He stared at his hands for what felt like an eternity, and all around him, a hush fell over his city.
And then Dorian Redthorne, vampire king of New York, brother to the royal princes, slayer of the King of Blood and Ravens, closed his eyes and wept.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was Charlotte who saved him.
When they’d finally broken down the door and she appeared before him on the rooftop, whole and unbroken, the sun rose over her shoulder, and for a moment Dorian swore she’d brought him the dawn.
“Charlotte?” His voice cracked, and he blinked up at her as if he hadn’t seen her in years.
Centuries.
Eons.
“Dorian,” she breathed, dropping to her knees before him.
He reached for her hair, the soft feel of it like a precious gift after all the vile things he’d touched today.
“Malcolm…?” she whispered.
A question. A prayer.
Dorian could only shake his head.
The tears fell from her eyes, and she drew him into her embrace, holding his head against her chest, pressing her lips to his ash-coated hair as he steadied himself by the beat of her heart.
“What of the mark,” he whispered urgently, still holding her close, terrified to meet her eyes.
“Isabelle says it’s gone.”
Dorian choked back a sob, fisting her shirt. “Tell me you’re mine, Charlotte D’Amico.Please, love. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours, Dorian Redthorne.Always.”
He crushed her in his embrace, and together they held each other until the city was on fire with sunlight and the tears finally stopped and their hearts were beating as one with the same deep, perfect rhythm.
* * *
Back on the main floor of the club, Dorian watched in silence as the Rogozin demons, Cole and his shifters, and Gabriel worked together to sweep up the ashes and mop the blood from the floor. Behind the bar, several witches sat bound to high-backed chairs as Colin checked them for injuries and Isabelle ferreted out whatever intel she could.
Once loyal to House Duchanes, they were Redthorne prisoners now, and would need to be interrogated and punished for their crimes, but Dorian suspected most of them—like Jacinda Colburn, sitting at the end of the row—hadn’t a choice.
He had no interest in further tormenting them. Only in ensuring something like this wouldn’t—couldn’t—happen again.
Near the windows up front, Aiden and Charlotte sat with Sasha, Charlotte holding her sister in a tight embrace as the girl grilled them with a thousand and one questions. Aiden answered every single one of them with the patience of a saint, doing his best to guide her through her first trial-by-fire crash course on the history of the supernatural.
All in all, she seemed to be taking it pretty well, just like her big sister had.
Dorian smiled at the memory of Charlotte’s very first question.
Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you’re a bloodsucking vampire king?
They’d certainly come a long way since then.
Taking a seat at the far end of the bar, Dorian reached for an unbroken bottle of scotch and a glass, filling it to the rim. Before he took his first sip, a shadow fell upon his face, and a thick, blood-soaked arm reached for the vodka.
“Mr. Rogozin,” Dorian said, offering a small nod of thanks.
