Page 41 of Bite
The words should comfort me, but instead, a whisper of fear coils in my gut. Because it’s far too easy to lose myself when I’m with him.
This is only the first night… and I’m terrified of how willingly I’ve already surrendered.
Chapter
Fourteen
The bed is too big.
That’s the first thought I have when I wake from the best sleep I’ve ever gotten in my life, the sheets spilling around me like I’ve drowned in silk and the mattress swallowing me whole. There are no uncomfortable futon bars to contort my body around, no too-thin blanket to pull tighter against myself while fighting the chill from drafty windows. Just softness, warmth, and silence.
Not city silence, either. The mansion hums with the kind of stillness that’s almost aggressive, devoid of even background noise. There are no neighbors yelling through paper-thin walls, no music bleeding from passing cars outside. No shouts from Bex for me to open up while pounding on my door at three in the morning. All I can hear is the faint tick of some unseen clock, as if the house itself is keeping track of my heartbeat.
I yawn and stretch, instinctively bracing to bump into a wall, but there’s only air around me. Well, that, and a tiny bundle of black fur curled up against my hip. The curtains are drawn tight, the room dark even though it has to be late morning or early afternoon. My body feels well-rested, but my mind’s already restless.
Memories of last night slowly seep back in like grains of sand through an hourglass. The bite, the feed. The humiliating way I practically begged James to touch me, and how my body reacted when he did. Sitting across from him at the dinner table afterward was painfully awkward, every scrap of small talk straining against the silence while I picked at the most ridiculously indulgent meal I’ve ever tasted. Then he muttered something about a conference call and disappeared, leaving me to stumble back to my room and drown in the confusion he’d left behind.
If I stay in bed replaying it all day, I’ll lose my damn mind.
Kicking off the covers, I drag myself upright, padding barefoot across the rug until the cold bite of the wood floor jolts me fully awake. The en-suite bathroom feels more like a spa, and I take a long, scalding shower that does little to wash away the thoughts still clinging to me. By the time I pull on leggings and a soft sweatshirt, finger-combing my damp hair, I’ve decided there’s no use in hiding. I might as well explore the mansion while I wait for the sun to go down and my vampire benefactor to emerge.
This place is massive. Wandering the halls feels like sneaking through a museum after hours, each step too loud, each glance too intrusive. Everything gleams– polished wood, heavy drapes, crystal fixtures that catch the light and scatter it like frozen rain. The portraits on the walls glare at me, strangers in old-fashioned clothes painted as if they’d rather bite me than smile.
Are they all vamps?
Was James ever one of these somber figures, dressed in antiquated finery and staring down from a gilded frame?
The thought of it makes my stomach knot. I don’t know his true age, and I can’t decide whether asking outright would be some grave breach of vampire etiquette. There’s so much I don’tknow about this world, and the more I learn, the more out of my depth I feel.
I don’t belong here. The house practically whispers it at me as I tiptoe through the hallways, but curiosity keeps me moving. I trail my fingers along the carved banister of the sweeping staircase, peek through open doors at studies and sitting rooms so immaculate they look staged. This place almost feels frozen in time; perfectly preserved rather than actually lived in.
Eventually, hunger wins out, and I make my way toward the kitchen, half expecting to be greeted by the same whirlwind of staff I saw yesterday. Instead, it’s empty. Chrome appliances gleam, white marble countertops shine, and the cabinetry probably cost more than my yearly rent at my old apartment. It’s a little much for a home belonging to someone who rarely eats actual food.
A sleek tablet waits on the island, a reminder of James’ instructions about ordering meals. I glance at it, then walk right on by. No way I’m bothering a team of chefs when I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.
I half expect one of them to materialize and swat me away from touching anything, but the room remains silent and empty as I pull open the refrigerator. Of course, it’s fully stocked. Every shelf is crammed with fresh produce, cheeses wrapped like gifts, and jars arranged in precise little rows. It’s the kind of fridge you’d expect to see in commercials, not real life.
Shaking my head, I snag some cheese and turkey, then fish a loaf of bread from a wooden box on the counter. A sandwich feels almost rebellious here, but simple seems safest. With my luck, I’d pick the one ingredient that ruins some five-course masterpiece the chefs had planned.
Back home, my knives could barely cut through a tomato without squishing it flat, but the one I pull from the block on thecounter is razor sharp. It glints menacingly under the lights as I shift it to one hand while fumbling the bread with the other.
That’s when Ozzy chooses to make his grand entrance. He launches onto the counter with a triumphant meow, chest puffed out and tail twitching.
“Jesus, Oz!” I yelp, jerking back. The knife slips, pain slicing across my index finger. “Shit!” I hiss, dropping the blade with a metallic clatter.
Blood wells instantly, bright against my skin. I shove my finger into my mouth, eyes darting around for a paper towel. Not finding one, I turn… and freeze.
James’ imposing figure fills the doorway– pale hair disheveled, broad chest bare, dark sweatpants riding low on his hips. Those silvery blue eyes lock on me with a sharpness that steals my breath, and my own betray me, dropping to skim the ridges of muscle, the ladder of his abs, the monochromatic ink adorning his skin.
He looks unreal, like someone carved him out of marble as a gorgeous work of art. My brain short-circuits, my pulse flatlines, and all I can do is stare.
“What happened?” His voice cracks across the room like a whip, sharp enough to snap me back into my body.
I ease my finger from my mouth, blinking at him. “You’re…up?”
One brow arches. “Contrary to popular belief, we don’t combust in sunlight.” His gaze flicks to my hand, and I swear the temperature in the room drops. “Before humans knew of our existence, we used the cover of night to hunt,” he says calmly as he begins crossing the room to me, each step raising the hairs on my arms. “Now, many of us remain nocturnal out of habit.” He stops in front of me and tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Honestly, do you know nothing about vampires at all?”
Ozzy hisses from the counter, puffing up like he’s ready to take James on. His tiny claws scrabble against the marble, his bravado almost laughable… if I wasn’t so rattled, that is.
