In his eyes, Charlotte saw her whole life spinning out from this moment, exploding like a newborn galaxy, then collapsing again, bringing her right back here.
Right back to him.
He stilled between her thighs and gasped as if he’d sensed it too—some vast, inexplicable thing passing between them. Binding them.
“Mine,” he whispered.
That was all it took.
Her body clenched around him, and she screamed his name, the hot rush of pleasure shuddering through her, tremor after tremor, wave after wave, and suddenly Dorian was thrusting inside her again, groaning against her flesh as he came hard, both of them falling and spinning and exploding into an endless sea of stars, their souls flickering in the distance, illuminating the darkness.
Chapter Forty-Five
It was true what they said about absence making the heart grow fonder.
It also made for hotter sex.
Being with Dorian felt so perfect, so right, Charley could hardly remember a time without him—a time when he didn’t own her, body and soul.
She was playing a dangerous game, but whenever her brain fired off a warning, she dismissed it, distracting herself with another tantalizing kiss, another deep thrust of his smooth, satisfying cock.
With every hour they shared, teasing and kissing and fucking their way through every room in his gorgeous Tribeca penthouse, Charley was falling deeper into the fantasy that this really was her life—that it didn’t have to end.
And for a little while, she succeeded in forgetting about all the shadows, the secrets, the lies, the inevitable goodbyes.
But then, as they lay face-to-face in his bed beneath the skylights, naked and warm from the shower after another hour-long sex-a-thon, Dorian cupped her cheek and sighed into the darkness, and the heaviness descended upon her like rain.
Before he spoke another word, Charley knew everything was about to change.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered, frantically searching his face in the moonlight.
“I followed up on the artwork, like you asked.”
Her eyes widened, her heart jackhammering.
“I contacted my buyer,” he said, “and from there, I followed a trail of contacts. There were several buyers in between, but you were right—the paths converged onto a single source for both the Hermes and the LaPorte painting. A man named Vincent Estas.”
“Vincent Estas,” Charley repeated. She knew a lot of art dealers, criminal and legitimate, but this one didn’t sound familiar. “Did you contact him as well?”
“No.” Dorian closed his eyes, his muscles tensing. “Charlotte, Vincent Estas is a demon.”
“A demon?”
“And not just any demon, I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most demons operate in bonded crews similar to human crime families. There are several large organizations headquartered in the region, typically working out of Brooklyn and Queens, with a few scattered across Long Island.”
“Seriously? A demon mafia?” She shook her head, trying to process it all. “How powerful are these guys?”
“Quite, and growing more so by the day. The most powerful organization is run by a demon called Nikolai Chernikov—he controls nearly fifty percent of all demon-held territory on the east coast.”
“And this Estas guy? He’s part of Chernikov’s organization?”
“No. Estas is bonded to the second most powerful crew—Chernikov’s main demonic rival, Alexei Rogozin.”
Alexei Rogozin.
Charlotte swallowed a gasp, squeezing her eyes shut as a rush of hot, terrible memories assaulted her.
Where you off to, little girl?
Not so tough when Daddy’s not around, are ya?
Don’t struggle, D’Amico bitch…
She remembered it like a dream—hazy and nonsensical in parts, sharp and inescapable in others. It was her birthday, and her father had promised they’d spend the whole day together. But before they’d even ordered breakfast at their favorite diner, Uncle Rudy called. He’d forgotten it was her birthday—so sorry!—and had promised an important client on Long Island they’d make a special delivery.
There was no way around it, so Charley tagged along. When business was done, her dad said, they’d drive out to Montauk at the very tip of the island, comb the beach for sea glass, and eat their weight in saltwater taffy.
When they got to the drop-off point—a dingy, second-floor apartment above an abandoned pizza place—her dad and Rudy parked around back and ordered her to stay in the car while they made the delivery. A rusty metal staircase led up to the second floor, and she watched as they hauled a few nondescript boxes up top.
Ten minutes, they’d said. Fifteen max.
Twenty minutes passed. Half an hour. One hour, and suddenly, two men emerged from the back of the abandoned restaurant, heading right for the car. Charley sunk down into the seat, but it was no use.
They knew she was there.
They were looking for her.
What happened next is part of the haze, mixed up in her mind after years of reliving it in every nightmare, of scrubbing herself raw in the shower, of trying to outrun the ghosts that always seemed to track her down, no matter how much time passed.
But what she remembered clearly, even now, was the smell of garlic and sweat and cheap booze as the men climbed into the backseat and surrounded her, slamming the car doors behind them.
She remembered trying to reach for the door handle, desperate to escape.
Where you off to, little girl?
She remembered crying and begging as one man pinned her down on her back, the other shoving a hand up her shirt, squeezing her tiny breast.
Not so tough when Daddy’s not around, are ya?
She remembered screaming and kicking, remembered biting the meaty hand that clamped hard over her mouth.
She remembered the man yanking off her jean shorts, her underwear. When she wouldn’t stop kicking, he pulled out a knife.
Don’t struggle, D’Amico bitch. I will make you bleed in more ways than one…
She did struggle, though. Knew if she didn’t, they’d kill her.
Or worse.
She kicked and fought and scratched and bit for all she was worth, landing a hard kick in the balls.
The man groaned and grabbed her thigh, then shoved the knife into her abdomen, the pain eating through her body like acid, like teeth, like claws.
Stars danced before her eyes, and she thought it was the end. Death was breathing on her neck, waiting to take her.
But seconds later, she felt the rush of air as the car doors flew open. She heard two pops, felt the warm spray of blood on her face. The bodies slumped on top of her, making her gag. Her father stood behind one of them, his face ashen, the gun trembling in his hand.
She’d never seen such fear in his eyes.
Such ice-cold rage.
Such shame.
The next thing she remembered, she was waking up in a hospital bed thirty miles away, her father filling out a fake police report about a random attack in a random town they’d never even visited. When they finally left the hospital, it was in a different car.
Charley was fifteen years old.
In all the years that passed, she never had the courage to ask her father or uncle about that day, and they never had the courage to bring it up.