Gabriel said nothing, his face unreadable.
But it seemed Malcolm was just getting started. “Are you hungry, little pet? I bet you could use a nice, thick, bloody—”
In a blur, Dorian slammed him into the wall beside the hearth, the fire poker pressed against his throat, his palm over his brother’s heart. “Talk me out of it, Mac. Ten seconds.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Relax, brother.” Malcolm raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not here to fight, nor to insult your pretty little—”
Dorian pushed harder against his chest, growling in another warning.
“—vampire,” Malcolm finished. “In fact, I wouldn’t be here at all if Gabriel hadn’t dragged me back, kicking and screaming the entire way.”
“Bloody hell,” Gabriel said. “By the way he was carrying on, you would’ve thought I’d torn off his balls.”
Dorian closed his eyes, a wave of exhaustion rolling through his body.
He was fuckingtired.
Tired of the arguing. Tired of his brothers. Just plain tired.
He pitched the fire poker and released Malcolm, returning back to his chair next to Charlotte.
“As you can see,” he said, “we’re otherwise occupied this evening. So if you don’t mind, Malcolm, go fuck yourself off to bed, and we’ll talk again when you’ve sobered up.”
“Since I’m here, I’d rather talk now. I’ve news from the front lines.”
Dorian shook his head, his rage kept in check only by Charlotte’s gentle touch on his arm. “And your new friends, Dominic and Silas? Have you brought news of them as well?”
Malcolm’s face paled. “Dominic and Silas? Hmm. I’m not sure I’m familiar with—”
“Save it, brother,” Gabriel said, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. “We’ve seen the pictures in the paper. We know you’re cavorting with the enemy.”
“Again,” Dorian added, still burnt about the council meeting.
“The paper. Right.” Malcolm let out an indignant huff. “You can’t honestly believe I’d—”
“Plot against the crown?” Dorian asked. “Conspire against your own brother? Betray your blood? Now, where would I get such anoutlandishidea?”
“Betray my blood? Nowthere’san interesting turn of phrase.” Malcolm helped himself to a bottle of Dorian’s scotch, tossing the cap into the flames and taking a drink. Then, pointing a wobbly finger at Dorian’s face, “Do you know what father’s little rebellion against House Kendrick cost us?”
Dorian scoffed. “Do you have several days? A month, perhaps?”
“You havenobloody idea.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Dorian said. “Say your piece and be done with it.”
Malcolm strolled around the room, taking in the books on the shelves, the paintings on the walls as if he’d never seen them before. “Renault Duchanes is back from Paris,” he said casually. “Oh yes, we caught up over a…bite. Or two. Like old friends.”
He turned his gaze to Dorian, clearly waiting for a reaction, but Dorian refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, he seethed in silence, blood simmering beneath his skin as he waited, once again, for his brother to get to thefuckingpoint.
“Renault told me the mostfascinatingstory about his sire. I mean, about our father. That is to say…” Malcolm took another swig from the bottle, then laughed. “Well, that’s the punchline, brothers. Father sired Duchanes. Apparently it happened in France long ago—some sort of favor to save his pathetic life, promises of servitude, all very hush-hush, you know how it goes.”
“Duchanestold you this?” Gabriel asked. “And you believed him?”
“Not at first, of course. But the longer we talked… It seems Renault is suffering the same afflictions as we are, brothers. Oh, don’t look at me as if you don’t know. The aching eyes, the blurriness, the constant hunger. Bloody hell, I’ve only just fed, yet I feel as if I’ve been starved for months.”
He reached over for one of the blood bags Dorian had left on the table and tore off the top, sucking it dry in a matter of seconds.
