Chapter One
“This... is not… happening!”
The glass door shattered in a glorious explosion, casting the rose garden in a thousand sunlit shards.
Ignoring his bloodied hands, Dorian tore another chunk of stone from the hearth in the dining room and hurled it through the second door, obliterating it.
He grabbed another stone.
Another.
Another still.
In a matter of minutes, he obliterated the fireplace, then swiftly moved on to the furniture. The high-backed chairs. The oak table that had so recently hosted his brother Malcolm’s traitorous gathering and—centuries earlier—their last meal as mortal men. The cabinets that held his mother’s delicate bone china. The sideboard against which he’d so exquisitely taken Charlotte’s… confession.
Charlotte…
In a blur of blood and terror, Dorian smashed through every piece of wood, punched through every wall. He tore down the paintings, decimated the china, laid bare the stone foundations behind the wainscoting. He ripped loose the floorboards, still dark with the blood he’d spilled at the council meeting—Malcolm’s and the gray’s alike.
Blood and death, brother. Blood and death.
No one came to ease his pain.
No one even knew he was there.
Malcolm was gone—he’d vanished from Ravenswood after Dorian had damn near ripped his heart out.
Gabriel was back in the city, following Dorian’s command to hunt down Silas—the vampire who’d beaten Charlotte and left her for dead in a dumpster.
Aiden and Cole were out with the wolves, scouring the woods for more clues about the grays that had invaded their lands.
And upstairs, clear on the other side of the manor, the witch who’d delivered last night’s most crushing blow tended to the woman who’d stolen Dorian’s heart.
He couldn’t face either of them.
So there he remained, breathless and alone at the epicenter of his own chaos. His wounds had already healed, but blood soaked his skin, soaked his clothes, soaked the memories that clung to the room like cobwebs.
The more he destroyed, the more haunted he became, tormented by thoughts of his utter impotency. First, as House Kendrick had slaughtered his family. Later, as his human lover had murdered House Redthorne’s bonded witch. And last night, in the face of Isabelle’s dire pronouncement, he’d broken apart once again.
Charlotte D’Amico belongs to hell. I suggest you make peace with that and say your goodbyes…
Fire. Dorian needed fire.
Hands trembling, heart thudding, he stalked into the kitchen and grabbed a box of matches and a half-case of rum one of his brothers had left on the counter.
There was no thought of reason, of safety, of worry for the rest of the manor. There was only the need to destroy.
Today, he’d burn it all, just as he’d wanted to do decades ago. Centuries ago. It was time for that abominable room and everything it represented to go up in smoke.
But when he returned to the dining room, he was no longer alone.
Aiden paced the ruins, looking almost as filthy and bloodied as Dorian himself.
Meeting Dorian’s eyes across the disaster zone, Aiden cocked a smile and said, “If it’s a new look you’re after, Dori, a fresh coat of paint and some stylish window treatments would do wonders.”
Certain his friend was uninjured after his hunt with Cole, Dorian returned his attention to the mission, grabbing one of the bottles and soaking the decimated table with booze.
“Shall I fetch the marshmallows, then?” Aiden asked.
“Leave me, Aiden. I’ve things to burn.”
“Hmm. Don’t think I will, mate. I’ve always loved a good bonfire. Not to mention…” He turned toward the battered wall behind him and tore down the last remaining piece of art—a vile landscape of a barren, volcanic wasteland called Mists of Darkness. “I really hate this bloody painting. Been trying to tell you that since the first World War.”
“In case it isn’t painfully obvious, I’m in no mood for your feeble attempts at distraction.”
“And I’m in no mood to be flambéed, so whatever blaze of glory you’ve got your heart set on this morning, let’s move it outside, shall we?” Aiden carried the painting out through the battered doorway and pitched it into the rose garden.
Seeing no alternative to his friend’s annoyingly unwavering good sense, Dorian followed suit, hurling pieces of rubble out into the pale morning—splintered wood, broken paintings, priceless antiquities. With Aiden at his side, they made quick work of it, clearing the entire room in minutes.
Standing together in the garden before the giant pyre, they surveyed the wreckage of a past Dorian was more than ready to destroy.
“Unless you’ve got a speech prepared,” Aiden said, “pass me the rum, you bloody arsonist.”
Dorian sighed and handed over a fresh bottle