Page 32 of An Acquired Taste

But Sebastian has other ideas. He picks me up with all the ease of lifting a doll and sets me gently back on the chair he was previously occupying. He pricks his finger on a fang and heals the puncture marks on my wrist. I look up with heavy lids and reach for him, ready to undo his belt and try to give him the same pleasure he gave to me. But he turns his back on me and rushes out the door, leaving me alone.

Chapter Sixteen

When the door to the library opens again, I sit up, thinking for a confused moment that Sebastian has turned around and come back. Instead, it’s Ellen peering in at me. I frown, rubbing my eyes. Then the events of the night rush back, and I swallow hard and tug my nightgown down.

I can only imagine what a rumpled harlot I must look like, but Ellen’s eyes are focused on my wrist as I approach. The puncture wounds are gone, but there’s still a smear of dried blood. I resist the urge to cover it. This is my job, after all, and getting intimate with one’s patron is par for the course, from my understanding.

I’m pretty sure most valentines don’t get dumped in an armchair and abandoned after their fun… but maybe that’s just the romantic in me. It’s not like I was promised arelationshipout of this, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by him not treating it as one.

Still, I refuse to be embarrassed. Or to think too hard about my concern that Sebastian is using me, just like Declan did. Only pain lies that way.

“Hi,” I chirp instead, forcing cheer. “You’re here.”

“Yes,” Ellen says, hesitantly entering the library once I’ve made myself semi-decent. “Sorry for my absence earlier thisevening. I saw that you barely touched your breakfast and skipped tea, so I wanted to make sure you’re alright…”

I guess we’re just going to ignore the fact I’m sleeping in Sebastian’s favorite armchair in the library. Has she been searching the house for me? Or did Sebastian tell her where to find me and why? God, I’m not sure which option is more embarrassing.

“Thank you,” I say, and stretch out in the chair in my best attempt to act normal. “I’ll take it here.”

When she sets the tray on the small table beside me, I notice that it not only has a fresh cup of coffee and my usual breakfast, but a side I don’t recognize and a few pills.

I have a sinking feeling these are the same type that Benjamin always pushed on me, but I ask anyway. “What’s this?”

“A spinach and prosciutto salad, and some extra supplements,” she says without pause. “Bridget was told that you may have given more blood than usual this evening, and recommended this for recovery.”

“Oh, lovely,” I grumble, picking up my toast and tearing off a piece with more violence than necessary. I chew angrily and then eye Ellen. So Sebastiandefinitelyclued the staff in about biting me, but… “Did ourlordleave any messages for me, by chance?”

Her brow furrows. “He did not. Were you expecting one?”

I sigh, cram the rest of my toast into my mouth, and shake my head.

* * *

I spend the rest of the night trying to scrub off my mistakes in the tub and resting in bed. I almost want to decline dinner, but Ellen might have a breakdown over it; she’s already dropped bytwice to try to force extra food on me. When I show up in the dining room, Sebastian’s seat is empty, and it remains so.

I guess this is how things are going to be, then. We’re going to go back to ignoring each other like he didn’t drink from my wrist or admit my blood makes him hornyorgive me a mind-blowing orgasm. Whatever. Fine with me. Everything is back to normal. My lonely, lonely normal.

And this time, when I climb into bed with my laptop, the words start flowing.

I have no plan, just a fire in my chest that demands to be expressed. After months of being stopped up, the words finally erupt from me like a dam’s been broken. I never thought of myself as a nonfiction writer. I never thought my life was interesting enough. But what emerges on the screen is more of a diary entry than anything else.

I write about my experience at the Valentine’s Day Ball, and my offer of patronage, and pulling up to the gate to the estate for the first time. I write about wandering the halls at night like a ghost, how painful it was to think Sebastian didn’t want my blood, and how much more painful it is to realize heonlywants my blood.

When I finally stop, my fingers and eyes are aching. I blink, look at the window, and realize that the sun is up. This is more daylight than I’ve seen since I arrived here; usually I get barely a glance at the sunrise before slipping into bed. I’m exhausted as I set the laptop aside and slide under my silk sheets. Writing has drained me—but it also leaves me feeling less alone, somehow.

I fall asleep with more words running through my head, written on the inside of my eyelids, whispering through mydreams. And I feel, for the first time in a very long while, that I have an awful lot to say, and it might be worth reading.

* * *

The next evening, I wake up and prepare for the usual routine. But when Ellen knocks on my door and enters, she comes bearing only the breakfast tray, and not the usual syringe.

“No blood today?” I ask, nibbling at the edge of a buttery mini quiche.

She shakes her head. “Before you ask, he didn’t explain. You’ll have to ask him yourself when you next see him.”

I roll my eyes. “Right. Assuming he ever decides to stop avoiding me.”

She bites her lip. It looks like she wants to say something, so I sip my coffee and wait, letting the silence simmer until she’s ready. “He’s been avoiding everyone,” she says finally. “It was such a nice change having him at dinner, but now…”

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