Page 164 of Bleed with Me

Dorian: Please let me know you’re okay.

I stared at the message for a long second before pressing send.

Not delivered.

“What the hell?” I mumbled, another wave of worry washing over me as I called again.

Voicemail.

“Fuck,” I whispered, rubbing my forehead. “Don’t do this to me, ma vilaine.”

Maybe she had no signal.

Maybe her phone died.

Maybe…

Stop, you pathetic asshole, and do something! The demon snarled.

Nodding mindlessly, I reached for Malin’s phone lying on the kitchen counter. His surveillance team could locate Nina within minutes, and at that point I no longer cared whether she’d murder me afterward for invading her privacy. But before I could unlock it, my own phone vibrated.

Zyon.

A frown creased my forehead. It was three sixteen in the morning. Something went to shit if he called me in the middle of the night.

“Hello?” I picked up, scrolling through the other phone’s contacts.

“Dorian.” My brother’s voice was clipped, unusually tense. “Where are you?”

“At home,” I replied, my thumb pausing on Stella's name.

“Are you sure?”

The question made me straighten.

“Of course. Where else should I be?” I laughed forcefully, but another pause made my stomach twist with unease.

“Dorian,” Zyon said slowly, “you’re not at Starlight, or in your Manhattan apartment. Where exactly is home?”

I ran a hand through my hair and rolled my eyes. Again, I fucking forgot.

“I have a new house in Greenwich. A few streets from you, actually.” I gulped, awaiting a scolding, but he didn’t say anything. “I basically have lived here since the kidnapping.”

“Where is Sasha?” he asked, the tension in his voice palpable.

“At home?” I snapped, impatiently tapping my fingers against the counter. “With his mother? I don’t know. What’s with these questions, Zyon? What is going on?”

“Shit,” he muttered as background noise told me someone was approaching.

“Zyon?” I yelled, reminding him of my presence. “I’m still waiting. What happened?”

“My men found your Jaguar,” he said carefully. “It was abandoned in the middle of the road. The passenger window is smashed. There are signs of a fight.”

The words didn’t make any sense.

“What?” Every muscle in my body froze as I looked toward the empty driveway. A cold, sick feeling settled deep in my stomach.

“Who was driving that car, Dorian?” he asked, but I couldn’t answer because the pieces finally snapped together.