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

by Sarah Piper

  She’d clammed up after learning about Estas and the demons, refusing to answer his questions, even though it was obvious something about his news had affected her. She’d turned away from his touch, her shoulders trembling, but no matter how many times he asked—demanded—she wouldn’t reveal a thing.

  I can’t, she’d said. I’m sorry, Dorian. I just can’t.

  Eventually, in the long, cold silence that followed, she’d fallen asleep, and he’d escaped to the den at the other side of the penthouse, determined to burn off his anger with a bottle of scotch and a reminder of his own terrible past.

  But now, all he wanted to do was slip back between the sheets and draw her close, as if by kissing her and bringing her to ecstasy, he could transform himself from a monster into the man she deserved—a man who would always protect and cherish her, no matter how many secrets she kept.

  He flipped to another page in the scrapbook.

  city marks one year since last ‘crimson city devil’ murder; killer who terrorized new yorkers never found.

  The buzz of his cell phone yanked him out of the past, and Dorian picked up on the first ring.

  “Colin? Is everything all right?”

  “I have news,” Colin replied.

  Dorian braced himself. Although Colin was the most forgiving of his siblings, they hadn’t spoken more than a handful of times since his arrival. After the fundraiser, Colin had all but sequestered himself in the crypts with their father’s journals, and Dorian had scuttled off to his penthouse in the city, eager for a break. The combined, prolonged presence of his estranged family at Ravenswood had created an atmosphere more oppressive than he could bear.

  “I’ve just spoken with Malcolm,” Colin continued, “and it seems the established vampire families are becoming more outspoken.”

  “About?” Dorian could hear the awkward pause in his brother’s voice, the silent tension gathering. “Don’t stand on ceremony, Colin. What are they saying?”

  “Some don’t believe you’re fit for the crown.”

  “That’s nothing new.”

  “Perhaps not, but the vocal majority is growing louder by the day. There are rumors—spurned on by House Duchanes—that House Redthorne framed Renault for the attack, murdered two innocent vampires, and possibly even murdered Renault himself, all as retaliation for his interest in Armitage Holdings.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Renault disappeared from Ravenswood the moment his bloodsucking sycophants attacked Charlotte.”

  “Which only lends credence to their theory. House Duchanes and their bonded witch are claiming Renault hasn’t resurfaced. They fear he’s dead, Dorian.”

  “I don’t buy it. If they truly believed he’d died at my hand, they’d be banging down my door with torches and pitchforks.”

  “Yes, well. At the very least, they’re putting on a good show of it, and it’s riling up the other families. Many of them remained loyal to our line only out of their abject fear of Father’s retribution. With him gone…”

  Colin didn’t need to complete the sentence.

  With their father dead, what cause did the others have to support House Redthorne? Nothing but memory and tradition, Dorian feared. And in a world that valued money and power above all else, memory and tradition were little more than the dusty relics of a time long past.

  “They’re reaching out to all the vampires and witches who attended the fundraiser,” Colin said, “asking for anyone who witnessed the attack to step forward.”

  Dorian seethed. “The only witness to the attack was the victim herself, and I’m not going to put her in any more danger than she’s already in, nor expose her to the cutthroat world of supernatural political maneuvering.”

  “Of course not,” he said softly. “I just thought you should know. How is Charlotte, by the way?”

  The kindness and authenticity in his question took Dorian by surprise, and he didn’t know how to answer.

  “She’s… well. Sleeping in the bedroom.” Despite his dour mood, Dorian’s lips curved into a smile as he pictured her in his bed, her auburn hair fanned out across his pillow, her rosy lips parted. He reached for his drink, eager to finish it off and get back to his woman. “Thank you for the update, Colin. I should—”

  “Dorian, wait. There’s more. It’s… it’s about Father’s work.”

  Dorian’s hand stilled on the glass, his heart thudding. “Have you deciphered the mysterious illness?”

  “That’s just it. There was no illness.”

  “But he was searching for a cure. I’m certain of it.”

