“We can’t start a war with the most powerful demon in the city based solely on your gut,” Gabriel said.
“My war is with Duchanes. As for Chernikov…” Dorian sighed. “You’re right. We need more information.”
“Which we can’t get sitting around here, waiting for—”
“Dorian.” Colin emerged from the hallway, Marlys following behind.
All thoughts of Chernikov and Duchanes vanished.
“How is she?” Dorian abandoned his drink, his heart lodged in his throat.
“She’s going to be okay,” Colin said, and relief swept over Dorian in a rush. “She needs to rest for a few days, drink plenty of fluids, and avoid anything strenuous.”
Dorian was already heading down the hallway toward the bedroom.
Marlys grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”
“I need to see her, Marlys.”
“She’s still in and out of consciousness.”
“I don’t care.”
Marlys tightened her grip, her eyes blazing with a darkness Dorian had never before seen from his freelance witch. “You’ve done enough, Dorian Redthorne. I suggest you let her regain her strength.”
“Dorian,” Colin warned, “Marlys is right. We just got her back. We can’t risk you—”
“I’mnotgoing to hurt her again,” he said softly. “Thatis a promise.”
Most of Dorian’s promises might’ve been worthless in their eyes—hell, a good portion of them were worthless in hisowneyes. But not hurting Charlotte? Not drinking from her again?Thosewere promises he could now make without hesitation.
He’d always known her blood would drive him over the edge. Tonight, he’d gotten a glimpse of just how terrifying that edge could be, and he never wanted to go anywhere near it again.
Not even if his life depended on it.
Colin and Marlys must’ve seen the determination in his eyes, because they finally nodded and stepped aside, letting him pass.
* * *
Charlotte’s bedroom was luxuriously furnished but surprisingly plain, with no personal touches except for a few framed photos of a young blond woman Dorian assumed was Sasha and one of an older man that was probably Charlotte’s father.
Now, he stood at the side of her bed, looking down upon her sleeping form, a potent mix of relief and shame flooding his heart.
Her soft, dark lashes brushed her cheeks, her hair hanging limp around her face. The color had returned to her skin, her lips rosy and full, her breathing deep and even.
Her strong, steady heartbeat was music to his ears.
Dorian fell to his knees, taking her hand and stroking her silky-soft skin. The sight of her bandaged wrist—a wrist Duchanes had wounded, a wrist Dorian had fed from—filled him with anguish.
They’d only known each other a short time, but in those precious weeks, she’d ignited something inside him that could never be put back in its cage.
Something he thought he’d never know, never feel again.
Holding her hand, gazing at her angelic face, Dorian couldn’t imagine facing another tomorrow without her.
“Please come back to me, love,” he said. Tears burned behind his eyes, but he refused to let them fall—refused to let himself believe he had any more reason to worry. Instead, he pressed his lips to her hand, drawing her scent into his lungs, whispering his deepest confession into the darkness.
“I’ve bloody well fallen in love with you, Charlotte D’Amico. Now come back to me so I can prove it to you.”
