Page 50 of Bite
“Of course.” She dips her head, passing me the tablet. Her fingers brush mine, lingering a beat too long.
I lower the device and begin scrolling under the weight of her scrutiny. Taylor’s background sprawls across the screen in reports and notes containing ugly scraps of a broken childhood. I don’t linger on any of those details. I’m not here for sentiment, only facts. Still, a few details catch my eye and my jaw tightens– not with pity, just recognition. Broken things bleed differently.
“I’ll also need her blood sample,” I murmur absently, still scrolling.
“We don’t have one.”
My gaze snaps up. Fran only shrugs.
“We draw just enough at intake for a basic panel. Nothing’s retained.”
My frown is immediate, irritation pricking sharp under my skin. The file was of passing interest, but the blood is what truly brought me here. Last night proved that whatever runs through Taylor’s veins isn’t rare to me alone. Lucien noticed, too.
I quickly navigate to the portion of Taylor’s file listing her previous engagements with the agency, bringing up her client list. Only three names are on it– mine, Lucien’s, and one other.
The name Sebastian Avalon sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Not that it matters. Lucien’s feedback form contains a rave review about Taylor’s blood being uniquely delicious, while Sebastian found her appearance more pleasing than the feed itself. Average marks for taste, texture, and overall palatability.
Interesting.
I made Lucien, so it’s possible that the anomaly is specifically linked to my line. But without a sample of her blood to test, there’s no way of confirming the connection.
“Surely you can collect your own sample since she’s living under your roof,” Francesca suggests with a casual shrug.
“Of course I can,” I mutter. My thumb flicks across the screen, sending myself a copy of Taylor’s file before shoving the tablet back toward Fran. “Delete her profile and scrub her from the database,” I instruct.
Her brows lift as she takes the tablet, not even bothering to hide her surprise this time. Bold of her to question me, though she’s one of the rare few who’d even dare. “That’s not–”
“Protocol?” I finish, pinning her with a glare. “Don’t insult me by quoting rules I wrote. Remember who signs your checks, Francesca.”
She goes still. Then, slowly, she inclines her head. “Of course, Mr. Devereaux” she breathes, tone smoothing out again. “Should we at least retain a copy of the contract?”
“No. Delete all of it. As far as this agency is concerned, Taylor Holt doesn’t exist.”
Her lips twitch with something sly, like she’s picked up on a tell I didn’t give. “If you planned to keep her, why bother with the contract at all?”
“Because humans are more compliant under the illusion of choice.” My gaze locks with hers, unblinking. “They need to think they’re free, or they panic. It’s cleaner this way.”
“You vamps and your mind games,” she sighs, rising to stand. Her heels click against the floor sharply as she circles the desk and approaches, her mask of professionalism slipping, hand brushing my sleeve. “You seem tense, James,” she purrs, voice low and silky.
We’ve done this dance before– blood, sex, power. Old habits I have no desire to reprise.
“You should really find something to take the edge off,” she continues, sweeping her dark hair over one shoulder and offering her throat. “Perhaps a drink?”
“You know I never drink from the same–” the words catch, the rest of that sentence not making it past my lips. Because it’s no longer true. For the past week, I’ve been feeding from the same throat, living on the same pulse. Indulging in the same blood– a flavor so distinctly rich that I’m certain I’ll never get enough of it. “I have a preferred source,” I amend, cool and precise.
Fran’s smile falters, but doesn’t fall completely. “Something else, then?” she suggests as she leans in, palm skimming my sleeve. Her fingers trail down my chest, moving toward my belt. “It’s been a while since we–”
My hand clamps around her throat before she can finish. I shove her back against the wall with a burst of speed, the thud of her back hitting the drywall echoing through the office. Her pulse jumps under my palm, hot and frantic, toes barely grazing the floor.
“Did I say you could touch me?” I growl, brandishing my fangs.
Most would quake in fear or beg for mercy, but not Fran. Her eyes blaze with delight, pulse thrumming in anticipation. She loves the knife-edge.
I tighten my grip until her breath stutters, reminding her how easy it would be for me to end her pathetic mortal existence.Still, there’s no fear in her expression– only raw, hungry excitement.
Disgust curls through me like ice. I abruptly release her, stepping back and smoothing the front of my blazer like nothing happened.
She rights herself with practiced grace, smoothing her skirt and reclaiming her composure in a single breath. “Apologies,” she mumbles, a faint flush crawling up her neck. She studies me for a long beat, then brazenly asks, “Whyher?”
