Before I can blink, Dorian is gone from my side, and he’s got Niko pinned against the wall, a fistful of his shirt in his grip. “You may have a death wish, but I will not let you continue to compromise Gabriella’s safety with your little temper tantrums. Get your shit together, or so help me, Father will be the least of your problems,” he growls.
Niko doesn’t back down. He balls the collar of Dorian’s shirt so tight that I hear the fabric rip. “Easy for you to say, dear brother. I’m not Father’s favorite. You’re his heir. I’m just the living proof that he likes to get his dick wet.”
“Enough,” I shout, just as a porcelain vase goes crashing to the ground. “Look at yourselves! We’ve only just got here, and you’re letting this place get to you.” The men stop thrashing but don’t back away, only a mere inch standing between their violent snarls. “This is exactly what Stavros wants, and you’re playing right into it. He’s knows you’re stronger together than divided. Don’t let him win.”
I place a hand on each of them, emitting a warming comfort that loosens their tense grips and calms their rapid beating hearts. Dorian takes a step back, letting his brother go. Niko shrugs away completely, his anger still evident yet leveled.
“Fuck this,” he mumbles before falling away into a dark cloud of smoke.
Dorian straightens his suit jacket, still speckled with sand, and retakes my hand, resuming our trek through the endless hallway.
“He’s acting like a spoiled child,” he finally says after long, silent minutes.
“He’s upset—rightfully so. And he’s afraid. We all are.” I get Niko’s reaction. It’s something I probably would have done. Finding out that your cousin—a man that you had stood beside for centuries, has been captured by a maniacal tyrant and will most likely meet his final death—is enough to warrant a nervous breakdown. But to plot and plan his rescue for hours, only to be beat to the punch by Stavros…I don’t see why Dorian isn’t just as irate.
“Nikolai knows that father cares for him. He’s overreacting.”
I look at him with a raised brow. “So what he said…about you being Stavros’s favorite. Was that true?”
Dorian shrugs, yet refuses to meet my questioning stare. “Any interest my father has in me is purely self-serving, I can assure you.”
“And how does that work out for you? Being the heir to the Dark throne?”
He stops suddenly and turns to me, cupping my cheeks. “Gabriella, I don’t aspire to be anything more than what I am now—your lover and protector.”
My voice comes out in a weak whisper, afraid of the truth. “But will that be enough?” Will I be enough?
He drops his hands from my face and turns around, twisting the knob of a door I hadn’t even realized was there. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Would you really give all this up for me? Could you honestly be complacent with a normal life, and be a somewhat normal guy?”
He steps inside the room, holding the door for me to pass. Yet, he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. His silence says enough.
No. It won’t be enough. Dorian was born and raised a prince. He has been surrounded with wealth and opulence his entire life. And as I step into his room—which is more like a lavish suite at some high-roller’s penthouse in a Vegas casino—I realize that he’s been slumming it with me for the past year.
“Wow,” I gasp, unable to more eloquently express my utter fascination at what surrounds me.
Dorian’s room is like a tiny palace, filled with everything about him that I love and admire. Every intricate detail boasts a piece of him—his love for music, his appreciation for art, his obsession with tidiness.
I gently glide my fingertips over a record player that looks at least 20 years older than me. Dorian comes to stand right behind me and adjusts the needle onto the vinyl already placed on the turntable. A haunting melody echoes throughout the room as my body is caressed by a woman’s sultry voice. There’s so much soul behind it…so much pain. Like she was living the words as she sang them. I close my eyes and let my head roll back against Dorian’s chest. He rocks our bodies side to side, and I feel his lips in my hair.
“Who is this?” I sigh.
“Nina Simone.”
“It’s beautiful. And sad.”
“The most beautiful things are oftentimes the saddest.”
I breathe in his words, letting them sink into my soul with pointy, stinging thorns. I bleed for Dorian, for the love we have, for the life we may lose today inside these lovely palace walls.
Yes. He is beautiful. But he’s always been sad. Sad for what he is, and what he’s done. Sad for the life he’ll never have, despite how truly good and decent he is to his core.
