No one had cancelled, no one was leaving early, and no one would give him a moment’s peace in his own home. He’d answered enough inane questions about the house to fill an entire issue of Architectural Digest, smiled at dozens of terrible jokes, sympathized through lengthy debates about the homogenization of Manhattan restaurants, and warded off no less than three propositions, two of which from married women whose husbands were also in attendance.
This, Aiden Donovan, is why I don’t host parties.
Worse, while the Armitage people, the museum’s board of directors, and variously intolerable supernatural socialitesoohed andahhed over his art collection, drank his champagne, fawned over his vintage cars, all but ignored the eight-piece string ensemble for which he’d paid handsomely, and ingratiated themselves in ways civilized beings should find utterly embarrassing, all Dorian could think about was Charlotte.
He hadn’t seen her since the JHS run-in, but they’d talked on the phone every night this week, save for last night—he hadn’t been able to reach her. It had become the best part of Dorian’s evenings, making her laugh and making her come, sending her into the best kinds of dreams—and sending himself into a cold shower. Despite her many offers to repay the favor, he’d refused; when Dorian finally came for the woman haunting his every thought, it would be byhertouch, not his own.
He hadn’t mentioned the party again. In fact, there was a lot he hadn’t mentioned. She’d wanted to keep things simple, no attachments, nothing too complicated. And as much as he wanted to know more about her, to see her, to feel the soft touch of her velvet skin beneath his lips, he didn’t want to push her. Not like that.
So instead, he lingered in the familiar space between frustration and obsession, attempting to soothe the ever-present ache in his balls with copious amounts of alcohol.
“Dorian Redthorne, I’ve been looking for you,” a voice called from behind, shattering his perfect visions of Charlotte and filling him with contempt so hot and sharp, it felt as if a swarm of hornets had invaded his lungs.
“Renault Duchanes.” Turning to face the scoundrel, Dorian forced a hospitable smile, holding it in place even as he noticed the man’s entourage. “Welcome to Ravenswood. I’m so glad you could join us.”
There were four other vampires in the group—one female and three males. Duchanes introduced them as members of his house, though Dorian had never seen them before. Unsurprising, considering how quickly most of the other families sired new vampires to do their endless bidding. House Redthorne was unique in that Dorian’s brothers were related by blood, but that was a rare occurrence that required an entire family be turned at the same time.
Outside his own unfortunate gene pool, Dorian didn’t know any parents who’d subject their children to such torture. Still, Dorian’s family was full of enough dysfunction to keep a hundred therapists busy for a thousand years, but he wouldn’t trade them. There was something about blood and shared history that had made them loyal to one another in ways that sired vampires—despite their vows and the adoption of their sires’ names—were not.
In addition to the vampires, Duchanes had also extended the invitation to their bonded witch, whom he now introduced.
“Jacinda Colburn,” he said proudly, as if she were a prized steer.
The woman extended a hand glittering with rings, offering a mysterious smile.
Dorian shook her hand. It was cold to the touch. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Colburn.”
Glancing around to ensure they had at least a small audience, Duchanes cleared his throat, and Dorian braced himself for the inevitable performance.
“As a gesture of goodwill and friendship between our two great houses,” Duchanes announced, “for this evening, House Duchanes offers the services of our bonded witch to the brothers of House Redthorne.”
For fuck’s sake.
“Very generous of you, Renault, but that won’t be necessary.”
“Oh, but it’s no trouble. Jacinda would be honored to assist you in any way.”
Turning to the witch, Dorian put on his most dazzling smile, trying to recall what he knew of the Duchanes witch. “You’re an earth witch, Ms. Colburn, are you not?”
She lit up at the question, her own smile broadening. “I am.”
“It’s not my area of expertise,” he continued, “but I’m told the gardens at Ravenswood are home to over four dozen species of medicinal herbs and flowers. You’re welcome to take clippings of anything you’d like for your practice.”
“Really?” Her blue eyes sparkled, making her appear much younger than she probably was. “Thank you, Mr. Redthorne.”
“Please. Call me Dorian.”
“Dorian,” she said with a smile. “Thank you.”
Beside her, Duchanes seethed. Dorian’s refusal of his offer was an insult, but everyone standing there knew Duchanes’ kindness was artificial at best.
What are you after tonight, bloodsucker?
“Very well,” Duchanes said. “We shall share a drink instead.” He snapped his fingers, and two women stepped forward from his group.
Humanwomen—a blonde and a redhead, both wearing short cocktail dresses entirely inappropriate for the autumn night. They couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age, with pale skin, glossy eyes, and deep hollows beneath their cheek and collarbones.
Dorian’s gut churned, his vision swimming with red. They were obviously unhealthy and not well cared for. But unless he had clear evidence of coercion or compulsion, there was nothing he could do; the women were of consenting age.
