Page 51 of Bite
It’s a question I shouldn’t dignify with a response, but curiosity can be dangerous.
“She’s uniquely palatable,” I say flatly.
Fran tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “It’s more than that.”
I close the distance between us in a blink. “Careful,” I warn, voice dropping an octave. “You’re a damn good employee, but everyone is replaceable.”
The light in her eyes dims and she bows her head in deference. She’s been around long enough to know I mean it.
I turn and leave her office without another word, striding down the hallway and passing through the lobby. The receptionist shrinks back into her chair as I call the elevator, riding it down to the ground floor and exiting the building. The car pulls up before I can even make it to the curb and I slide into the back seat, sealing out the sun’s offensive rays.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asks.
“The estate.”
As we pull away, I slip my phone from my pocket and bring up Taylor’s file on the screen. Her intake picture looks up at me– so innocent, so unassuming. I still remember the first time I saw it, my initial thought being that the image fails to capture the true depth of her beauty. Gorgeous bone structure, plump lips. Wide, angelic eyes. There’s something more behind them that speaks of her past, the fight in her– a flicker ofsomething defiant and guarded, even in a photograph. Normally I’d find that kind of thing irritating, but with her, it’s intriguing. Something beyond her blood that draws me in and makes the whole package impossible to ignore.
I scroll past her photo, the fractured record of her life unspooling beneath my thumb. Foster homes. Sealed files. Trauma etched into the bones of her existence going so far back she probably doesn’t even remember it.
Humans.So fragile, so simple, their lives pathetically short. Yet her blood burns brighter than all the rest.
And I intend to find out why.
Chapter
Seventeen
TAYLOR
Inever imagined I’d become a kept woman, much less the kind that lives in a castle, has an entire staff at her disposal, and lacks any real-life responsibilities. My days no longer revolve around covering rent and scraping up enough extra cash to afford groceries. There are no double shifts, no graveyard closings, no rotating cast of asshole managers waiting to replace me at a moment’s notice. Just me, my little dumpster kitten, and the lap of luxury we’ve fallen into.
I know it can’t last. Nothing good in my life ever does. So, I’m just savoring every moment while I can, hoping like hell that I’ll come out on the other side of this whole ordeal still breathing.
James made a rare appearance during daylight hours earlier to inform me we’d be entertaining guests on the estate tonight. He didn’t provide any additional details, just dropped that vague little nugget of information before promptly returning to his coffin or wherever the hell he sleeps. I then had the pleasure of spending the entire day overthinking what he meant by ‘entertaining guests’ and dreading whatever strange sort of vampire gathering I’m in for tonight.
Though if it ends anything like last night’s event, you definitely won’t hear me complain.
There was no evening gown delivery this afternoon, no team of stylists ready to primp and polish me within an inch of my life. So, my best guess is that a few friends of his are coming over for dinner or cocktails; some low-key type of gathering that’ll involve me keeping my head down for a few hours while James rubs elbows with other rich vamps.
Once the sun goes down, I lazily flop between the bed and the armchair in my room for entirely too long, making zero progress toward being presentable. Only when Ozzy leaps onto the vanity and bats my makeup bag onto the floor do I finally give in and start my get-ready routine, molding myself into the type of woman that looks like she belongs on the arm of a vampire king.
I spend considerable time choosing a dress from my closet– classic black, stretchy in a way that hugs every inch of my body and practically screams ‘please objectify me’. It isn’t slutty, exactly, but there’s a definiteold money, young mistressenergy, especially when paired with red-bottom pumps and red lipstick. I even attempt to recreate the smoky eye effect the glam squad gave me, though my own version pales in comparison to their practiced expertise. My hair gets the least amount of effort– dried, raked through with a wide-toothed comb, then tucked into a low bun at the nape of my neck. Simple, elegant, passably chic.
When I finally emerge from my room, the mansion is quieter than usual, which I take as a good sign. If there was some kind of full-scale soiree planned, the place would be swarming with staff and noise. Instead, it’s just me and the echo of my heels on the marble, accompanied by a faint, unfamiliar thump of bass echoing from somewhere deep in the house.
As I follow the sound, I realize how little of this place I’ve actually explored. Sure, I’ve poked around here and there, but I’ve been too chicken shit to wander far from the main areas. I pass open doors to rooms whose purpose I can only guess at,many of them museum-like and untouched. I’m driven forward by the music, hoping that whatever’s waiting at the end of the hall will be less terrifying than my own imagination.
I’m wrong.
The source of the sound lurks behind a heavy set of double doors, and when I push inside, I find a room I’ve never seen before– a space so decadent and over-the-top that it takes me a second to process what’s happening inside.
At first glance, it appears to be some sort of lounge. Plush, jewel-toned sofas are arranged in a loose ring, and there’s a bar at the far end manned by someone who looks barely old enough to pour alcohol. The lighting is low, punctuated by the flicker of dozens of candles set into crystal candelabras, the air sweet with the smell of incense.
Then my eyes adjust, and I realize this room isso much morethan a simple lounge.
The furniture is arranged around a massive bed set like a stage in the center, king-sized and heaped with cushions. The ‘guests’ that fill the room aren’t just lounging– they’re sprawled out in various states of undress, sipping drinks from glasses and blood from veins, limbs draped lazily over one another’s.
Two women are curled together on a velvet chaise, fingers intertwined, one pressing soft kisses to the other’s collarbone. Another pair– a man and a woman, both impossibly beautiful– are locked in a slow, languid makeout session, the woman straddling his lap and grinding against him with a dreamy, absentminded intensity.