He stops rocking and turns me around, sliding his hands over my shoulders to the base of my neck, my pulse beating in time with his.
“Take my bathroom; get cleaned up. I’ll have something suitable brought up for you to wear.”
Dorian steps away just as the sad song ends and is replaced with something more up-tempo. Still, the stench of death hangs thickly in the air, making it hard to feel anything but indescribable fear.
I make my way through the splendor of his iridium-draped bedroom to his vast bathroom, too shaken to fully enjoy its brilliance, and strip off the dirty clothing. Under normal circumstances, I’d fill up the huge, infinity tub accented by a thousand turquoise tiles and soak my worries away, but being that we’re pressed for time, I jump into the shower. It’s also encased in those tiny turquoise tiles, ranging from dark to light, creating an ombre mosaic of midnight and day. There’s no curtain, just a thin, glass door, exposing my naked body. When I turn the lever, warm water shoots at me from all directions, even from the floor.
I wish I could enjoy this. I wish I could pull Dorian in here with me and urge him to make love to me against the quickly frosting glass. But knowing that we will come face to face with our tormentor within the hour, my libido is feeling less than viable.
I quickly cleanse myself, giving my hair a wash with Dorian’s shampoo. I don’t hesitate to douse myself in his scent, reveling in the opportunity to wear him on my skin. It’s like breathing him, minus the tingling magic that seduces my soul whenever I take a lungful of his pulsing essence.
When I exit the bathroom and enter his bedroom, sumptuous fabrics lie on the comforter, nearly blending in. The dress is the color of shimmering obsidian, the sheen reminding me of a star-littered galaxy far away from here. I take it between my fingers, wishing I could appreciate the smoothness of the silk. Same for the lacy lingerie lying beside it. Garments this gorgeous should be cherished. Not wasted on a girl who can only picture slaughtering her host.
After slipping my feet into the matching four inch heels—which are so amazingly comfortable, I swear I’m walking on clouds—I finger-comb my still-damp hair and make my way out to Dorian’s sitting area. The French doors to the balcony are wide open, indicating that he’s outside, probably with a glass of scotch at his side. When I breach the threshold of the door, I find that I’m right.
Dorian stands at the railing, staring out into the abyss of absolute darkness. The moonless night devours any glimmer of light, swallowing his tense frame, yet I can see him clearly. I take a single step forward, not wanting to interrupt his quiet ritual, but it’s nearly impossible to be this close to him and not touch him. Especially when I know he’s filled to the brim with inner turmoil.
“Come, little girl,” he mumbles, before putting the glass to his lips and taking a hefty sip. I do as he says, walking to him until my breasts touch his back. He reaches back to find my hand, and brings it to rest on his chest. His heart pounds like a tiny drum under my palm, so much fear and anxiety rushing through his blood. I want to tell him it’s going to be ok, but that’d be a lie. Nothing has been ok for a long time.
“What do you see?” I ask after long, strained seconds.
“Pain,” he replies, his voice suddenly hoarse. “So much. And the morbid part about it i
s that it’s mostly self-inflicted. All the wars, all the fighting…destruction by our own hand in the name of greed, envy, lust.” He takes another gulp, draining the fiery remains from his glass. “Humanity is its own worst enemy. We’ve created monsters.”
“We?”
“The Dark.” He sucks in a ragged breath, letting it out as if the weight of the world is deflating him. “It wasn’t like this before. We weren’t like this before. And it’s only going to get worse, unless…”
“Unless?”
Dorian turns around to face me, so much melancholy and regret in those endless blue eyes. He smiles, but it’s forced.
“Unless what, Dorian?”
“You look beautiful,” he whispers, fondling a lock of hair. He brings it to his face and inhales, closing his eyes in ecstasy. “Come. Stavros doesn’t wait.”
“But, wait,” I protest as Dorian swiftly leads back into his suite. I try to question him again, but he quickly turns to me, his eyes glinting with vengeful fire as he brings a silencing finger to his lips. I narrow my eyes, but I don’t dare speak another word. If Dorian wants me to be quiet, there’s a damn good reason.
