“I think you know the answer to that,” he said gently.
More than anything he wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms, to show her with his touch and his kiss when every last word had utterly failed. But he couldn’t—not now. She was too upset. Too angry.
“Really?” she snapped. “Because an hour ago, I thought I knew a lot of things. Primarily, that vampires were a myth. Yet here you are, tearing out people’s hearts, turning them into—”
“Not people, Charlotte. Vampires.” His composure crumpled, the reminder of how close she’d come to death unleashing a new fury inside him. “Duchanes vampires who would’ve done unspeakable things to you, bled you dry, and tossed your corpse in the river without so much as a backward glance had Gabriel and I not intervened.”
“Duchanes? As in, the same asshole from the auction? I saw him earlier.”
Dorian nodded solemnly. “The vampires that attacked you were members of House Duchanes.”
“House Duchanes? What does that even mean?”
“Essentially, a house is a vampire coven or family—usually one of considerable means.”
She took in the information, her brow furrowing. “That means you and Malcolm and everyone… You’re House Redthorne?”
“Precisely.”
“One of the vampires who attacked me… He said something about the Royal Redthornes. Are you guys…” She swallowed hard, shaking her head as if the word had gotten stuck inside. “Are you royalty?”
Dorian folded his arms over his chest, impatience flaring. “Yes, the Redthornes are the ruling vampire royal family. But that’s hardly the crucial—”
“You’re a prince, then?”
Silently he held her gaze, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he waited for her to figure it out.
“King?” Charley pressed a hand to her throat, her voice notching up a few octaves. “You’re a fucking vampire king?”
Dorian closed his eyes, the reality of the situation descending upon him like a storm.
Charlotte had somehow broken his compulsion, shattering even his previously successful attempts. It was a nearly impossible feat for a human—one that had even eluded hunters trained for centuries to resist vampire magic.
Yet here she was, a woman who’d entered his life like a tempest, unravelling every spell, reclaiming every memory he’d stolen, turning his entire world upside down.
And now, she’d be immune to all future attempts at compulsion—from Dorian or any other vampire. Within the walls of Ravenswood and without, anything she heard, anything she witnessed would remain lodged in her memories until the day she died.
To say she was a risk was a gross understatement. She had the power to expose him, to destroy his family and their kind. To destroy everything his father—for good and for ill—had built and protected.
Now, it was Dorian’s responsibility to keep this family safe. To keep their secrets buried, no matter how much his brothers despised him.
By all means, he should end her life. Take care of it, just like Gabriel had demanded.
But for Dorian, it was too late. His heart would not allow it, no matter how great a risk she posed.
Charlotte was nearly murdered by the beasts of House Duchanes—a near-miss that had filled him with a terror darker than any he’d ever known, even in his bleakest hours.
Tonight, as Dorian carried her unconscious body up the hill, he’d made a solemn vow to protect her.
And he intended to keep it… or die trying.
But he wasn’t about to share that with Charlotte.
“Not a vampire king, Ms. D’Amico.” He blurred into her space and wrenched the fire poker from her hands, hurling it into the wall with a force that splintered the oak wainscoting. “The vampire king. So unless you’re eager to find out just how much power a two-and-a-half-centuries-old royal vampire whose already developed a taste for your blood possesses, never threaten me again.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
A fresh string of profanities gathered on Charley’s tongue, but before she could let ‘em rip, Dorian folded her into his arms, lifted her off the ground, and tipped the whole world sideways.
Charley’s stomach dropped right down to her feet, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut to stem the tide of nausea. When she finally opened them again, she and her captor were no longer in the study.
“What the hell did you do?” she breathed.
“It’s called a blur.”
“Yeah? I’m pretty sure you left my internal organs behind.”
Dorian kicked a door closed behind them, then set her on her feet.
“Just breathe,” he said again—refrain of the hour. “The feeling will pass.”
She did as he asked, and the new room slowly sharpened into focus.
The master bedroom.
It was massive and imposing, with deep red walls, dark wood paneling, and gorgeous hardwood floors covered in Turkish rugs. Ornate tapestries hung over the windows, and every piece of furniture looked as if it belonged in some ancient British castle rather than in a mansion in Upstate New York.
A colossal four-poster bed dominated the back wall, each intricately carved column the size of a small tree. The whole thing was topped by a huge oak tester, with black-and-gold damask curtains hung from each corner.
The room was truly fit for a king.
A creepy one.
“I take it this is your bedroom, highness?” she asked, forcing a little more sass into her voice. As it was, her skin was covered in goosebumps, her heartbeat thrumming at a fevered pitch.
Vampires.
They were all vampires.
Her brain was still railing against the idea, even though she knew—deep down—it was true.
Malcolm, with his holier-than-thou attitude and mistrustful eyes. Gabriel, the brother with the biggest stick up his ass. Colin, with his kind dimples and shiny hair. Aiden, with his cute jokes and sparkling eyes. The men that had attacked her.
Even Dorian, a man she’d been inexplicably drawn to from the start—the proverbial moth to the flame.
“It is,” he finally replied.
“You blurred me up to your bedroom?” Charlotte let out a nervous laugh. “I think you were confusing my screams of protest with my screams of passion.”
“Not likely. I can assure you, the difference is quite distinct.”
“Then let me make something even more distinct. This?” She gestured between the two of them. “…is not happening. And don’t you dare try any of that compulsion bullshit again. There’s a word for that, Dorian. Forcing a woman to—”
“I’ve already told you—I did not compel your desire. Even if it were possible, it’s a line I would never cross.”
“Why?” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against one of the bed’s oak columns. “Because you’re such a nice chap?”
His eyes blazed again, two embers in a face of stone. “Because even the most evil among us have their limits.”
A shiver rolled through her body, but she stood her ground. “Then how does it work? You just… erase people’s memories whenever you feel like it?”
Dorian shoved a hand through his hair, clearly flustered.