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Leaning back, I settle into my pillow, using one hand to pull the covers up to my chin.
It was just a dream.
It was just a dream.
Opening my right hand, the one I was coughing violently into, I bite my lip anxiously.
If it was just a dream, then why is there ash in my palm?
Ash from the flames that torched my skin.
Chapter 23
Drystan
The broken look on her face when I told Thalia she was nothing more than collateral is seared into my brain. That’s the problem with being immortal. You don’t tend to forget things easily, especially a look like the one she gave me.
Most women wouldn’t have thought that the other night was anything more than a release between three consenting adults. Except Thalia isn’t most women. She’s unique. Special. Her blood sings to me like her soul, pure and untainted. I didn’t bite her, because if I did, I was afraid I’d lose control. She’s too sweet and innocent.
Asher and Weylen have been pushing back against me when it comes to our plans for her. They want to tell her everything. Who she is. Where she comes from. If she knew the things her mother’s family did to her, she wouldn’t want to get to know them. She’d hunt them like they hunted her mother. Like they hunted her ancestor, Talyssa.
It took everything I had not to react when she told me about her dream. She was trying to be vague, to not give too much away, but I knew the moment she told me her lips had been sewn shut. Then she had to go and mention that fucker’s name.
Grégoire.
I can’t let her know the truth about him. Or her mother. It would break her to learn what could have happened. Thalia’s slick still coats my senses from the other night, and when she was so vulnerable in her bed, eyes rounded as she stared at me as if she trusted me, my restraint had been holding on by the thinnest thread.
Part of me ached to pull back her covers and make her scream my name until she forgot the dreaded nightmare, but I couldn’t force myself to do it. I ball my fists, concentrating on the sharp pain as my nails dig into my skin, grounding me. I make my way down to the front entrance and outside, sliding into the waiting car. I don’t have to tell my driver where I want to go. He already knows.
Pandora.
It’s a quick ride into the city, where my playground awaits. Clenching my jaw, I exit the car and make my way through the back entrance of the club, taking the back stairs instead of going through the main entrance. I don’t want to make a scene today.
There would be women clawing at me, desperate to be on my arm. They know who I am and what I offer. Most nights, I pick one out of the line, have my way with her, then send her away. It’s what my brothers and I always do when we’re feeling run down. Except I don’t want any of them. There’s only one woman I’m craving, and she’s lying in my tower, her body splayed out beneath her covers, asleep.
Fuck. Anger and desire boil together in my veins, burning me from the inside out. It isn’t supposed to be this way. She’s not supposed to mean anything. Thalia is a means to an end. A sacrificial lamb. We need her to activate the amulet. There are very few ways to kill an Ancient like Jedidiah and the Petrea Amulet is one of them.
I can’t back out of our plan. Not now, when there is so much at stake.
But my ears can’t forget her moans or the way she came undone before my eyes. My cock can’t forget the way her hot mouth felt around its hard length. Thalia Sinclair is dangerous. She can make me feel. Break the icy barrier surrounding my heart.
I’ve always been more guarded than my brothers, rarely letting myself get lost in pleasure. Sex for me has always been nothing more than a release.
Growling, I barge through the metal door into the back of my club, not caring who hears me. I want to be seen here. I want to remind everyone who owns this city. Who is in control.
Benjamin, the vampire who guards my personal entrance into the main club, bows his head as he lets me pass. The room smells of sex and blood. I pause in the shadows, breathing deeply, allowing the hedonistic scent to surround me.
Every vampire in the room turns to acknowledge me, sensing my power. A few other supernaturals sense my presence and bow their heads in deference. Only the humans are unaware of who I truly am.
Ignoring them all, I stride through the room toward the table tucked at the back, half-hidden in shadow. The building was once used to house freed slaves from the south. Tunnels run beneath the streets. Many are caved in, but a few still serve their purpose. I renovated it into a speakeasy during prohibition before it sat empty for years, waiting to be used again.
Now the cavernous space is decorated in low, dancing lights with velvet couches and chairs spread throughout. The floors are reclaimed barn wood from my old farm in Tuscany. Several platforms hold performances and demonstrations. There are spanking benches, padded tables, hooks on the wall, and women dancing naked in cages. But this is just the tease. The darker depths of Pandora’s depravity rest beyond the red-painted double doors.
Endless rooms allow for every depraved fantasy to play out. As long as it’s consensual. I sink into my chair, taking the glass of whiskey from the waitress without acknowledging her.
They’re used to this.
I don’t pay attention to those I employ. It leads to nasty relationships. I’ve got someone to worry about relations for me.