When we step into the hall, we find that we have an escort. Of course. I’m inclined to believe we were never really alone.
“Your father will see you in the parlor,” the sharply dressed vamp says, turning to lead us down the long corridor.
“Of course he will,” Dorian mumbles. I sneak a glance at him, noticing that he’s freshly showered and dressed in a midnight blue suit. His shirt is just as dark, and he’s left the top few buttons undone, tempting me with memories of running my tongue up his chiseled chest.
He catches me gawking and shoots me a naughty wink, causing me to blush like a schoolgirl. “See something you like, little girl?”
“Always.” It’s true. I’ll always want him, even when my life is balancing on a thin sliver of thread.
It feels like years have passed by the time we get to the room known as the parlor—a giant showroom full of precious art, antique furniture and a fireplace bigger than my entire apartment. The vampire leads us to a sitting area hosting an elaborate spread of finger sandwiches, cookies and, oddly enough, tea. I surely thought tea was code for sudden death or torture by de-nailing.
Just as we take our seats, Niko stalks into the room, carrying an icy wind with him. I shiver and wrap my arms around my waist as goosebumps cover my arms and legs.
“What’s wrong?” Dorian mumbles, drawing me closer.
I shake my head. “Just got…cold.” My eyes drift over to the younger Skotos, who has made himself comfortable in a plush, jacquard armchair. He doesn’t even look our way, let alone speak, yet I can see the tight ticking of his jaw.
“Being here makes him anxious. He rarely visits.”
“Why?”
Dorian pins me with that intense, blue stare, causing another ripple of cold to snake up by back. “If you knew the burden of our name, would you come to the very place where you’re constantly reminded of it?”
I don’t get a chance to answer. A clatter sounds from the entranceway across the room, and Dorian swiftly pulls me to my feet. Adrenaline spikes through me, igniting my feral senses, and I instinctively ball my hands into hard fists at my sides. However, all instinct is lost and forgotten the very moment my eyes fall upon not one, but two, sets of startling azure irises. I choke on the hiss caught in my throat, and look up at Dorian for any sign of comprehension. Is he seeing what I’m seeing? Am I missing something?
He almost…smiles. Almost. But the look of admiration—hell, even love—is undeniable in his face. My gut twists into a thousand figure eight knots as reality begins to set in. Holy shit. Holy. Shit. What have I walked into?
“Father,” Dorian nods ceremoniously. His gaze then falls to the exotically beautiful young woman standing beside Stavros. She smiles brightly as soon as she gains Dorian’s attention, and doubt and insecurity roil in my belly. He smiles back in response—genuinely, this time—and nods once more.
“Mother.”
DELIA SKOTOS IS nothing like I expected. Nothing at all.
For one, she’s ridiculously young. Like, she doesn’t look a day over 30. And she seems warm and nurturing. She’s an actual mother. Still, I can’t help sense something dark and deceitful hiding in the shadows of her smile. She hugs her sons like she hasn’t breathed since they were last together, taking their cheeks in her hands before kissing each one. She tells them how handsome they look, asks if they’ve been well—even admonishes them for rushing out of here last week without saying goodbye. It’s weird, but good-weird. I always hoped Dorian and Niko had a sense of normalcy in their lives. Delia may have been just that.
“And you must be Gabriella. How lovely to finally meet you, dear. Quite a stir you’ve caused for such a plain little thing,” she says, stopping in front of me. I divert my eyes to the ground, not knowing what proper etiquette suggests when addressing a queen, especially one that relies on sucking souls to maintain her youthful glow. Who needs Botox when you can just breathe beauty?
“Well, let’s have a look at you, shall we?” Her majesty takes my face in her hands, tilting my head up to meet her gaze. I know what she’s looking at—my eyes. She’s wondering if I really have chosen to sell one-half of my soul to the Dark. And if and when it comes to war, which side will I pick?
