“Five Redthornes? Brothers?” Charley looked them over, doing her best to smile through the heat gathering in her cheeks. “Wow. That’s… wow.”
“Four, technically,” Aiden said. “I’m not a Redthorne, though I am Dorian’s favorite. Best mate and business partner too.”
“Oh? What sort of business?” She tried to remember what her uncle had said about Dorian’s company on their drive home from the auction. Fierce… something?
“Dorian and I run a company called FierceConnect,” he said. “We’re essentially a social network and platform for online gamers.” He shared a bit more about the business, his twinkling eyes putting her at ease.
But despite his friendly demeanor, she sensed a discomfort in him—in all of them.
After Aiden’s brief overview, it was a long beat before anyone spoke again, the brothers still staring at her, undoubtedly piecing together what she and Dorian had been up to before the interruption.
“Well,” she said, “this is even more awkward than the time I lost my virginity to Stanley Kopoweicz in the back of his parents’ camper while his mother was mowing the lawn, so…”
Dorian stiffened beside her, but Aiden cracked up.
Charley pressed a palm to her forehead and blew out a breath. “I did not say that out loud.”
“I didn’t hear a thing,” Aiden said somberly. “But for the oddest reason, I’m suddenly in the mood for a campout.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Even Dorian cracked a smile.
“What brings you to Ravenswood, Ms. D’Amico?” The last one—Malcolm—asked. His tone was casual, but the question was anything but, and behind those eyes Charley spied a deep wariness.
“I’m an art consultant,” she replied. “My company supports the museum’s charitable endeavors.”
“Really? Which firm do you represent? Our father just passed—I’m sure Dorian told you—and we may need someone to valuate the—”
“Thank you, Malcolm,” Dorian said, “for putting your usual damper on the moment. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to escort my guest back to the manor.”
Their arms were still linked, and Charley looked up at him, momentarily dumbfounded.
His father just passed?
“I… I’m so sorry for your loss,” she stammered. “I didn’t know.”
“Wonder what else he’s left out of the family history,” Gabriel grumbled.
“We weren’t close,” Dorian said sharply, more to Gabriel than to her. Then, turning back to Charley with a smile clearly meant to appease her, “And no, we don’t need a consultant. We need drinks. Shall we?”
He tried to steer her away from his brothers, but Gabriel stepped in front of them.
“Don’t forget your obligations, brother. The guests of honor are asking for you. Unless you’d rather I tell them you’re…” His gaze roved over Charley, lip curling. “…entertaining.”
Dorian’s muscles tensed beneath Charley’s grip, a low rumble vibrating in his chest.
Jesus, she did not need to cause a fight between the Redthorne brothers, no matter how badly Gabriel needed a beat-down.
“It’s fine,” Charley said, unlinking herself from Dorian’s arm. “Go find your guests. There are a few people I should say hello to, anyway.”
Dorian glared at his brother another beat, then finally sighed and turned back to Charley, his eyes sparkling once again. “If you’ll excuse me, Ms. D’Amico. I’m afraid we’ll have to continue our conversation later.”
“Count on it, Mr. Redthorne. Oh, and for the record?” She flashed a devilish grin, stretching up to bring her mouth to his ear. “You’re definitely the hottest brother.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Ravenswood was built in 1815,” Dorian said, “modeled after our family home in England, which was built in the late sixteenth century by my great, great… well, someone a great deal older than me.”
Isabelle and her father laughed as Dorian led them through the tour, pointing out the architectural marvels and artwork that gave his home its unique character. In the shadow of all the terrible things his father had done, Ravenswood was a shining achievement—one Dorian would always cherish. He loved the rich oak wainscoting, the molded plaster ceilings, the Renaissance paintings adorning the long gallery on the second floor. The deep crimson of the interior walls reminded him not of blood, but of passion—a fire that still smoldered inside him.
“It’s gorgeous, Mr. Redthorne,” Isabelle said, running her hand along the intricate strapwork of the mantle in the first-floor hall. “If this were my home, I’m not sure I’d ever leave.”
Perhaps it will be, Dorian thought.
At thirty-nine, Isabelle was older than most witches who entered into a bonded partnership, but her experience, discretion, and professionalism were legendary. Dorian often wondered why she’d never been placed before, but according to Lucien, Isabelle was extremely discerning and hadn’t found a vampire house that suited her.
Tonight, she seemed relaxed and happy—almost at home. Dorian hoped that was a good sign.
That hope was enough to temper his irritation at losing precious time with Charlotte, and it carried him through the rest of the tour, culminating at his study, where he’d planned to offer Isabelle and Lucien a drink from his prized collection of rare scotch before slipping away to find his woman.
“The study is one of my favorite rooms in the manor.” Dorian opened the heavy oak door and stepped over the threshold, but what he found on the other side turned his hopeful mood to dust.
The twin, unmistakable scents of blood and sex assaulted him, followed immediately by the sound of a soft, sloppy moan.
Across the room, Gabriel sat in a chair before a roaring fire, hands buried in the hair of a woman kneeling before him, cock buried in her mouth.
He glanced up and caught Dorian’s gaze, his irises as red as the blood slicking his mouth, both evidence of a fresh feed. In the raging firelight, he glowed like the devil himself.
The scent of her warm blood brought Dorian’s hunger into sharp relief, his own fangs slicing through his gums, the ache inside him sending a tremor through his very bones.
He gripped the edge of the door to steady himself and held his breath, willing the craving—along with his murderous fury—to pass.
Gabriel knew damn well what the scent and sight of fresh human blood would do to his brother, but he offered neither an apology nor an attempt to hide his actions. Instead, he flashed a cocky smirk and a show of fang, then closed his eyes and tipped his head back, losing himself in the pleasure of his plaything.
Duchanes’ plaything, Dorian realized, noticing the woman’s red hair and sparkly dress.
So many indiscretions, so many blatant risks, Dorian didn’t know where to begin. Rage tore through his chest, and he took a step toward his brother, wondering if he had the strength to kill him.
But he wouldn’t get the chance to find out. Not tonight, anyway. Isabelle’s firm, no-nonsense touch on his arm drew him back.
“I’d love to see the kitchen, Mr. Redthorne. My father tells me the marble flooring was imported from Italy?”