  “Yes, but not for any ailment.” Colin sighed, his voice dropping so low, Dorian had to strain to hear him. “He was searching for a cure for vampirism. And I believe he found it.”

  “What are you saying?” Dorian’s own words were a whisper now too, the pounding of his heart nearly drowning them out.

  “Father cured himself of vampirism. He was in the process of turning human again. That’s what killed him, Dorian. Without his immortal blood, his body began to rapidly age, his cells deteriorating much faster than they could heal or regenerate. Essentially, he aged two hundred and fifty years in the span of a few months.”

  Dorian’s ears rang, his mouth turning to ash. After a long pause, he finally said, “But why? Why would he do such a thing, knowing it would kill him? Knowing it would kill us? Bloody hell, if word got out, it could be the end of all vampires.”

  “Not just vampires. It looks like he found cures for shifters and demon-occupied humans alike, though I haven’t been able to locate the specifics.” Colin’s voice dropped again. “I don’t know how long he spent on such work, but one thing is certain, Dorian: Father gave his life in an attempt to usher in the end of supernatural existence as we know it.”

  Dorian’s head spun with this new information. As much as his rational mind railed against it, he knew—deep in his bones—that Colin was right.

  And he knew, with equal certainty, that if word got out, it would unleash a war the likes of which their communities—despite a long, blood-drenched history—had never seen.

  “Who else have you told?” Dorian asked.

  “Only you.”

  “I’ll be back at Ravenswood tomorrow afternoon. Do not speak to the others until I arrive—we’ll do it together.”

  “You have my word. What should we do about the—”

  “Hold on.” Dorian cocked his ear, a strange sensation creeping along his skin. “Something’s wrong. I thought I heard…”

  “Dorian? What is it?”

  Dorian closed his eyes, trying to pinpoint the source of his sudden unease. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, a chill racing suddenly down his spine. When he took his next breath, he tasted brimstone.

  And then, in the span of a single heartbeat, a shriek of raw terror pierced the night, and the scent of warm blood flooded his senses.

  Dorian’s heart shattered like a bomb.

  The scream—as well as the blood—had come from his bedroom.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The unmistakable scent of Charlotte’s blood wrapped him in a haze of delirium, but Dorian fought through it, half-blurring, half-stumbling across the penthouse.

  There was a demon in his home. He felt its dark presence. His lungs were already burning, the taste of hellfire a grim warning in the back of his throat, but there was no time to heed it.

  Charlotte was all that mattered. He had to get to her.

  When he finally reached the bedroom, he was so weak from the hellfire, he could barely stand.

  “Charlotte,” he choked out.

  She was naked, tied to a chair in the corner of the room, bound and gagged. A bright red gash wept from her wrist, ruby liquid spilling down her fingers, dripping onto the carpet.

  Her wide, frantic eyes implored him, and she shook her head, shouting something he couldn’t understand through the gag—another warning unheeded.

  With a burst of new energy, Dorian shot forward.<
br />
  But he didn’t get far.

  A force like a freight train slammed into him from the side, and a sharp pain bit into his neck. Seconds later, he felt his heartbeat slow, his muscles twisting as if they’d come loose from the bone.

  He dropped to his knees, and the room spun before his eyes.

  Charlotte screamed and rattled in her chair, but her cries were still muffled by the gag, the scent of her blood still flooding his senses.

  “Good evening, your highness,” came the cruel taunt. “I’m so pleased you’ve finally decided to join us.”

  Renault Duchanes crouched before him, flashing his signet ring. A blood-tipped spike rose from the center—clearly the source of the pain in Dorian’s neck.

  “What… have you… done?” Dorian panted. The breath was leaving his body, the hellfire smoldering inside him, which meant the demon was near. Dorian had no idea where—he couldn’t see through the blinding agony in his guts. He felt as if he were being consumed from the inside out—not just by hellfire, but by some ungodly microscopic enemy chewing through to his bones.

  Duchanes beamed at his ring, fluttering it before Dorian’s eyes like a prized diamond. “Just a little something Jacinda whipped up. Quite ingenious, really. For so long, it was believed vampires couldn’t be poisoned, but witches can be rather clever when sufficiently… motivated.”

