Page 83 of Bite
And despite myself, I ache for it. Forhim.
I can’t stop thinking about how he looked last night when he stopped by the library for a quick bite. Hungry, but with something wilder flickering underneath. Like hunger was just the excuse.
I press my palms flat against the skirt of my dress to steady myself, pushing down the ache that never really goes away. The wanting, the stupid hope that he’ll be the one to knock. That he’ll appear just to tell me that I look beautiful and he can’t wait to show me off.
The knock that comes is a polite, almost apologetic tap. One of the house staff pokes her head in, eyes lowered. “Mr. Devereaux’s guests have arrived, Miss Holt. They’re ready for you to join them in the North dining room.”
I force a smile that feels more like armor than expression. “Thank you. I’ll be right down.”
When the door clicks shut, I take one last look at the mirror. The woman staring back at me doesn’t look fragile anymore,just…tired. I square my shoulders, swipe a line of burgundy gloss across my lips, and slip into a pair of heels that match the dress. I have no way of knowing whether I’m over or under-dressed for this dinner, considering I had no guidance, but at least I look damn good.
Eat your heart out, James.
The halls are as quiet as a morgue, my footsteps echoing for what feels like miles. I pass the piano room and pause to peer in at the lonely instrument. I swear I can almost hear the ghost of the song James played for me filling the space– a little melancholic, a little lost, but hauntingly beautiful all the same. Tonight, my mood feels exactly like that tune sounded.
I force myself to keep moving, rounding the final corner and entering the dining room. The chandelier blazes at full incandescence, spilling honeyed light across the long table. James stands by the bar in the corner, his suit immaculate, pale hair styled with effortless precision. Devastatingly gorgeous, as always. My damn heart skips a beat at the sight of him pouring something amber into a rocks glass, chatting quietly with the man beside him.
I recognize Elliott Faulkner instantly– his face has graced enough glossy magazine covers to make him a household name.Timecalled him a visionary; a living legend credited with reshaping science itself over the last century. He’s nearly as tall as James, though that’s where the resemblance ends. James is composed elegance, while Dr. Faulkner is all coiled focus. He’s leaner, darker, radiating a kind of compact intensity. Even from across the room, I can sense the sharpness in him; the quick, measured glances from behind his black-framed glasses that miss nothing.
Perched on a velvet stool nearby is a girl who looks to be around my age. Lavender silk clings to her petite frame, a donor bracelet gleaming at her wrist as she tucks a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. There’s something familiar in the slump of her shoulders and the way her eyes dart around the room as the men speak. She doesn’t look uncomfortable, just…bored. Like she’d rather be anywhere else.
I have a split-second to absorb the scene before James turns, voice cutting clean through the tension. “Taylor. Perfect timing.” He holds out a hand, his smile so cordial it feels like a trap.
He’s not using my alias, which means Dr. Faulkner must be part of his inner circle. Only the staff ever use my real name, and I have no doubt they’re all bound by ironclad NDAs. The use of it in this context should feel comforting, but instead, it’s oddly unsettling.
I cross the room to join them, pulse ticking in my throat. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Not at all,” James says, taking my hand and drawing me into the circle. His grip is grounding and familiar, though not nearly enough to soothe the gnawing ache to be close to him. “Taylor Holt, meet Dr. Elliott Faulkner.”
“It’s a pleasure, Dr. Faulkner,” I manage as I extend a hand, still a little starstruck.
The doctor’s handshake is firm and chillingly efficient, eyes never quite meeting mine. “Likewise,” he murmurs, the tightness in his tone conveying the exact opposite. “Please, call me Elliott.”
“And this is his assistant, Anna,” James adds, gesturing toward the girl on the stool who offers a small, practiced smile.
Given the bracelet on her wrist, I’d assumed she was his donor. Being his assistant seems far more glamorous, even if blood’s part of the job description. Highly likely, considering everything in vampire society seems to revolve around blood.
“Hi,” she says softly, wiggling her fingers in a little wave.
“Hi,” I echo, feeling like we’re a couple of kids at some demented first day of school.
“Drink?” James asks.
Without waiting for my answer, he pours a second glass of the amber liquor and presses it into my hand. His fingers graze mine– just a whisper of contact, but enough to ignite a spark low in my belly.Dammit.I’m supposed to be angry, not aching, but it’s impossible when he looks like sin and smells like salvation. Every part of me wants to lean in, close the space between us, and pretend things are simple again.
Dr. Faulkner takes a sip of his own drink, then fixes me with a look that feels like I’m being studied under a microscope. His eyes are impossibly dark– irises nearly swallowed by his pupils, the black frames of his glasses only deepening the effect.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he mumbles, still avoiding direct eye contact. For someone so high-profile, I never would’ve expected him to be thisawkwardin person. “James has a notoriously discerning palate, so you must be something special.”
“Taylor is one of a kind,” James cuts in smoothly, looping an arm around my waist.
I take a sip of my drink like it might shield me from the attention, resisting the urge to sink into his touch.
Anna catches my eye, and for a second, I think I see sympathy there. Or maybe envy. Hard to tell with vampires, and even harder with the people they keep close.
James gestures toward the table, which is set for four with enough cut crystal and gold flatware to bankrupt a small country. “Shall we sit?” he asks.
We do. The chairs are oversized, the table almost comically large for such an intimate group. As soon as we’re seated, the house staff sweeps in, depositing artfully arranged plates of something masquerading as a salad in front of each setting. Wine is poured, red as blood. James and Elliott clink glasses; Anna and I follow suit.
