How can a man who looks that good be so damn bad?
She didn’t have the answers. All Charley knew was she hated that he’d locked her in here, that he’d given her orders, that he’d used his considerable power against her. She hated that she’d become a target in some vampire war that was probably going on long before she came into the picture and would continue long after she left.
Most of all, she hated herself for the truth, shining bright no matter how desperately she kept trying to paint over it.
She craved that immortal monster’s touch. Now, more than ever.
“I need to get the hell out of here.”
Glancing out the window, she tried to calculate how far the drop was. It was too dark to tell, but pretty damn obvious that an escape attempt from here would only end one way: with Charley splattering on the cobblestones below.
She fisted her hair, growling in frustration.
The door was bolted. The windows too dangerous. She had no phone. There was no way out.
Not until Dorian fucking Redthorne decided to set her free.
Dorian fucking vampire Redthorne, she amended.
In a flash, all of Sasha’s vampire books and movies rushed through Charley’s mind. Vampires had weaknesses, didn’t they? Garlic, holy water, stakes…
Stakes. That was it.
She scanned the bedroom, her eyes landing on a spindled table beside the bed. She removed the antique lamp that sat on top, gripped the table with both hands, and smashed it against the floor.
From the splintered pieces that remained, Charley selected the largest, sharpest spindle. Then, deeply channeling her inner Jersey Girl, she gripped her new stake, took a fighting stance a few feet in front of the door, and waited for that motherfucker to come back through it.
“Say hello to my pointy little friend, your highness.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sipping his scotch in the chair before the roaring fire, Dorian made every attempt to leash the fury snapping and growling inside him.
Tonight had been a grievous disaster.
Duchanes had vanished.
The woman whose blood had damn near sent him into a spiral of madness and desire was presently locked in his bedroom, probably devising an escape plot—or one to murder him.
Armitage had left with the other guests, but the truth about the party’s abrupt end would certainly reach his ears soon, if it hadn’t already. Now, even if the old mage was still keen on the merger of their companies, Dorian doubted anyone in the Armitage line would so easily accept a bound partnership for Isabelle—including Isabelle herself.
Dorian couldn’t blame them. After all, how could he protect a bound witch if he couldn’t even protect one of his most vulnerable guests?
His fingers tightened on the glass, mind churning.
He had no clear idea what had prompted tonight’s attack against Charlotte. Though he suspected his refusal of Duchanes’ many ridiculous offers—an alliance, blood slaves, Jacinda’s services—had put House Redthorne on the coven’s shit list, Dorian never would’ve predicted such a strong retaliation. It was an extreme response guaranteed to unleash hell on the offending party, and as little as he thought of Renault Duchanes, he’d never considered him a blatant, suicidal fool.
Which meant one of two things:
Either Duchanes truly hadn’t known about the attack, and his men had mutinied, or Duchanes was willing to take such an insane risk because someone even more powerful than the royal vampire family was backing him.
Dorian recalled the altercation in Central Park. Duchanes had shown up at precisely the right moment to intervene with Chernikov’s demons. His timing was almost too perfect; it couldn’t have been a coincidence.
Bloody hell.
Webs of lies and deceit, power games, shifting alliances, innocent people caught in the crossfire… Dorian didn’t know how his father had managed it for so many years—or why he’d wanted any of this responsibility in the first place.
Dorian certainly hadn’t. But with his father dead and his brothers awaiting his orders, what else could he do but shoulder it?
“We cannot afford a war, Dorian,” Malcolm said now, pacing the study. “We’re still unallied, and after tonight’s disastrous turn, what are the chances Isabelle Armitage will join us?”
Malcolm gave voice to Dorian’s exact thoughts, but that didn’t mean Dorian would accept them.
“Renault Duchanes’ sired dung beetles attacked my companion at my own manor,” he said. “You expect me to let such an infraction go unpunished?”
“Unpunished, no. But a war? Over a woman whose last name you didn’t even know until this very evening? We should at least wait until we hear Renault’s version of events.”
“I would love to, but… Oh, that’s right. Your new mate has mysteriously fled the scene of the crime.” Dorian shook his head, disgust souring his drink. “Why are you so eager to take his side?”
“You’re bloody mad, Dorian.” Malcolm folded his arms across his chest, looking down his nose at Dorian in a manner he’d spent centuries perfecting. “The only side I’m on is House Redthorne’s. Forgive me if I don’t wish to send my brothers to the slaughter because you couldn’t keep your cock out of some human woman’s hot little—”
Dorian was out of his chair in a flash, slamming Malcolm into the wall beside the fireplace with a fist around his throat and a hand against his heart. “Do not finish that sentence unless you wish to receive the same treatment as our Duchanes guests.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Aiden rolled his eyes. “You lot have been repressing your emotions since you were humans bickering at the dinner table. Why stop a good thing now?”
A log toppled from the fire, shooting a rain of sparks from the fireplace.
Malcolm continued to glare, but finally raised his hands in surrender, and Dorian backed off.
“That’s better,” Aiden said. “Now, allow me to offer a perspective from someone who isn’t part of this house of complete dysfunction.” He jerked the fire poker from the wall, where it’d remained like an arrow since Dorian had chucked it there, and pushed the fallen log back into place. “I don’t believe the attack was about Ms. D’Amico specifically—she was just an easy target. My feeling is, whoever’s behind this wanted to make House Redthorne look weak—to sow discontent about the royal family’s ability to protect its own and lead the supernatural communities into a peaceful future.”
The brothers considered Aiden’s theory. With the recent demise of their father, there was bound to be some upheaval—minor skirmishes, like Dorian’s encounter with the demons in Manhattan, or some grumbling among the greater vampire covens who saw themselves as better leaders. But an attack on the royal family’s home turf?
“It makes sense that Duchanes would test us,” Malcolm said, “considering the refusal of the alliance.”
“You think House Duchanes is the only house that wants to see our heads on pikes?” This, from Gabriel, who was unapologetically working his way through Dorian’s collection of scotch. “Sure, he’s the most likely suspect, but he’s also got a few bats in the belfry. Something tells me the order came from someone higher on the pay scale.”