by Sarah Piper
Even more than the threat of violence, this was the part she hated. Biting her tongue. Holding her breath. Shrinking, shrinking, shrinking, a little more each time.
One day, she might disappear entirely.
Fifteen minutes passed. Thirty. They were taking the long way home, a route undoubtedly planned to keep her in a state of constant unease. Charley longed to reach for her phone, to send a text to Sasha, but she didn’t dare move.
She closed her eyes and tried to relax, tried to remind herself that this was all part of Rudy’s game. She’d just started to nod off when the bastard finally decided to speak, his voice so loud and abrupt she nearly yelped.
“Well,” Rudy said sharply. “I guess the outing wasn’t a total loss after all.”
A slow smile crept across his face, bringing with it a cold dread that lodged itself right in her belly.
“How do you figure?” she asked. “The place was a dead end. I searched the whole thing.”
“Sometimes, what looks like a dead end is actually a well-hidden doorway to something much more prosperous.”
He reached over and patted her thigh, holding her gaze another beat before leaning back against the headrest and closing his eyes.
The conversation was over.
Charley didn’t need to ask what he’d meant.
The doorway to prosperity was Dorian Redthorne.
And the powerful, sexy, panty-melting gazillionaire who’d given her the most intense orgasms of her life, bought her a jumbo hot dog, and set her whole world on fire had no idea what kind of trouble he’d just invited in for tea.
Chapter Thirteen
In Dorian’s mind, there ought to have been a sacredness to the tables around which families gathered to share their meals. He’d never understood how people could so readily dine in the same spaces where they’d played out all their domestic tragedies—news of deaths and divorces, neighborhood gossip, a call from the doctor about an abnormal test result. Arguments about money and religion and sex—too much, not enough. Punishments meted out to errant children—extra chores, a grounding, a beating. Threats.
For Dorian, the blackest, most brutal night of his life had unfolded in the dining room at the manor in West Sussex over an otherwise perfectly pleasant meal of roasted quail. Though the battered remains of the Redthorne family had later emigrated to New York for a fresh start, his father had painstakingly recreated their original family home here in Annandale-on-Hudson, right down to the embossed ceilings and cherry wood wainscoting. And while his brothers had scattered across the country and his father traveled the world in service to his own crown, hardly ever stepping foot in the manor he’d erected, Dorian had made Ravenswood his home, ensuring it was updated as modern advances allowed—plumbing, electricity, everything he needed to live in total comfort.
There were only two areas he avoided—his father’s private quarters, and the dining room.
The few times he’d caught sight of it through the ornately carved pocket doors, all he saw was the blood splatter. All he heard were the screams.
So tonight, while his three brothers shared a late meal at the massive oak dining table, the king himself remained sequestered in his study before a roaring fire, nursing a glass of scotch in one hand, a scrap of black lace in the other, wondering if there was enough alcohol or pussy in the world to dull the sharp blade of the past.
He sipped his scotch, then pressed the lace to his mouth and closed his eyes, chasing much more pleasant memories.
Ah, Charlotte. I never should’ve let you go…
A knock on the study door tore him from his thoughts, and he tucked the panties back into his pocket, calling for the intruder to enter.
Intruders, he realized. All three of them glided into the room, the sight of his brothers standing side by side for the first time in five decades twisting the blade a little deeper.
The twins were missing, of course—dead at sixteen years old.
Murdered at sixteen years old.
They hadn’t survived the change.
Emotion welled in the back of his throat. He tipped back his glass, drowning it.
Then, leveling his brothers with a gaze as neutral as he could manage, he said evenly, “Welcome to Ravenswood, brothers. You’re all looking… well.”
It was true, Dorian realized, cataloging each in turn.
Malcolm, golden-eyed and tanned from his time in New Orleans. Turned at thirty-two, he was three years younger than Dorian, but had always acted as if he were the only adult in the room. Now, he carried himself like a man far beyond his years.
Colin, next in line at thirty, with dark, shoulder-length hair and a dimpled smile that had solved more family conflicts than Dorian could count, effortlessly melting their mother’s heart and sparing him the brunt of Father’s ill temper. He’d inherited the man’s interest in medicine, and last Dorian knew, he’d been working as a doctor in a small town in the Rocky Mountains.
Lastly, Gabriel. Turned at twenty-eight, the youngest remaining Redthorne had always been their ticking time bomb. He was a rebellious child and an angry adolescent, his untamable wildness only intensifying with the change. He’d built his empire in Sin City, earning a terrifying reputation Dorian preferred not to think about.
Now, his baby brother looked upon him with eyes as cold and calculating as their father’s. It chilled Dorian to the marrow.
“Witches aren’t hard to come by in New Orleans,” Malcolm said, breaking the tense silence. He placed another log on the fire, the flames popping. “I’d assumed that was the case here as well, but it seems you’ve let yourself go a bit, brother.”
He’d meant it as a joke, but only Colin laughed.
Dorian’s very veins itched. “I’ve managed.”
“And Father?” Gabriel asked, his voice like a steel sword. “He managed as well?”
Ignoring the dig, Dorian raised his glass and grinned. “Until the very end.”
