Page 3 of Watch Me Turn
“I understand,” I say, summoning the most serious voice I have.
He punches in a code, sending a series of high-pitched beeps echoing down the hall. He looks back over his shoulder at me. “This thing is set on a timer for your safety, so once it’s closed, no code will unlock it. But in exactly two hundred forty hours this door will open, and my men will be waiting. If all is well, we will release the final payment, and you will be free to go.”
I crane my neck for a closer look. “Are you sure all this is necessary?” I say, eyeing the thick steel door. “I might look young, but I can handle myself just fine when there’s trouble.”
He spins the huge handle, and the steel entrance heaves open with a deep groan. “Mr. Ruiz is going to be the most wanted man in the world in a few hours. Trust me. This is the safest place for him. And by extension, for you.”
I laugh nervously. “No pressure, then?”
Julian doesn’t return the laugh. “He will become vampire, and he will do so under your protection. Failure is not an option. Trust me, Miss Vijil. You don’t want to fail. The consequences will be severe.”
I swallow. “Got it.”
I take out the balaclava from my pocket and pull it down over my thick curls so it covers my face.
“That’s hardly necessary,” Julian sneers.
I shrug. “It’s just a precaution.”
I peer through the crack in the door and make out the corner of a bed, a glimpse of a foot, the soft warm lighting. The realization that I’m going to be trapped in this little room with a man I know barely anything about sends a chill down my spine.
“Who is this guy?” I whisper.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
The door sealsbehind me with a sound like a tomb closing. A deep, mechanical grinding followed by the definitive click of electronic locks engaging. I press my palm against the cold steel and push, just to confirm what I already know. Nothing. Not even the slightest give.
Two hundred and forty hours. Ten days. I’m well and truly trapped.
I turn around and take in my gilded prison, letting out a low whistle. Julian wasn’t kidding about this place being built for someone important. The space is bigger than I expected and very different from the warehouse upstairs. You’d never know that a thousand square feet of pure luxury carved out of concrete and steel lay beneath the surface. Marble surfaces, herringbone floors, sandstone walls and wood paneling. A soft amber lighting emanates from hidden fixtures, casting everything in a warm glow that’s easy on vampire eyes.
One whole wall is taken up by an enormous built-in closet, dark mahogany with brass fixtures. The contents are overwhelmingly male: suits organized by season, shirts still in dry-cleaning wrap, cashmere in every neutral shade, shoes on individual stands. In the far corner, four black dresses and matching heels occupy a single section, looking stranded in a sea of menswear.
Someone put a lot of thought into building this place. It’s not a shitty prison cobbled together by an opportunist. It’s a purpose-built sanctuary designed to keep a very particular kind of prisoner comfortable while they undergo transformation. The kind of prisoner who’s used to the finer things in life.
It must have taken months.
Months of watching, patience, planning. Waiting for the perfect time to strike. I wonder if this poor bastard knew. Did he feel it? The sense that his time was running out? That someone was after him and would stop at nothing to get him and turn him?
A groan from the ornate wrought-iron bed at the center of the room interrupts me, and I’m drawn to the warm body cuffed to the looping metal.
He’s awake.
He tracks my every movement with the kind of predatory intensity that makes the hair on my arms stand up. He’s pretty as hell. A heart-shaped face, dark eyes and full lips, but he’s not inviting me in. His very being is darkness. A threatening aura warning me to keep my distance. Globs of fever sweat pool on his olive skin and cling to his jet-black hair, causing it to curl across his forehead in damp strands.
But those eyes...
“You’re not what I expected,” he says coldly.
“Yeah? What were you expecting?” I ask, setting my backpack down on the couch and kicking my feet up on the mahogany coffee table.
“Someone older.”
I smile, letting a hint of fang show. “Looks can be deceiving. I’m a lot more dangerous than I look.”
“So am I,” he warns. “Remember that.”
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