Page 53 of Kiss of Blood and Sin

I blinked, not believing my ears. Hope fluttered in my chest, fragile as a butterfly’s wing.

“I’ve told you of his reputation,” Enzo said as he headed over toward us. He knelt in front of Dimitri and grabbed his hair, yanking his head back. “This is your one and only chance, Dimitri.”

Dimitri chuckled, wincing as the movement pulled at his split lip. “What, you make me an offer like that? How can I refuse? Do I get dental with that?”

“Good boy.” Enzo slapped his cheek then glanced up at Angelo. “What about it, boss?”

Angelo remained silent. I held my breath, praying that he wouldn’t kill Dimitri. Even with his smirk, I knew he wasspent. He wouldn’t last much longer. Tears streamed down my face, hot and bitter. “Please, Angelo.”

Angelo took a deep breath and headed over to us. He grabbed Dimitri by the shirt and lifted him off the ground again.

I slapped his arm, panic rising in my throat. “No. NO. NO. I swear I’ll kill myself if you hurt him.”

Angelo ignored me and stared into Dimitri’s eyes that were nearly swollen shut. “If the wolves hurt her, you die. Until you can prove yourself to me, you’ll be my chauffeur. Starting now.”

The audacity. “What?” I sputtered, rage and disbelief warring inside me.

“Stop while you’re ahead,” Enzo cautioned me, his hand on my shoulder. “At least he’s not going to kill him.”

Angelo dropped Dimitri unceremoniously and headed over to the limousine. “I’m waiting.”

Dimitri staggered to his feet, swaying like a drunk. “Well, isn’t this a plot twist,” he muttered. “From punching bag to chauffeur. Moving up in the world already.”

I wrapped his arm around my neck and helped him to the limousine, his weight heavy against me.

Right now, I hated my brother, but at least he didn’t kill Dimitri. But his chauffeur? Seriously? As we limped toward the car, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of our troubles.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Dimitri

Pain shot through me like I’d just gone ten rounds with a whiskey-soaked porcupine. Every nerve ending screamed for mercy, but hey, who was I to deny them a good time? I gripped the steering wheel of the limo, my knuckles white as I fought to stay conscious. Good thing the GPS was doing the navigating, or we might’ve ended up in Timbuktu instead of Crimson Manor.

The only good thing was that the damn talisman was still tucked safely in my pocket. Oh, and the minor detail that I survived the vampire king's attack. I'd celebrate with a glass of bourbon, but first, I needed to find a shirt that wasn't decorated with my own blood. Pity—this one was Italian.

The peanut gallery—a.k.a. Angelo, Gianna, Petar, and the rest of the vampireBrady Bunch—were all cozy in theback. Angelo, in his infinite brotherly wisdom, had vetoed Gianna riding shotgun with me. Heaven forbid we engage in some scandalous hand-holding or, gasp, conversation.

“Make a right turn,” the GPS chirped helpfully. I smirked through the pain. At least someone was on my side, even if it was just a soulless machine. Kind of like my new boss, come to think of it.

“You know,” I called over my shoulder, because self-preservation was clearly not my strong suit, “most chauffeurs get a uniform. Do I at least get a jaunty hat to go with my new bruises?”

Silence from the back. Tough crowd.

As Crimson Manor loomed ahead, a Gothic monstrosity that screamed vampire chic, I couldn’t help but chuckle. From mate to punching bag to chauffeur in one day. If nothing else, my undead life was certainly keeping me on my toes.

I pulled up to the entrance, my body screaming in protest as I shifted to park. “Welcome to Château Bloodsucker,” I announced, turning to face my passengers with my best concierge smile. “I’d offer to carry your bags, but I’m afraid my arms might fall off. Rain check?”

Gianna practically climbed over Enzo, shoving Petar out of her way as she rushed to me. My own personal Florence Nightingale, minus the lamp and plus fangs.

“He needs to park the limo in the garage and bring the luggage inside,” Angelo barked behind us. He strode toward the manor, probably to practice his brooding in a mirror.

The guy was really gunning for the Asshole of the Yearaward. I’d send a congratulatory fruit basket, but I doubted he’d appreciate the irony.

Enzo clapped my shoulder, nearly sending me face first into the gravel. “At least you’re not dead, and, best of all, you’re on my team.”

I tried to smile through the pain. “Yay team. Do we get jerseys?”

Angelo snapped his fingers. “Enzo, bring Gianna. She’s not helping him.”

---