Page 49 of Bite
JAMES
Sunlight won’t set me on fire, but it ruins my mood all the same. Too harsh. Too bright. Downright offensive, even when filtered through the top-of-the-line crystalline tint of the car windows. I push my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose with a discontented grunt as the car rolls to a stop at the curb outside Steele Holdings, bracing myself to step out into the blinding glare.
The driver knows better than to linger once I exit the vehicle. The engine purrs softly as the car rolls away, leaving only the sharp clip of my shoes on concrete as I start for the building.
Daylight has always annoyed me. Everything laid bare, no shadows to soften the edges. Night conceals; forgives. The sun’s rays reveal everything you’d rather keep hidden.
The glass doors slide open at my approach, and I slip my sunglasses off as I move through them without breaking stride. The security guard at the desk glances up, recognition flashing in his eyes before he quickly drops his gaze.Smart. He stays rooted to his seat, pretending to study his screen while I cross the lobby to the elevator bank and punch the call button.
The door opens immediately, as if even the machinery here knows better than to make me wait. My reflection glints faintlyin the mirrored panels as it slides closed, the elevator humming as it rises.Bet Taylor will soon marvel at debunking the myth that vampires don’t have reflections. A few seconds later, the door slides open again to reveal the bright white lobby of Bite.
The little doe-eyed receptionist at the desk startles the moment she sees me. Her head jerks up, soft mouth opening on a gasp like cornered prey. “M-Mr. Devereaux,” she stammers, nearly toppling her chair as she scrambles to her feet. Her heels click against the marble as she hurries around the desk, desperate to intercept me.
Pathetic.I don’t have an appointment and I definitely don’t require her assistance. She doesn’t understand she’s mere furniture– background noise too low on the food chain to matter. I don’t spare her so much as a glance as I stride past, my attention fixed solely on the path to Francesca Fox’s office.
The door is already standing open, Fran looking up when I enter. Only the barest lift of her brows betrays her surprise at seeing me here– exactly why she holds this position. She wears her mask well and rarely lets anything slip.
“Mr. Devereaux,” she greets smoothly, voice calm and professional with a flicker of warmth beneath it. “We weren’t expecting you today.”
I close the door behind me, the lock engaging with a soft click.
Her gaze sharpens, head tilting ever so slightly. She’s clearly waiting for me to explain why I’ve appeared in her office unannounced. I choose to let the silence stretch, curious how long it’ll take for her to break it.
Not long.
“Is everything alright with Miss Holt?” she questions, the faintest note of something smug in her tone. “Your arrangement–”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, pocketing my hands. “Better than expected, in fact. Perhaps I should’ve considered taking on an exclusive donor sooner.”
“I’m sure you would’ve had no shortage of volunteers,” Fran muses, tucking an espresso strand of hair behind her ear. “Our donors inquire about you constantly, your reputation clearly precedes you. I must admit, I was surprised when you selected one that was so…fresh.”
“Part of her allure,” I murmur. “Though you could’ve educated her better about vampires. It’s pathetic how little she knows of my kind.”
The corner of Francesca’s mouth curves, eyes glittering with amusement. “Well, if you’d like to swap her out for a more knowledgeable donor…”
“No,” I snap, the word echoing in the enclosed space of her office. “Taylor ismine.”
One sculpted brow arches. “Possessive.”
“Over her blood, yes,” I clarify, rapidly tiring of this exchange. Best to just get straight to the point. “I’m here to collect her complete file. And her blood sample.”
Francesca leans back in her chair, crossing one long leg over the other. Her pinstripe skirt rides up, exposing the smooth skin of her thigh. She rests an elbow on the armrest in a pose meant to be casual, but every motion is calculated.
“As you know, all of our donors are fully vetted,” she states.
“I’m aware.” I take a slow step closer.
“Then you’re also aware that this request is highly irregular.” Her hands fold atop the glass desk calmly. “Disclosing confidential donor information is a breach of protocol.”
I close the distance another foot. “The file. Now.”
Her lips twitch. “So commanding,” she murmurs, reaching for the tablet resting on her desk. “And to think I once found it charming.”
“You still do.” Not a question, a fact. Francesca Fox may be a ball-buster in public, but behind closed doors, she relishes in submission. Eager. Compliant. A dominant’s dream.
She laughs low in her throat as she picks up her tablet, the husky sound brushing the edges of memory. “Fair warning, you may not like what you find,” she mutters as her fingers flick against the screen. “Miss Holt’s records from foster care were sealed, it took considerable effort to obtain them. Difficult childhood. Orphaned at five, bounced through the system…”
I extend a hand in demand, curling my fingers impatiently. “The file, Fran.”