  Dorian blinked back tears of anguish, barely fighting off a full-bodied tremor.

  “Your blood,” Duchanes said, taking great pleasure in Dorian’s torture, “is locked in a fierce battle with the poison, leaving your muscles and internal organs to fend for themselves. One by one, your systems are shutting down. Ironically, the poison was crafted from plants procured from your very own gardens. Funny how life works out, isn’t it?”

  Dorian’s mind flashed back to the night of the fundraiser, his words to Jacinda echoing.

  …the gardens at Ravenswood are home to over four dozen species of medicinal herbs and flowers. You’re welcome to take clippings…

  Duchanes got to his feet and crossed the room to stand behind Charlotte, dropping his meaty hands onto her bare shoulders. The sight was more than Dorian could bear.

  With a monumental effort and not an insignificant amount of pain, he pushed himself to his feet, stumbling toward her. But before he’d taken more than a handful of awkward steps, his lungs caught fire, the sudden burst of pain forcing him back to his knees.

  Smoke leaked from his mouth, his vision flickering at the edges.

  Duchanes let out a sick chuckle. “Did you really think I’d enter hostile territory without proper backup?” He snapped his fingers, and the demon finally revealed himself, stepping out of the shadows from the darkened bathroom. He held Dorian’s gaze, two obsidian-black eyes shining in a pale face, conjuring enough hellfire to keep Dorian immobilized—but not enough to kill him.

  Which meant Duchanes had other plans. Worse plans.

  “Let… her… go…” Dorian sputtered, still trying to drag himself to Charlotte’s side despite his broken body and the searing pain in his lungs. His eyes watered as the smoke gathered behind them, the scent of burning flesh stinging his nostrils. “Kill me, Duchanes. Just… release her.”

  “I have every intention of killing you, Redthorne. But not yet. First, you’re going to pay for your egregious acts against my house.” His tone turned chilly, his eyes wild with madness and determination. “You’re going to pay for decades of insults and dismissals. You’re going to pay for your father’s cruelty against my sires. You’re going to pay for the sins of your past, for every life you stole, for every drop of innocent blood you spilled. And through it all, you’re going to watch from a helpless, pitiful distance as I suck your filthy human whore dry, until there’s nothing left of her but agony and bones.”

  Charlotte’s eyes found Dorian’s in the darkness again, tears slipping down her cheeks.

  Dorian was frantic, his heart fighting through the sluggish haze of the poison, the hellfire consuming him, but he couldn’t break free of death’s grip. He couldn’t save her.

  Duchanes unbound her from the chair and hauled her to her feet, his arm a vise around her arms and chest. Fisting her hair, he yanked her head sideways, exposing her neck.

  Free from the binds, Charlotte tried to shake him off, but the vampire was too strong. Too determined. Too insane.

  “Mmm, I do love a good struggle,” Duchanes said, fangs emerging behind his lips. “Makes the blood that much sweeter.”

  With a wicked gleam in his eye, he descended, his mouth clamping down on her delicate neck as she screamed and writhed and begged.

  The sight, the sounds, the scent of her fear… All of it shrank to a single point of light, a lit match tossed into a kettle of gasoline, igniting a fury so clean, so pure, it burned away Dorian’s pain in an instant.

  In that moment, Dorian had no muscles to destroy, no organs to shut down, no blood to battle the terrible poison.

  There was only the beautiful, triumphant fury gathering inside him, focusing all of his reserves into a single, deadly mission.

  “I will end you!” The words tore through Dorian’s burning chest, scorching his throat, pushing him to his feet. In a blur that should’ve been impossible in his condition, he collided with Duchanes and wrenched him from Charlotte’s body, slamming him into the wall.

  In his peripheral vision, he saw the demon bolting toward him, but Charlotte was faster. She dove for her purse on the dresser, and in that moment, Dorian knew exactly what she was thinking.

