Chapter Five
“An alliance. With House Duchanes.” Dorian paced before the bar, the thin veneer of his patience finally shattering. His woman was still on the premises—her scent was all around him now, driving him to the very brink of sanity—but rather than hunting her down and devouring every silky, forbidden inch of her body, Dorian was here, listening to a bloodsucking opportunist he’d been swatting away like a gnat since Prohibition.
Duchanes swirled his bourbon, his gold signet ring glittering on a fat finger. “Consider your predicament, Redthorne. Your father’s gone. You’ve no sired heirs in your line. Your family’s power is waning. And last I heard,” he said, lowering his voice as if he actually gave a damn about decorum, “there isn’t a witch in all five boroughs willing to bind her
