Page 89 of Her Vampire, His Ruin

“I’m not the one running from anything, or at least I wasn’t until he invited me to his club, brought me to orgasm multiple times, and the second things got intense between us he pulled away from me.”

Henrietta gasps, her eyes widening. “Wait a minute, when did you go to his club?”

“A while ago,” I reply. I hadn’t told her about what happened at the Unlit Lounge either. Bringing it up now would only raise more questions.

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?”

“What’s there to say other than the fact he warned me he’s a dangerous man, and now I find out this, which likely proves that he very much is.”

Henrietta puffs out her cheeks. “Edie, that’s⁠—”

“Not the worst of it,” I continue, explaining everything that happened at the club with Robert.

“Wait, do you think Dorian could’ve hurt Robert?” Henrietta asks, chewing on her lip. “I mean, he’s an absolute bastard, and deserves to be taken down a peg or two, but what if⁠—”

I shake my head. “No. I called Lucette yesterday. Told her everything. I could hear Robert in the room with her, so I told her to put me on loudspeaker. He tried to wheedle his way out of it, of course. He begged for her forgiveness, promising her the world. I hope Lucette has the strength to walk away from him. But I know Robert. I know he can be incredibly persuasive.” I sigh, hating that he’s hurt another woman. How many more times will he ruin someone’s life?

Henrietta leans forward, grasping my hand. “I don’t like what Robert has done to you or to Lucette, but she knew you were married to him, Edie. She doesn’t deserve your sympathy.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but she has it anyway.”

The bell rings, and moments later, the sound of children entering the building filters into the room, cutting our conversation short. Henrietta pushes to her feet, then hesitates, turning her attention back to me.

“I’m sorry things haven’t worked out with Dorian, but do you know what?”

“What?”

“Regardless of whether he was involved with these murders or not, I’m not sorry those men are dead. They deserved it.”

By the time I sit down at my kitchen table, it’s almost ten o’clock. I’ve spent all evening oscillating between putting my house up for sale and moving as far away from Dorian as possible, and calling him to ask if he was involved with the murders. After reading about Mark and John’s past, the world is clearly much better off without them. Those men were pure evil.

Like Henrietta, I’m not sorry they’re dead.

Deciding that I won’t get any sleep tonight, and needing to know the truth, I make the decision to contact Dorian. Rather than calling him on my phone, I start up my laptop, open the website for Avant Garde, and type in the code. I need to be able to scrutinise every expression on his face, and the smaller screen of my phone just won’t do.

This time the logo whirls for far longer than it did the last time I contacted him this way, and just as I’m about to give up and cut the connection, Dorian appears on screen, his expression a mixture of relief and surprise.

“Edie,” he breathes, scraping a hand through his dark brown strands.

The first thing I notice is how handsome he looks with his hair falling loose and not slicked back like I’m used to, but then I see the exhaustion etched into his features, and the dark circles shadowing his eyes. An unexpected wave of tenderness crashes over me, and I have the sudden overwhelming urge to go to him, to offer him comfort.

“Dorian,” I begin, keeping my voice neutral as I push those thoughts aside, “I need to speak with you about something.”

“Is this about what happened at the club?” he asks, leaning closer to the screen. A flicker of concern crosses his features, and beneath that something close to guilt. “I wanted to reach out to you, but I didn’t think⁠—”

“Don’t,” I snap. “This isn’t about what happened at the club. I’m contacting you about something else.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” he throws back, tipping his head to the side as he studies my face.

“Probably because that was a lie,” I admit.

“Do you want to tell me the truth, then?”

“It’s not me who needs to tell the truth,” I say, my gaze flicking to the newspaper and the headline that has been seared into my memory.