“You’re a survivor, Violet,” I whisper fiercely to myself. “You’ll kick the ass of any monster who dares try to harm you. Badass Violet for the win. Your men will be safe. Have faith.”
“Are you talking to yourself again?” a familiar voice drawls, and I blink rapidly to orient myself to my new surroundings. I appear to be in a sparsely furnished room with a single couch against the far wall opposite a coffee table and recliner. There are no windows or doors, and the portal has already dissipated. Sitting lazily, almost languidly, on the couch is none other than Dracula himself.
Opposite him, Dimitri leans against the wall with his arms folded over his chest and his frosty stare freezing me in place.
“Is this real?” I whisper, my back flush against the wall.
“I can assure you that it is.” My father rolls his eyes as he takes a drag of his cigarette. He’s dressed in a black trench coat pulled open over a suit and tie. His dark hair is slicked away from his aristocratic, almost elegant features. In private, my dad can be a little…eccentric, but around other people, he has a tendency to act like a massive douche. His mannerisms change entirely around people. Instead of behaving like the “cool dad,” he turns stoic and cold. I have long since accepted Dracula, no matter the face he wears.
“What is this about? Is this the competition?” I glance desperately between my father and Dimitri, but both men are impassive.
“Have a seat.” Dracula nods towards the chair opposite him, and I daintily perch on the edge. My body thrums with excess energy as my eyes dart anxiously in every direction. “This was the only way I could speak to you without others knowing.”
“Wait.” I hold up both hands. “Did you hijack the Roaring?”
“As soon as Dracula finishes speaking to you, we’ll bring you back to the arena,” Dimitri states simply. “As I said before, each room is designed specifically for the contestant.” His lips quirk marginally, and I realize that the sly bastard has somehow found a way to cheat the system. Not that I’m complaining. If this gets me answers, then I’m willing to do just about anything.
“I’ve been needing to talk to you,” Dracula begins, leaning backwards on the sofa and extending his legs. He crosses them at his ankles and places his clasped hands on his stomach. “You have questions.”
“Of course I have fucking questions!” I jump to my feet, my agitation demanding physical movement. Pacing, I scrub a hand through my disheveled blonde curls. “Why didn’t you tell me that Diedre was my sister?”
“Because I have a lot of children,” he answers simply. “Thousands, more or less.” He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, as if he didn’t just drop a bomb the size of Alaska in my lap. I have over a thousand siblings?
Someone needs to give Dracula a condom.
But not me, because, ew.
“Was she telling the truth?” I continue, my stomach twisting into dozens of tight, intricate knots. “Am I not your biological daughter?”
Dracula releases a heavy sigh, the tick in his jaw commandeering my attention. His reaction only reinforces what I have already suspected.
“It is true,” I whisper in numb horror. “I’m not your daughter.”
And if Diedre was telling the truth about that, then was she also telling the truth when she said one of my men helped frame me for murder? No, I can’t think like that. I refuse. The second trust is broken, it’s impossible to mend.
“No, you’re not.” He presses his lips together. “At least, not through blood. You’re my daughter in every other sense of the word.” The sincerity in his eyes is impossible to doubt. He hasn’t once claimed Diedre as his own, but me? He claimed me for the entire world to see. In his own sick, demented way, the asshole loves me.
“What am I?” I stare down at my hands as if I’ve never seen them before. For my entire life, I’ve thought these were hands that belonged to a vampire—and not just any vampire, but Dracula’s daughter. Who am I? What am I?
“I don’t know.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, forking his fingers together.
“You don’t know,” I repeat dubiously. My eyes flicker to Dimitri, still standing silently in the corner. Why is he here? What part does he play in all of this?
“You can trust him,” Dracula says, misreading my expression. “He’s loyal to me.”
Dimitri’s eyes flare at his words, face tightening in distaste, but he doesn’t contradict my father. I have the distinct feeling that Dimitri is loyal to no one but himself…and to me, though I don’t speak that thought out loud. Everything about the assassin-slash-headmaster is confusing. He’s nothing but a sexy contradiction—a beautifully wrapped package that carries nothing but spikes.
I want to demand they tell me how they know each other, if Dracula hired Dimitri from the start to protect me, but I don’t want to know those answers. I wouldn’t be able to survive if Dimitri was only protecting me because of a deal he made with my father.
“Tell me what you know,” I demand at last, and Dracula’s face tightens at my tone. He never liked when I talked back to him.
“Nineteen years ago, I received a call from a close confidant of mine…Dorian Gray.” I release a startled gasp as I once more stare intently at Dimitri, but his expression is neutral as we discuss his estranged father. “Dorian Gray had discovered something peculiar, and of course, he contacted me first and foremost.” Dracula nervously licks his upper lip, the only indication that he’s distressed by this conversation.
“Nineteen years ago…when I was born. Let me guess? He found me?”
Dracula releases a bark of dry laughter. “Don’t be so vain, my sweet daughter. He actually found your rather pregnant mother.”
“My mother?” I stop pacing and whip my head around to face him. The only thing I remember about her is that she died when
