Page 32 of Hot Vampire Next Door: Season Four

I notice he hasn’t said a word about the Renshaw witches or what answers he may have gotten, and I can’t help but worry it has something to do with me.

“Good night, little mouse,” he says.

“Good night.”

I wait until he’s fast asleep.

It’s hard to wake a vampire, especially in the first few hours so I don’t worry about slipping out from his embrace.

At the door, I pull it open, careful with the slant of light, and then slip out and close it softly behind me.

I’m not tired.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this keyed up, so ready to do something.

We’re supposed to meet Arion, Lord of the Summer Court, tonight. I’m excited and a little terrified. What can he possibly have to say about me? Stanley warned about the fae courts coming for me, but I don’t know how they’ll get through if the gate is still closed.

Before I leave the Anneliese, I check Kelly’s room only to find it empty. I’m not surprised, but the small flame of hope I was nurturing quickly extinguishes.

I make my way across the courtyard and into the main house. The place is much quieter in the daylight. While quieter means safer, because all of the vampires are in bed, I don’t think I like the emptiness or the silence. Duval House is supposed to be full of noise. Hearing the absence of it feels wrong.

I head to the library where a few of the pledged humans are dotted around the room, their attention on their phones or tablets or books. Soft jazz music plays through the sound system.

I go to the café counter where a guy is washing dishes in the sink.

“Excuse me,” I call.

He turns to me, then drops the dish in his hand when he realizes who I am. The dish hits the water with force, splashing it across his black apron.

“Oh shit,” he says and steps away from the sink, assessing the damage. “Sorry. Hi.”

“Hi.” I fold my arms over the counter. “Need help?”

“No. Absolutely not. Bran would kill me.”

I frown at him.

The guy ducks down and tosses a dirty towel over the mess on the floor.

“Why would he kill you?”

“You’re Jessie MacMahon,” he says. “Practically Duval House royalty now.” He straightens and slides the towel around on the floor with the toe of his black Converse sneakers. “And royalty does not do menial chores.”

I scoff and come around the counter. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m extremely serious.”

I pick up a second towel.

“Ahh-ahh,” he says, like he’s a parent scolding a child. Except we’re practically the same age.

Slowly, deliberately, I reach around him and mop up the mess on the counter. He doesn’t try to stop me. I guess royalty can do as they please.

“See.” I toss the towel into a nearby bucket. “No murdering or maiming.”

The guy crosses his arms over his chest and his biceps swell against the sleeves of his gray t-shirt.

He’s thick and muscular, but just a few inches taller than I am with messy blond hair that hangs in his face. There’s a hoop earring in his left nostril and a full tattoo sleeve on his right arm. The tattoo is of a gorgeous shieldmaiden with a dark, stormy sky behind her and blackbirds in flight.

---