  Still channeling his deadly fury, Dorian pummeled Duchanes with his fists, battering his face and chest, bloodying him beyond recognition. Duchanes blurred out of his grip, then shot forward again, catching Dorian around his mid-section. But Dorian was ready for it. He took the hit, spinning with the momentum and launching Duchanes right into the fucking window.

  It shattered on impact, and Duchanes fell to the street in a shower of blood and glass.

  Dorian turned around just in time to see Charlotte drop the demon with a perfect shot, the taser blasting him with fifty-thousand volts of utter badassery.

  “That’s my girl.” Dorian’s lips quirked into a proud grin.

  And then, the last of his rage receding, the pain returned with a vengeance, crashing over him like a tsunami, knocking him flat on his back.

  Charlotte dropped her weapon and ran to Dorian’s side, falling to her knees and taking his head into her lap.

  She pulled the gag from her mouth, and her long hair fell onto his face, tickling his skin. He blinked up at her and reached for a perfect, silky lock, inhaling the orange-and-vanilla scent he loved so much.

  Dorian’s life force was fading. The demon was no longer a threat, but the damage from the hellfire was extensive, and Duchanes’ poison still pulsed through his bloodstream, consuming a bit more of him with every faint heartbeat.

  He didn’t have much time.

  If this is where I meet my end, he thought, losing himself in her touch, her sweet scent, I shall spend my eternal damnation in utter gratitude…

  “Charlotte,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I—”

  “Shh. Don’t talk. Drink.” She pressed her wounded wrist to his mouth.

  Dorian clamped his lips shut.

  “Jesus Christ,” she snapped. “Don’t fight me on this, Bone Crusher. You will lose.”

  Dorian tried to bat her away, but she grabbed his arm and slammed it to the ground, her grip impossibly strong in the face of his weakness.

  “You’re going to die, you dickhead!” she shouted. “And you still owe me a Midnight Marauder rematch! So fucking drink!”

  Still, he resisted, even as the first drops reached his tongue, the taste bringing him back to that sinful, erotic moment in the Ravenswood basement when he’d first sampled her blood. The scent filled his nostrils, chasing away the last of the smoke.

  The urge to suck was nearly overwhelming.

  Above him, Charlotte’s eyes softened in
the moonlight, glassy with emotion.

  “I trust you, Dorian Redthorne,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “I know you won’t hurt me. Please drink. Do it for me. Please.”

  Shifting her wrist, she pressed down harder, the blood seeping through his lips, warm and decadent on his tongue, instantly soothing.

  Instantly sweet.

  Instantly addicting.

  The last of his resistance shattered, and Dorian opened his mouth, fangs burning through his gums. He latched onto her wrist with a quick, hard bite.

  Charlotte gasped, but she held firm, stroking his hair with her free hand, quietly urging him back to life.

  Dorian closed his eyes.

  Her blood filled his mouth completely.

  And then, he swallowed.

  He drank.

  And he sucked.

  Charlotte’s blood slid down his throat in a warm, wet rush, a pleasant buzz spreading from his stomach to his limbs. Cell by cell, his body knit itself back together, healing the burned tissue and damaged organs, chasing off the poison.

  It was a magic elixir, and it brought him back from the precipice of death.

  It made him whole again.

  It sharpened his instincts, chased the cobwebs from his mind, strengthened his muscles, remade his bones and skin and teeth. He felt the light return to his soul, the full, undimmed power awakening inside him after a long, dark sleep.

  The familiar sight of his bedroom faded away as the craving took over, blotting out his rational mind. He was dimly aware of Charlotte’s soft whimpers, the tremble in her arm, the faint tug as she tried to pull back, but none of that mattered.

  He couldn’t stop now.

  He didn’t want to stop.

  He was alive, his heartbeat strong and steady, his cock rising to full attention as every exquisite drop tempted him into a deeper state of euphoria.

  “Dorian,” she whispered, faint and fading fast. “That’s enough. I think you’re…”

  She tried to pull away again, but she didn’t have the strength. Her muscles finally relaxed, her heartbeat slowing, the numb acceptance settling over her.

  Let her go, a voice warned in his head. Release her, or you’ll kill her...