“My apologies,” Dorian said, already making his way out of the alley. “I’m nearly late for an appointment. Are you staying at Ravenswood? Perhaps we might catch up another night.”
“An alliance makes sense, Dorian,” Malcolm said, jogging to keep up.
Stopping at a newsstand, he bought a bottle of sparkling water and a pack of mints, downing them both in quick succession. Neither relieved the sharp tang of demon blood from his senses.
Unsurprising. In Dorian’s experience, there was only one sure-fire cure for that. But it’d been far too long since he’d had the pleasure of burying his face between a woman’s thighs, and he doubted tonight would end any differently.
“With Father gone,” Malcolm continued, “and no witch bound to our line—”
“Careful, brother. In this city, even the gargoyles have ears.”
In truth, Dorian was less concerned about spies than he was about entertaining his brother’s endless quest for power. Dorian was the eldest; these decisions were his to command or ignore as he saw fit.
Malcolm had always struggled to remember it. Which was a fine oversight while he built his empire in the bayou, but less fine when he brought his aspirations north.
They walked in tense silence for the last two blocks, then Dorian spotted the blood-red awning marking the entrance to The Salvatore, a massive double-tower, thirty-story apartment building on Central Park West. The auction would take place in the penthouse, with the bidding set to begin in half an hour, and he definitely needed a drink first—a real drink. It left precious little time for chit-chat with Malcolm.
Thank the devil’s cock for small favors.
He stepped through the opulent glass-front entry, hoping Malcolm would fuck off back to Ravenswood and spare him the headache of further spectacle. But even that was too much to ask, and his younger brother followed him into the lobby, footfalls echoing on the gleaming marble floor.
A doorman inquired about their business, but Dorian sent a wave of compulsion his way, and the man returned to his station, content to let the vampires pass.
“There are but four of us left,” Malcolm said, trailing him to the elevator bay. “Four royal vampires standing against an entire city of demons, witches, and lesser bloodsuckers who’d sell us to the highest bidder without a second thought.”
“Let them try.” Dorian hit the button for the penthouse elevator. “The last vampire who crossed—”
Movement at the lobby doors silenced him, and Dorian turned to assess the newcomer.
Everything about the moment changed, the darkness and dread that surrounded him parting like a heavy curtain to reveal the light.
The woman stepped into an alcove at the front of the lobby, her smile bright, her laughter floating to his ears like a symphony.
“…evoking veto power,” she was saying into her cell phone. “Those are terrible choices.” A pause, then she laughed again. “No, I said you can pick any movie as long as it’s not about vampires.” Another pause. “Because I want to watch normal people fall in love and mash their faces together! God, you’re obsessed!”
Dorian smiled, wondering what she’d say if she knew the vampires of this century’s bubble-gum books and movies were nothing like the real thing, especially when it came to, quote, mashing their faces together.
“I’ll be home as soon as I can ditch this work thing,” she said. “Nine o’clock, ten tops.”
Not if I have anything to say about it, love…
She put the phone away, and Dorian watched in abject fascination as she removed a mirror from her purse and checked her makeup and hair, brow furrowed as she smoothed back an errant auburn lock. Her movements stirred the air, carrying her scent.
Citrus and vanilla, with a hint of something all her own.
After two and a half centuries walking the earth, Dorian had enjoyed his share of beautiful women. But something about this one captivated him in ways he’d never before experienced and couldn’t begin to explain.
“Dorian, we need to discuss—”
He cut his brother off with a raised hand, attention still fixated on the woman. Her sweet summer scent intoxicated him, the soft beat of her heart pulling him into a deep trance.
As she walked across the lobby to the elevators, ignoring the now-docile doorman, their gazes met and locked for a beat… two… three…
Dorian inhaled sharply. Behind her coppery eyes, beneath the sunshine and light, darkness gathered like a storm on the horizon, stirring a terrible, ancient longing inside him.
Mine.
After what felt like an eternity, the woman averted her eyes and headed into the waiting elevator, tapping the button for her floor. But not before granting him the faintest, rose-colored smile and a shiver she tried desperately—unsuccessfully—to suppress.
Dorian’s lips curved in response, his mouth watering, predatory instincts flaring as thoughts of the woman’s soft skin invaded his consciousness. The taste of demon blood lingered in his throat, but perhaps he’d get to sample some of that sure-fire remedy tonight after all.
His cock stirred at the thought.
He took a step toward her, but a solid grip on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks, and the elevator doors closed, ferrying her away.
Dorian wheeled on his brother, fully intending to hit him with the same right hook he’d given the overly-pierced demon. But the look in Malcolm’s eyes stayed his hand, and he lowered it to his side, letting out a deep sigh instead.
“Bloody hell, Mac,” he said. “You show up after fifty years… What did you think would happen? We’d pop over to the nearest pub, grab a few pints, and reminisce about the good times?”
Malcolm’s face reddened. “I’m here to see to Father’s affairs. To ensure our longevity.”
“That is not your responsibility.”
“Whose, then? Yours?” He practically sneered. “We’re alone, Dorian. Father is dead. Without him, the few allies who remained loyal to House Redthorne will turn, if they haven’t already. Our power is waning. How long until we can no longer walk in the daylight? Until we can no longer pass as human? Without a witch or an alliance…” Malcolm shook his head, frustration and disappointment warring in his eyes. “If you see an alternate ending to this fairytale, I’m all ears.”
“What I see is a washed-up vampire prince attempting to manipulate his eldest brother with guilt and melodrama. I assure you, I’m moved by neither.” The elevator returned, and he stepped inside, hitting the button for the penthouse.
“Dorian. This isn’t—”
“Don’t wait up,” he said, smiling at his brother as the elevator doors began to close.
“Colin and Gabriel,” Malcolm blurted out. “They’ve already arrived at Ravenswood. They’re expecting us to return together.”
Dorian held his smile despite the fresh pit opening up in his stomach. “Tell them not to wait up either.”
“Your family needs you, Dorian.”
Silence.
It wasn’t until the elevator doors closed and the lift began its silent ascent that Dorian dropped his grin.
Reality hit him then, a wrecking ball straight to the chest.
It wasn’t the hush of his father’s final breaths. It wasn’t the scrape of the match against the flint, the blaze of the fire as it consumed the corpse, the fetid stench of it all. It wasn’t preparing paperwork for the attorney, or receiving the condolences from his driver, or wiping his father’s ashes from the sleeve of his bespoke Italian suit.