the Accords prohibited it, and for decades, the creatures had obeyed, just as vampires avoided the demonic-held territories of Brooklyn and Queens. Violations could lead to war or widespread discovery—twin threats that, save for the occasional skirmish, had kept the supernatural communities in a peaceful state of suspension.

  Yet tonight, Chernikov demons had not only set foot in vampire territory, but attempted to claim a human soul, unleashed an attack in front of another human, and damn near assassinated the Redthorne vampire king.

  If war was what they were after, Dorian could deliver their dreams on a silver fucking platter.

  “Oh, great,” the woman said suddenly. “Another ambush.”

  He followed her gaze to a black SUV that had pulled up to the curb. From the backseat, a man emerged—late fifties, maybe, with thinning gray hair slicked back off a high forehead and a mediocre suit trying its damnedest to look expensive. He glared at the woman with such contempt, Dorian wanted to tear out his heart and feed his soul to the demons—a peace offering for his mortal enemies.

  Instinctively, he reached for the woma
n’s hand, but she ignored his touch, folding her arms over her chest instead. Everything inside her tensed, her pulse racing with new urgency.

  “Do you know him?” Dorian asked.

  Through clenched teeth, she whispered her reply. “That’s my… boss.”

  The man barely spared a glance for Dorian, his cold gaze fixated on the woman. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Charlotte. Where have you been?”

  Charlotte. Dorian let the name rest on his tongue, melting like rich, dark chocolate. It suited her—a sweet sonnet tinged with a hint of spice.

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” she replied. Disappointment and frustration warred for dominance in her tone, but she offered the man a smile anyway. “I decided to stretch my legs in the park.”

  Her smile was nothing like the radiant looks she’d shared with Dorian, but that fact was little comfort; he may have earned her genuine expressions, but in the end, it seemed she’d still be going home with another man.

  Now, that man opened the SUV’s back door. “Get in. We have things to discuss.”

  “Just give me a sec,” she said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. Then, turning to Dorian, she offered one last smile. The real one.

  Dorian tried not to gloat.

  In a soft, wistful tone, she said, “I have to go now.”

  “You really don’t.”

  “Thanks again for the company.”

  “Charlotte,” he said, savoring the taste of it, the way her eyes softened when he said it. “This isn’t necessary. I can have my driver here in a matter of minutes. We’ll take you anywhere you’d like.”

  As long as it’s not anywhere near this man and his ice-cold eyes.

  “I appreciate the offer.” Charlotte lowered her gaze, cheeks blushing, and Dorian wanted to freeze the moment right there, to stop the inevitable goodbye poised on her lips.

  But he could no more stop time than he could reverse it.

  “Technically I’m still on the clock,” she continued. “I don’t have a choice.”

  He wanted to kiss her. To memorize the feel of those soft, plump lips, to welcome the warmth of her sigh against his ear one more time. But with the other man standing so close, Charlotte’s discomfort was obvious.

  “It was lovely to meet you,” Dorian said instead, cursing himself, cursing the demons, cursing the man in the SUV, cursing the very witch who’d created the first vampires eons ago.

  For all the blood and fury, this was the true bane of an immortal life.

  Regret, heavy and inescapable, destined to haunt him for eternity.

  “Goodnight, Charlotte,” he said, resisting the urge to touch her face.

  “Goodnight, Stranger.”

  And then she was gone, climbing into the SUV without a backward glance.

  Dorian took a deep breath, her scent lingering on his skin, despite the second dose of demon blood.

  They may have said their goodnights, but it wasn’t a goodbye.

  Not for him. Not by a long shot.

  Dorian felt the burn of a dark gaze on his skin, and he glanced up to find the man watching him, a puzzled expression on his face. He schooled it quickly, rearranging his features into a mask of neutral disinterest.

  “Mr. Redthorne.” The man offered a curt nod, then climbed into the backseat with Charlotte, shutting the door behind him.

  It was only after the SUV vanished into a sea of taillights that Dorian realized he’d never actually introduced himself.

  Chapter Twelve

  As much as she hated to admit it, Rudy’s ill-timed arrival was just the bucket of ice water to the crotch Charley needed. Tonight was a crazy fantasy, and she’d enjoyed every mouthwatering second of it, right up until the part where they nearly got mugged.

  Even that felt like a fantasy—a blurry smudge of a story she could barely remember, no matter how hard she tried.

  What was the point, anyway? Story time was over. Her clock had struck midnight, her stagecoach turned back into a pumpkin, and now Charley would return to reality, the man no more than a delicious memory of a life she could never have.

  Resting her head against the tinted window, she closed her eyes and let the hum of the road vibrate through her skull, enjoying the last few minutes of silence before Rudy started up the inevitable third degree.

