Dark Seduction

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

“Dorian, look out!”

Charley struggled against the nightmare’s deadly grip, tossing herself clear out of bed. The impact jolted her awake, scattering the last of the dream-monsters from view.

Tangled in her sheets, she sat up on the floor and leaned back against the nightstand, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Her head pounded, her mouth was full of cotton, and the very act of running her fingers through her hair left her weak and trembling.

What the hell did I get into last night?

She closed her eyes and forced herself to focus, fishing for the memories until—one by one—they finally bobbed to the surface.

Dorian’s penthouse. Midnight Marauder. A night of mind-blowing passion. Later, discussing Dorian’s art contacts. Vincent Estas, the dealer. Alexei Rogozin, demonic kingpin—a man her father and Rudy had encountered when Charley was just a girl.

Charley’s head spun as the rest of the memories rushed in—Duchanes yanking her from Dorian’s bed and tying her to the chair, naked and vulnerable. Slicing her wrist as a taunt, knowing her screams and the scent of her blood would bring Dorian running.

The look on her vampire’s face when he’d finally found her… She’d never seen anyone so terrified. Despite his own pain in the face of the demon attack, he’d fought for her.

And then, when he had nothing left to give, she fought for him.

She wrapped her fingers around her bandaged wrist, welcoming the memories of the bite. The pain had been tremendous, but also deeply erotic, the pleasure of his lips on her skin spreading languidly up her arm and across her chest, making her hot and wet even as the blood loss weakened her muscles.

Sharing that with him… God. Charley had never experienced anything so intimate before. At one point, with Dorian’s head in her lap and her wrist pressed to his mouth, he’d glanced up and caught her gaze, his eyes full of something so raw and beautiful, Charley was almost afraid to remember it now—afraid that looking at it too closely would make it disappear.

But then it’d faded, replaced with her vampire’s desperate, primal hunger, his eyes turning red as his desire for her blood demolished the last of his control.

He’d taken too much, and Charley eventually lost consciousness.

Everything that happened after that was a blur, faces and voices and scents mixing together in a thick haze: Men arguing in the other room—Dorian’s brothers? The doctor with the dimples and kind eyes. An older woman cleaning Charley up, dressing her in pajamas, poking her with a needle. And then, chanting something that sounded like a spell. Dorian shouting at them from the hallway, ordering them to heal her.

And later, sweet and tender words whispered over her bedside, a kiss as soft as a prayer alighting on her skin.

Charley opened her eyes, and the images faded away.

A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach, and she scrambled to her feet, barely making it to the bathroom before she retched. She was faint and dizzy, the headache making every movement an act of self-torture. As she washed her face and rinsed out her mouth, the reflection staring back from the mirror looked haunted and ill, her eyes ringed with dark circles, her hair wild.

Her wrist throbbed, but even the deep, erotic bite from her vampire felt like a memory now. She pulled off the bandage; her skin was unmarred.

Had she imagined the whole damn thing?

She needed to talk to Dorian. Why wasn’t he there?

Worry tugged on her heart as another memory surfaced—Dorian, begging her not to die. Blaming himself for drinking too much blood, his eyes full of anguish and fear. A woman imploring him in the hallway. You’ve done enough, Dorian Redthorne…

No. Charley needed to talk to him. Now.

With slow, awkward movements, she searched her bedroom for the phone, but it wasn’t there. It was probably still at Dorian’s place in Tribeca. For all she knew, it’d fallen into the hands of Duchanes and the demon.

Without her phone, she couldn’t get in touch with Dorian. She couldn’t even check on her sister. Sasha had planned to stay at Darcy’s all weekend, but what if she had an emergency? What if Duchanes had somehow tracked her down?

What if Duchanes had come back for Dorian or his brothers?

The tug of worry on her heart turned into full-blown panic.

Ignoring her throbbing head, Charley slipped into her bathrobe, then put one shaky foot in front of the other and exited the bedroom.

Almost immediately, she sensed it—something was off.

The roses, she realized. The smell had been so sweet and overpowering, yet now she could barely detect them. All she could smell now was bacon. Burned bacon.

Someone was in the kitchen. Not Dorian, as she’d foolishly hoped. Someone graceless and crass, cursing up a storm as he rifled through the cupboards, silverware and dishes clanging, breakfast burning on the stove.

As she reached the end of the hallway, her heart dropped into her stomach.

The roses were gone. Every last one of them, erased as if they’d never even been there at all.

And there, standing at the stove with a towel draped over his shoulder, scraping charred bacon from the cast-iron skillet, was the man responsible for ruining her day before it’d even begun.

“Uncle Rudy?” Charley’s voice cracked, her throat raw.

Rudy glanced at her over his shoulder and grinned—a warm, welcoming smile for his favorite niece.

Right.

Charley didn’t miss the warning flickering behind it.

“Good morning,” he said, taking in her disheveled appearance. “You look… hungry.”

“What happened to my roses?”

“I had the doorman remove them.” He clucked his tongue. “Honestly, Charlotte. They were starting to rot.”

Tears stung her eyes, the headache behind them roaring into five-alarm migraine territory.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, willing the tears not to fall. Rudy would never understand how much those flowers had meant to her. In his eyes, they were just one more beautiful thing he saw fit to ruin—one more way to drain the color from her life.

“Take a seat,” he said, ignoring her question as well as her obvious distress. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

Breakfast with him? Like hell.

“I’ll just grab a coffee. I’m not feeling—”

“Sit down, Charlotte.” He turned to face her, abandoning the bacon on the stove.

Now, instead of the spatula, he held a gun.

“Holy s**t!” She backed up against the wall, holding up her hands in surrender. For all his bullshit, Rudy had never pulled his gun on her. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You and I? We’re going to eat breakfast together, like a real family. We’re going to have a serious conversation about the way things need to change around here. And Charlotte?” He crept toward her, his eyes sparkling with cold, hard malice. “You’re going to drop that f*****g attitude, or the next time a man sends roses, it will be for your funeral.”