Dark Deception (Vampire Royals of New York #1) - Sarah Piper Page 0,55

past indiscretion lying in wait for the perfect opportunity to leap out from the shadows and ruin his life?

Perhaps Chernikov was simply baiting him.

Poor strategy on his part.

“Rather than keeping my secrets,” Dorian said coolly, “I’d much rather you keep your demons on a leash and out of my territory. And in return, I’ll grant you the favor of overlooking the recent violations. Next time, I may not be so forgiving.”

Tension simmered between them, but eventually, Chernikov broke into a raucous laugh. “You are… what is saying? Cheeky bastard. I like that in a bloodsucker.”

Dorian didn’t give a fuck what he liked. He tipped back the last of his vodka, then rose from the table. “If there’s nothing else, Nikolai, I shall take my leave.”

And be grateful I’m not leaving with your head in a bag…

“Only one more thing, Dorian Redthorne.” The demon handed over an unopened bottle of vodka from his stash on the table. “A gift from home, in honor of mutual… friendship.”

Reluctantly, Dorian took the bottle, knowing he was accepting a lot more than an innocent gift, but seeing no way around it without causing himself another fucking headache.

Whatever arrangement Chernikov had with Dorian’s father, it clearly went far deeper—and much farther back in time—than Dorian had realized. Something told him it was all connected to that mysterious sculpture—a piece which, not unlike the Chernikov demons he’d fed on, Dorian suspected would come back to bite him in the ass.

“Thank you for the gift,” Dorian said anyway, then turned to Marlys, signaling the end of the meeting. She rejoined them at the table to close out the spell, remove the rings, and pack up her belongings. Then, she and Dorian were off.

The moment he was outside, Dorian pitched the vodka into the closest trash bin and retrieved the cell from his pocket, pulling up Aiden’s number.

“Aiden? We’ve got a problem.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

An hour into the party, Dorian stood on the lower patio overlooking the Hudson River, contemplating drowning himself in that godforsaken infinity pool—an impossible feat for a vampire, but he’d do his damnedest to try.

No one had cancelled, no one was leaving early, and no one would give him a moment’s peace in his own home. He’d answered enough inane questions about the house to fill an entire issue of Architectural Digest, smiled at dozens of terrible jokes, sympathized through lengthy debates about the homogenization of Manhattan restaurants, and warded off no less than three propositions, two of which from married women whose husbands were also in attendance.

This, Aiden Donovan, is why I don’t host parties.

Worse, while the Armitage people, the museum’s board of directors, and variously intolerable supernatural socialites oohed and ahhed over his art collection, drank his champagne, fawned over his vintage cars, all but ignored the eight-piece string ensemble for which he’d paid handsomely, and ingratiated themselves in ways civilized beings should find utterly embarrassing, all Dorian could think about was Charlotte.

He hadn’t seen her since the JHS run-in, but they’d talked on the phone every night this week, save for last night—he hadn’t been able to reach her. It had become the best part of Dorian’s evenings, making her laugh and making her come, sending her into the best kinds of dreams—and sending himself into a cold shower. Despite her many offers to repay the favor, he’d refused; when Dorian finally came for the woman haunting his every thought, it would be by her touch, not his own.

He hadn’t mentioned the party again. In fact, there was a lot he hadn’t mentioned. She’d wanted to keep things simple, no attachments, nothing too complicated. And as much as he wanted to know more about her, to see her, to feel the soft touch of her velvet skin beneath his lips, he didn’t want to push her. Not like that.

So instead, he lingered in the familiar space between frustration and obsession, attempting to soothe the ever-present ache in his balls with copious amounts of alcohol.

“Dorian Redthorne, I’ve been looking for you,” a voice called from behind, shattering his perfect visions of Charlotte and filling him with contempt so hot and sharp, it felt as if a swarm of hornets had invaded his lungs.

“Renault Duchanes.” Turning to face the scoundrel, Dorian forced a hospitable smile, holding it in place even as he noticed the man’s entourage. “Welcome to Ravenswood. I’m so glad you could join us.”

There were four other vampires in the group—one female and three males. Duchanes introduced them as members of his house, though