  What do you mean, nada?

  You didn’t find a single thing of value in that entire penthouse?

  What’s wrong with you, Charlotte?

  Are you sure you’re committed to this?

  “What were you doing with Dorian Redthorne?”

  The last question hadn’t come from inside her head, and Charley sat up, blinking away her thoughts. From the adjacent seat, Rudy stared at her, impatient and annoyed—his default setting.

  “Who the fuck’s Dorian Redthorne?” she asked, but as soon as the name passed through her lips, she knew.

  Her man. The formality in his mannerisms, the obvious money, the sheer power emanating from his every word and movement. Only a man like that would have a name like Dorian Redthorne.

  She repeated it in her mind, the memory of his accent making her stomach lurch.

  He still had her underwear, she realized suddenly. Stuffed into his pants pocket.

  Biting back a smile at the image of him discovering them later, she turned back to the window, hoping her disinterest would send Rudy sniffing up another tree.

  But he wouldn’t let it go.

  “You’re telling me you spent the night with a man and never bothered asking his name?”

  “I didn’t spend the night with anyone, Rudy. I’m here. With you. As usual.” Then, tempering her tone, she waved her hand in front of her face like she was shooing a fly. “I didn’t get his name because he’s nobody—just some rich guy from the auction. We left at the same time, and he offered to walk me to the park.”

  Rudy glanced at his watch, a gold monstrosity that had probably cost more than a year’s worth of Sasha’s schoolbooks. “I may be old, kiddo, but I’m not blind.”

  “How do you know him?”

  He turned away from her and stared out his window, rubbing his thumb along his watchband. “He’s the CEO of FierceConnect, among other things.”

  “FierceConnect? Never heard of it.”

  He turned and leveled her with another icy glare. “You two clearly had a connection.”

  “Sure. Keep dreaming, Uncle Rudy.”

  “You’re wearing his clothes.”

  Charley glanced down, shocked to find herself clutching the suit jacket around her shoulders. In the chaos of the near-mugging and the rushed goodbye that followed, she’d all but forgotten about it.

  She released the soft fabric, folding her hands in her lap.

  “You wasted precious time on a job you claim yielded no results,” Rudy said. “You ignored my calls and texts. You ducked out early, forcing me to waste even more time driving around the block looking for you. And this isn’t the first time you’ve turned up empty-handed lately. Not by a long shot.”

  “I know,” she said softly, shame heating her cheeks.

  “So I’ll ask you again. What were you doing with Dorian Redthorne?”

  “Nothing—I swear. He… he bought the Whitfield,” she blurted out.

  Rudy cocked his head, looking at her with renewed interest.

  Shit. Why had she said that? God, she hated the way Rudy got under her skin. He’d been like that ever since she was a kid, needling her until she finally gave up whatever secrets he was after—what her parents had been fighting about, where her mother kept the stash of tips from her waitressing gig, where her father had hidden the whiskey.

  Looking at him now, she wondered how he’d managed to survive the game these last five years without her father around to clean up his messes. Sure, he played the part—tailored suit, that blingy-ass watch, the formal tone he’d adopted in recent years to impress wealthier clients. To anyone else, he probably looked like a successful businessman. But whenever Charley l
ooked at him, she saw the same old Uncle Rudy from the trailer park, dressed in worn jeans and a beer-stained Bon Jovi T-shirt with holes in the armpits, a cheap gold chain around his neck, banging on the door and asking her father for a loan, for help with another one of his schemes, for a place to crash for the night or the week or the month.

  Despite the money they’d earned since, the high-class art scenes they’d worked, and their lavish Upper East Side addresses, most of the time, Charley felt as if they’d never left that run-down double-wide in Jersey.

  And sometimes, in her darkest moments, part of her wished they hadn’t left.

  “I asked you a question, Charlotte.”

  His cold voice brought her back to the present, and she blinked away the memories.

  “Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  A deep sigh rushed out through his nose. “How much did Redthorne pay for the Whitfield?”

  Charley thought about lying, but Rudy would find out soon enough anyway. Charley didn’t know all their methods, but somehow, when it came to the amount of cash trading hands in the world of fine art, the D’Amico crew always had their finger on the pulse.

  “Three million,” she admitted.

  Rudy’s eyebrows shot up, but then he turned away again. He was silent for a long time. Too fucking long, which meant one of two things.

  He was plotting.

  Or he was gearing up for an explosion—one Charley would catch, right in the face.

  Not for the first time, she wished the damn SUV didn’t have a privacy screen separating them from the driver. Then again, the types of guys Rudy hired—the same types her father had hired—were paid not to notice. Not to interfere. Not to help, even when someone begged for it.

  Charley did her best to remain still, to take up as little space as possible.

  …and above all, don’t get noticed…