Page 27 of An Acquired Taste

If he dislikes me rather than simply being reserved, now is a good moment for him to show it. He could leave me scorned and publicly humiliated if he wished, and even though I plaster on a smile, my stomach is in knots at the thought of it. I see the way he glances at the curious eyes on us and reaches the same conclusion. There’s a moment where everyone seems to pause, waiting. He reaches for his glass of blood-tinged wine and swirls it idly.

“Yes?” he asks. At the rest of the table, conversations resume, albeit more subdued than before. Everyone seems to have an ear turned to our exchange.

“Are there a lot of depressed vampires?”

He pauses, glass of blood-infused wine halfway to his lips, to stare at me. “…What?”

“Well, if you never see the sun, it must be like having seasonal depression all the time,” I say. “Though I guess it’s not seasonal at that point. It’s just plain ol’ vanilla depression.”

He continues to stare at me, the furrow in his brow deepening.

“Or maybe you get enough Vitamin D from my blood?” I ask, tapping a finger against my chin.

He slowly sips his wine. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he says finally.

That’s all I get, but I consider five words in a row to be a middling success.

After that night, Sebastian gives up on avoiding me at the dinner table, which I take as a victory. But the man is still damningly difficult to hold a conversation with. He won’t speak a single word to me unprompted. Even prompted, it’s difficult to get more than a couple.

It soon becomes a game.

I arrive at dinner prepared with new and increasingly ridiculous prompts.Can vampires get drunk?(Yes.)Can you taste what I eat in my blood?(Not really.)Do you sleep in a coffin?(That’s absurd, Amelia.)

One night, I’m so thoroughly overjoyed by my chocolate cake that I almost forget to try speaking with him. The moist, rich cake, the silky frosting… I practically moan as I take my first bite. Then I notice Sebastian staring at me and realize I haven’t asked my question of the night yet.

“Why do you hardly ever eat?”

“I don’t need to.”

“I don’tneedchocolate cake.” I scoop up another delicious bite of it. “But what would be the point of life without it?” I place it in my mouth to demonstrate, humming in pleasure as I lick the last of the frosting off my fork.

Sebastian clears his throat and looks away, probably appalled by my table manners. “I’ve never been much of a fan.”

I widen my eyes, dramatically pressing a hand to my chest. “Ofcake?” No wonder he’s so miserable.

Sebastian shrugs, glances at me, pauses. “You have, er…” He gestures to his lip.

I lick the frosting off, and he looks away again.

It isn’t until he’s gone that I realized he stayed all the way through dessert, which is practically unheard of. And I gotseven wordsin a row!

Surely, it must be progress.

* * *

Life is certainly different than I’m used to, but it’s surprisingly easy to fall into routine. Ellen collects my blood; I bother Sebastian at dinner; the rose on my nightstand withers and is replaced. Benjamin’s check-ins become less frequent. Alexander’s texts don’t, but I don’t reply quite as eagerly. I’m starting to get used to it here. It may not be everything I wished for, but it could be worse.

One day I realize, with a shock, that I’ve been here for two months already. Just like that, my sense of contentment begins to crumble.Two months. I wonder if I’m the first valentine in history who has made it two months without ever being bitten. Or kissed. Ortouched…

I’ve been so pleased with myself for the tiny scraps of progress I’ve made at our dinners over the past couple of weeks. But now, sitting in my bed, I have to fight off the sudden threat of tears. God, I’m lonely. I need more than this.

I hold that thought in mind while I get myself ready for dinner, slashing on eyeliner like war paint.I need more. And it’s time to get it.

I set my plate beside Sebastian’s seat, as usual, and wait for him to arrive. But instead of hitting him with one of my usual ridiculous questions, I flash him a bright smile. He pauses, looking almost alarmed by my expression, as if he senses something has changed.

“Lord Sebastian,” I say, all too sweetly.

“Amelia,” he replies, his tone cautious.

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