He’d taken too much, and Charley eventually lost consciousness.
Everything that happened after that was a blur—faces and voices and scents mixed in with her nightmares about the attack. Men arguing in the other room—Dorian’s brothers? The doctor with the dimples and kind eyes. A woman cleaning her up, dressing her in pajamas, poking her veins with a needle. And then, whispering something that sounded like a spell. Dorian shouting at them from the hallway, commanding them to heal her.
And later, sweet and tender words whispered over her bedside, a kiss as soft as a prayer alighting on her skin.
Charley opened her eyes, and the images faded away.
A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach, and she scrambled to her feet, barely making it to the bathroom before she retched. She was faint and dizzy, the headache making every movement an act of self-torture. As she washed her face and rinsed out her mouth, the reflection staring back from the mirror looked haunted and ill, her eyes ringed with dark circles, her hair wild.
Her wrist throbbed, but even the deep, erotic bite from her vampire felt like a memory now. She pulled off the bandage; her skin was unmarred.
Had she imagined the whole damn thing?
She needed to talk to Dorian. Why wasn’t he there?
Worry tugged on her heart as another memory surfaced—Dorian, begging her not to die. Blaming himself for drinking too much blood, his eyes full of anguish and fear. A woman imploring him in the hallway.You’ve done enough, Dorian Redthorne…
No. Charley needed to talk to him. Now.
With slow, awkward movements, she searched her bedroom for the phone, but it wasn’t there. It was probably still at Dorian’s place in Tribeca. For all she knew, it’d fallen into the hands of Duchanes and the demon.
Without her phone, she couldn’t get in touch with Dorian. She couldn’t even check on her sister. Sasha had planned to stay at Darcy’s all weekend, but what if she had an emergency? What if Duchanes had somehow tracked her down?
What if Duchanes had come back for Dorian or his brothers?
The tug of worry on her heart turned into full-blown panic.
Ignoring her throbbing head, Charley slipped into her bathrobe, then put one shaky foot in front of the other and exited the bedroom.
Almost immediately, she sensed it—something was off.
The roses, she realized. The smell had been so sweet and overpowering, yet now, she could barely detect them. All she could smell now was bacon.Burnedbacon.
Someone was in the kitchen. Not Dorian, as she’d foolishly hoped. Someone graceless and crass, cursing up a storm as he rifled through the cupboards, silverware and dishes clanging, breakfast burning on the stove.
As she reached the end of the hallway, her heart dropped into her stomach.
The roses were gone. Every last one of them, erased as if they’d never even been there at all.
And there, standing at the stove with a towel draped over his shoulder, scraping charred bacon from the cast iron skillet, was the man responsible for ruining her day before it’d even begun.
“Uncle Rudy?” Charley’s voice cracked, her throat raw.
Rudy glanced at her over his shoulder and grinned—a warm, welcoming smile for his favorite niece.
Right.
Charley didn’t miss the warning flickering behind it.
“Good morning,” he said, taking in her disheveled appearance. “You look… hungry.”
“What happened to my roses?”
“I had the doorman remove them.” He clucked his tongue. “Honestly, Charlotte. They were starting to rot.”
Tears stung her eyes, the headache behind them roaring into five-alarm migraine territory.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, willing the tears not to fall. Rudy would never understand how much those flowers had meant to her. In his eyes, they were just one more beautiful thing he saw fit to ruin—one more way to drain the color from her life.