Without further encouragement, his brothers made themselves at home in the study, occupying the leather chairs around the fireplace, pouring another round of bourbon from the bottle Colin brought.
“To Father,” Colin said, raising his glass.
“May his eternal rest be as terrible as the torments he inflicted upon us,” Malcolm said.
Now that was something Dorian could drink to. He nodded and took another swig.
Gabriel remained silent, seething in the farthest chair, but he lifted his glass to his lips anyway.
None of them asked how Father had died, which was just as well. Dorian had started the rumor of a foreign demon attack—an old enemy come to repay an old slight—but that was simply to assuage the supernatural grapevine. He wasn’t prepared to discuss the true cause—not until he figured out how to prevent it from happening to the rest of them.
Not until he figured out how it’d even happened in the first place.
The warmth of the fire lulled them into silence, each lost in his own thoughts. It was a long while before anyone spoke again.
“Dorian,” Malcolm finally said, his tone careful, “we’ve all discussed this, and we’re in agreement. Perhaps I could’ve handled our earlier conversation with a bit more diplomacy, but I stand by my position. Given the circumstances, an alliance is our best option.” He sipped his bourbon, then shrugged. “House Duchanes is prepared to make an offer. I think we should take them up on it.”
“Yes,” Dorian said, keeping his anger on simmer. “I ran into your friend Renault at the auction tonight.”
“So he approached you, then.”
“Oh, he more than approached me. He made quite a show of assuring me you’d already agreed.” Dorian glared at him, waiting for him to deny it. Hoping, against the odds, that he would.
But Malcolm’s silence spoke volumes.
“Renault Duchanes?” Dorian slammed his glass on the end table. “You can’t possibly be serious, Mac.”
“Alliances are rarely perfect,” Malcolm said. “Simply a means to
an end.”
“What you’re proposing is a means to our end—one Duchanes would gladly usher in.”
“His is the only greater house willing to work with us.”
“And why do you suppose that is? Because they’ve taken pity on us in our time of need? Because Renault is just an all-around decent fellow?”
“Father’s legacy—”
“You’re so concerned about father’s legacy, you’re willing to destroy what’s left of it by playing high-stakes Monopoly with blood slavers and sex traffickers?” Dorian rose from his chair and turned toward the hearth, wishing he could dive right into the flames, let them consume him as readily as hellfire. “If that’s all we’ve got to offer, maybe it’s time to let our legacy die.”
“And do what?” Malcolm snapped. “Crawl into the crypt with Father? Is that what you wish?”
Dorian ran his fingers along the mahogany mantle, remembering all the times he and his brothers had stolen into Father’s study in West Sussex, giggling as they snuck forbidden glimpses at his illustrated anatomy books. “Perhaps it’s where we belong.”
Colin, ever the peacemaker, stood and placed a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian forced himself not to recoil, despite the burn of shame in his gut.
“Don’t speak of such things, brother,” Colin said. “We’ll find the answers.”
He closed his eyes, wishing he already had the answers.
More than anything, he wanted to make this right for them, whether they planned to return to New York permanently, or they walked out of his life tomorrow without a backward glance.
But how could he?
Since the turning, Dorian had been taught to believe vampires held all the power. They were at the top of the supernatural food chain, stronger and deadlier than the other races, their blood coveted for its magical and healing properties by witches and lesser beings alike. They outnumbered demons and shifters by threefold and could much more easily grow their ranks—with or without human consent.
But what experience and pain had shown him was that alliances held the power. It just so happened that vampires—particularly the oldest, wealthiest families like his—had no shortage of eager allies.
Until the great cock-up of 1972—Dorian’s great cock-up—when he’d failed to protect their bonded witch from an attack and, in the bloody aftermath, the witches cut ties, nearly all the prominent families turned their backs on House Redthorne, and his brothers vanished from his life.
Now, by a chance order of birth and the twist of fate that had killed his immortal father, Dorian was the rightful vampire king. His family had money—more than they could spend in a hundred lifetimes. They had stocks and art collections valued in the billions. Luxury automobiles that filled the wet dreams of lesser men. Property in more than a dozen countries, and businesses in twice as many.
But when it came to trusted friendships, to partners, to those precious allies that secured true power, they had nothing. At a time when the greater families were vying for power, the lesser vampires were growing restless, and demons were quickly encroaching on their territory, Dorian and his brothers stood virtually alone.
He thought again of Chernikov’s demons, the attack in the park. His own dulled instincts, the ache behind his eyes, the mental fog. All the ailments he’d once been magically spelled against—something he’d taken for granted when he had access to a bonded witch.
And if any of their enemies discovered his father’s weakness? The same weakness that likely ran through the entire Redthorne line?
The royal family was in deep shit—more than their father had admitted to Dorian. More than Dorian would admit to his brothers now.
But aligning with Duchanes was not the answer.
“So you’d rather do nothing?” Gabriel shook his head. “How utterly predictable of you.”
Dorian curled his hand into a fist on the mantle, then released it, letting out a sigh. He hadn’t planned to reveal his strategy to his brothers, but without it, they’d surely stage a coup.