Assuming she’s satisfied with what she sees, the queen slips her hands from my face and grasps my hands. “Always keep your head held high, child. For even the most timid mouse can wreak havoc on a great and mighty house.” And just as my lips part to thank her for her advice, she kisses me. Like, really kisses me. Her lips are so soft, warm and—Lord, forgive me—sweet as sugar. It only lasts a few seconds—five tops—but it’s long enough for me to melt into her touch, and spark a craving to taste more. And while she doesn’t allow me to taste her tongue, I feel like I’ve been seduced. Seduced to the point of madness, where I want to be the one to tempt her. I want my kiss to infect her, stain her, make her feel just as out of control with lust.
She pulls away just as quickly as she’s touched me, breaking the erotic spell. The haze begins to lift, and I realize what’s just happened. I was just kissing Dorian’s mom! And I liked it—loved it, even! I wanted more. I wanted her to take me, right here in the parlor, on a table of delicate Macaroons and Earl Grey. What the… How the…
Well, shit. Brings a whole new meaning to the term MILF.
I stagger on my stiletto heels as Delia steps away, returning to her husband’s side. I force myself to face him, shame be damned. This man could very well be responsible for Donna’s death. He could wear the blood of those possessed humans on his hands, yet here he is, grinning at me like the cat that swallowed the canary. The very tip of his pink tongue traces his bottom lip, as his eyes stay trained on me, watching, waiting for me to crack.
As repulsive as I know Stavros is, there’s a part of me that will always be unnervingly intrigued by him. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s the way his haunted eyes seem to pick me apart, bit by bit, until I’m nothing but tendon and bone. Or how his lips just barely twitch, hinting at the slightest of smiles, unknowingly making me yearn for a show of his approval. He is the darkest desire, the sweetest taboo. And no matter what I want, or how much I love his son, the Dark in me craves to venture into murky, unknown territory.
His dominating frame draped in a dark designer suit fills the entire room. Stavros is built like an athlete-turned-model. He has a roguish beauty that speaks of a dangerous past, but he is so graceful and refined, you can’t imagine anything but the finest fabrics gracing his body. The tiny lines in the crease of his eyes tell me that his body has seen much war and destruction, and just at the temples, a slight smattering of grey stands proud amongst silken black hair, only making him appear more distinguished.
Oh, yes. If Delia was a MILF, Stavros was the king of DILFs. And he wore that crown like nobody’s business.
I feel Dorian shift be
side me, and red-hot shame paints my entire face, causing me to look down from Stavros’s piercing stare. What is wrong with me? First, I am practically making out with Dorian’s mom, and now I’m damn near eye-fucking his dad? It doesn’t make sense. This isn’t me. Why the hell do I feel so out of control?
“Not funny,” Niko grumbles, flopping down on the chair, not even bothering to wait for the king and queen to sit first. “Please don’t tell me you brought her all the way here just so you two could flex your little muscles. I swear, always showing off when company comes over.”
Delia smiles lovingly at her son before taking her husband’s hand and leading him to sit. Dorian and I quickly do the same. “Well, what kind of queen would I be if I didn’t test one of our own, especially one that has completely disarmed your brother of all his sanity. It’s my duty as a mother. Though I must say…she’s so open—dangerously so. Could be troublesome for her in the future.”
“Hopefully, we won’t have to explore just how long that future is,” Stavros adds, contempt dripping from a toothy, too-wide smile. A vampire butler rushes to pour tea into cups. Mouth dry, I lean to retrieve mine, but Dorian stops me with a shake of his head.
“She’s stronger than you think,” he retorts, coming to my aid. Another layer of guilt covers me from head to toe. “She’s pushed you out of her dreams enough times, correct, Father?”
Delia stiffens beside Stavros, yet he just laughs, slapping his knee in jest. “Yes, true enough. But she had help. And trust me, boy, I’m not the only one she dreams of. But you know that already, don’t you?” His eyes sweep over to Niko, and he winks, earning him a confused look. “But your brother doesn’t seem to be in the know. Shall we enlighten him, son?”
I feel the blood drain from my face as a malicious grin begins to curve the corner of Stavros’s mouth. Niko looks at me, then Dorian, and then back to his father with narrowed suspicion. “Maybe some other time,” he deadpans. “I’d rather you tell me why the hell we’re here, for starters. Then let’s talk about what you’ve done with Cyrus.”