But then, just before they descended and shredded her flesh, they fell to their knees, strangled gasps slithering from their mouths.
Dark blood spread across the front of Graybeard’s shirt like spilled ink.
Beside him, Junior was covered in even more blood—more than Charley had ever seen in her life.
His head, she realized, was gone.
And there, like something out of the worst B-movie horror flick ever made, two of the so-called Royal Redthornes towered behind them, fangs bared.
Gabriel clutched his knife, his arms and chest covered in blood, eyes wild with rage. Now, instead of an apple, he held a severed head.
Dorian’s expression mirrored his brother’s. A hunk of raw, red meat glistened in his hand, blood leaking out between his fingers.
Charley blinked.
Not meat. A heart. Graybeard’s fucking heart.
Charley blinked again, and the bodies of the men who’d ambushed her turned to ash before her eyes, scattering across the hillside.
And Charley—master thief, champion of champions, fighter to the death—dropped to her knees, puked in the grass, and promptly passed out.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Breathe, Charlotte. Just breathe.”
Dorian pressed the damp cloth to her forehead, wishing she’d say something. After she’d passed out, he’d carried her inside and cleaned her up, changing out of his own bloody garments and slowly bringing her back to consciousness, only to have her spiral into a screaming panic.
He’d had no other recourse but to compel her, and while the compulsion had silenced her shrieks of terror, the shock was still working its way through her system.
She’d been sitting in the study for well over an hour now, her eyes glassy in the firelight, her breathing shallow and erratic as Dorian knelt before her, willing her to return from the darkness.
He’d never seen anything like it before. Compelling someone to forget a traumatic event—anyevent—didn’t merely calm their fears or silence their reactions. It literally coerced the mind to write over those memories with new ones, as swiftly and completely as a novelist edits a scene in her story.
“You wandered out behind the property and slipped on the hillside,” Dorian said now, repeating the scenario he’d crafted for her earlier. “Gabriel and I heard you calling for help.”
What they’d actually heard were her screams; the sheer terror in her voice sent twin bolts of fear and rage through Dorian’s heart. He was already outside looking for her when it happened; Gabriel had arrived at the same moment. The brothers didn’t even speak. They simply acted, instantly eliminating the threat.
When news of the attack reached the manor, Aiden made quick work of clearing out the guests and staff under the pretense of a burst pipe. Gabriel and Malcolm had gone off to search the grounds for Duchanes, while Colin manned the crypts, just in case the vile bastard attempted to break in.
Duchanes. The name burned a fresh path through his chest, igniting something darker than hatred, more vile than loathing. The vampires who’d attacked his woman belonged to that deplorable house. They’d defied all customs and rules, entering his home under false pretenses, using his generosity against him, attacking a guest on his property. And not just any guest, but a woman he’d claimed as his own.
It meant war.
In some ways, Dorian was relieved. Politics was complicated. But war? War simplified things.
Duchanes would suffer. His bloodline would burn. And then, when the last of his house was forgotten and scattered to the winds, Dorian would personally send his enemy into the jaws of hell.
But first, he needed to take care of Charlotte.
“Dorian?” a weak voice called, pulling him back to the moment.
Dropping the cloth, he took her hands and pressed them to his mouth, breathing in her scent. “Thank the gods and the devil both. How are you feeling?”
She blinked down at him from the chair, her eyes still unfocused, her brow furrowed. “I think… I need a drink.”
“Of course.” He got to his feet and headed for the small bar he kept stocked in the study, pouring her a hefty dose of his favorite scotch. “I don’t have gin on hand, but—”
“It’s fine. Anything is fine.” She reached for the glass, then downed it in a few gulps, wincing at the burn.