More importantly—a fact Dorian was loath to admit—they’d shown up. They remained in his home even now, despite the tension and bickering. For how long, he couldn’t say. But tonight, the surviving Redthorne Royals were present and accounted for. His brothers were home, looking to him for guidance, whether they’d readily acknowledge it or not.
He owed them.
“Nothing could be farther from the truth.” Dorian finally turned to face them again. “I’m in the process of acquiring Armitage Holdings.”
“As in… Lucien Armitage?” Colin asked. “The old mage?”
Dorian reclaimed his chair and poured himself a fresh glass of scotch. “Lucien and Father became quite close in recent years. Now, he’s retiring, and he doesn’t want his company disbanded and sold to vultures. FierceConnect is a good fit.”
Armitage Holdings was a mage-owned company that specialized in illusion magic used in all sorts of human visual technologies, from apps to artificial intelligence to virtual reality. Dorian’s company—a social gaming platform with 500 million worldwide users—was most interested in the latter. It really was the perfect marriage.
“What of his children?” Malcolm asked.
“Neither of his sons is interested in running the company,” Dorian said.
“And his daughter?” This, from Gabriel, who’d never trusted witches and always resented that vampires were so dependent upon them.
Dorian glanced at the thin magical tattoos snaking up Gabriel’s forearms, without which he’d be confined to the darkness, unable to enjoy even the simplest human pleasure of a meal or a stiff drink. He thought Gabriel ought to be a bit less judgmental of witches, but kept the opinion to himself, waiting instead for his brothers to put the pieces together.
“I see,” Malcolm said, first to figure it out. “And you think Isabelle Armitage will simply throw herself into the desperately waiting arms of the very vampire family accused of murdering their last—”
“Lucien and Isabelle are both eager for her to be placed with a prominent family,” Dorian said.
“And you think that family is ours?” Malcolm asked. “Has this been promised?”
“Not in so many words. But with our business interests closely aligned, it’s only a matter of time before our personal interests align as well.”
“And once we have a Redthorne-bonded witch,” Colin said, his dimples flashing, “we’ve no need of alliances.”
“Not from the likes of House Duchanes, anyways,” Dorian said. With their own witch, they’d have unlimited access to all the spells and enchantments that kept vampires strong and, for the most part, human. Alliances—proper, mutually beneficial alliances—would certainly follow.
“You’re assuming our enemies are going to nod and smile and let you continue to play king,” Gabriel said. “That they’re not already plotting against us. That your witch and her father will blindly overlook your past indiscretions and—”
“Armitage is no fool,” Dorian said. “He’s well aware of my history, and the history of this entire family.” He sipped his scotch, letting that comment simmer a bit. His brothers’ hands were covered in as much blood as Dorian’s, and he was tired of pretending otherwise.
“He’s got a consulting firm conducting all the requisite investigations of my company,” Dorian continued. “And I assure you, our dealings are completely aboveboard.”
“And your personal life?” Malcolm asked, abandoning his efforts at diplomacy. “Is he looking into that as well?”
“Indeed, he is.”
Colin’s eyebrows lifted. “An investigation?”
“Not… exactly.” Dorian’s insides twisted. It was bad enough he’d let his business partner convince him to host the fundraiser in the first place—a show for Armitage and his executives to prove how generous, gregarious, and stable Dorian really was. The proceeds would benefit one of Armitage’s pet projects—a children’s art museum in the Bronx.
Inviting his es
tranged family to attend was the last thing he wanted. But they were staying here now, for the foreseeable future. He couldn’t very well ask them to vacate the premises while he held the soiree of the century on their sprawling estate.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes at Dorian. “What are you on about?”
“Gentleman, I hope you’re still in possession of your most exquisite formalwear.” Dorian tipped back the last of his scotch and rose from his chair, then grabbed the bottle and stalked toward the exit, tossing a wry smile over his shoulder. “Chins up, brothers. The Redthorne Royals are throwing a party.”
Chapter Fourteen
When Charley was a kid, her father and Rudy used to take her to Cape May on the Jersey Shore in the off-season. There were fewer tourists, parking wasn’t a problem, and everything on the promenade was cheap enough that even the D’Amicos could feel like royalty for a few days.
Charley didn’t care about the fried food or the beach-town trinkets, though. For her, the big draw was always the ocean. It fascinated and terrified her, possessing a dark allure she couldn’t resist. On every trip, while her father and Rudy parked themselves in the sand with a cooler full of beer and a deck of cards, she’d wade out into the sea alone, daring herself to go deeper, one baby step at a time. First up to her ankles, then her knees, then her hips, palms skimming over the surface as sunlight glinted like diamonds, so bright it hurt her eyes.
But for all its beauty, the Atlantic Ocean harbored a dark secret—a cold and deadly undercurrent lurking beneath its diamond-bright sheen. Resisting was pointless; the harder she fought against it, the stronger the current pulled, tugging her so far out that her father and uncle became nothing but pink dots on a distant shore.
Sometimes, the ocean would tire of playing with her, spitting her back onto the sand in a watery tumble of seaweed and driftwood.
Other times, her father would have to swim out after her, tossing her over his shoulder and dragging her back to safety, laughing as if she’d never been in any danger at all.