Page 77 of Her Vampire, His Ruin

I have lived selfishly, first as a man, then as a vampire—until now.

Since meeting Edie, I’ve only fed from donors, never once tempted to take them to bed. The idea of betraying her turns my stomach. Lately, I can’t even bring myself to drink from the source.

Edie stirs, her eyelids fluttering as she wakes up, pulling me from my thoughts. “Good sleep?” I ask, brushing away a stray strand of hair that has fallen across her face.

“Please don’t tell me I snored.”

“You sounded like a freight train,” I tease, surprised by my own playfulness.

She gives my chest a gentle shove. “So, you’re a comedian, too.”

My fingers wrap around her wrist, and I press a kiss against her pulse. “On occasion.”

“So, what happens now?” she asks, her gaze steady as I unfasten the button at her wrist and slide up her sleeve, my tongue following the delicate map of blue-green veins beneath her skin.

“It’s almost midnight. I should take you home,” I say.

“Are you worried I’m going to turn into a pumpkin?”

“I’m not worried you’ll turn into anything,” I say, tracing the crook of her elbow with my tongue before letting her arm fall gently. “But if you stay, I might have to sample some pumpkin spice.”

She laughs, shifting beside me so we’re lying chest to chest. “Can I ask you something first?”

“Of course,” I say, not quite ready to let her go just yet.

“The other day I took Nina and Elizabeth to the Scottsdale Art Gallery, and they were showing artwork by a woman named Basilia Hallward…” I force myself not to react as she searches my gaze. “She’s the same artist of the paintings you have displayed in your home. The owner of the Grayhaven Estate donated them to the gallery. According to a website Elizabeth found, you’re the last living heir.”

“You seem surprised,” I remark, guarding my expression.

“A little, but that wasn’t the most interesting thing.”

“Oh?”

“On the website, there is a painting of Basilia and her husband, Dorian Gray, a man who has a remarkable resemblance to you.”

Fuck. I flinch, but if she notices, she says nothing.

“Well, you know what they say. Everyone has a doppelganger, perhaps I’m his?” I reply with a shrug, hoping she lets this conversation go. I’ve no idea who the fuck put the website up, and I make a mental note to get it shut down the second I’ve dropped Edie home.

“Her paintings felt so heartbreakingly sad,” she continues, “Yet in that portrait with her husband, she looked truly happy, despite what the gallery said about her.”

“What did the gallery say about her?”

“That she was emotionally unstable, and she died tragically. Elizabeth thought she remembered you saying that she was an old acquaintance…” Her voice trails off as she laughs softly. “Of course, she must’ve misheard.”

“I’d be the oldest man on Earth if that were true,” I reply with another forced grin, hoping she can’t sense how uneasy I’m feeling.

“The most attractive, oldest man on Earth.” She pauses, searching my face. “Do you know much about Basilia? As I said, her paintings are exquisite but terribly melancholy, and I do wonder what the gallery meant by her being emotionally unstable. Do you know how she died?”

“Why does this matter to you?”

Edie shrugs. “You haven’t been very forthcoming about your life or how you came to own this club and the hotel, so maybe if you shared something about your family’s history, it would give me a sense of who you really are.”

“Ask me anything you want to know about my business, and I’ll tell you what I can,” I offer.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to hear about your organisation,” she says, lifting a brow. “Perhaps we should start with the past and work our way up to the present.”

Realising Edie isn’t going to let this go, I nod, forcing myself back to a time I haven’t thought about in centuries. Keeping my voice even, I say, “Basilia and Dorian married young. She was eighteen, he was twenty-two. In the early years of their marriage, he was infatuated with her. She was beautiful, sweet, and everything he wanted. But Dorian loved beautiful things and soon found his attention wandering⁠—”