Page 50 of Blood Owed (Blood Mafia 1)
“Mateo the douche-nozzle isn’t ugly. Wonderful news.”
Grayson shakes his head, looking lost as to what to do with me. “You really shouldn’t say things like that. You’ve had an easy go so far. . . but we are vampires and Mateo won’t enjoy your taunting like I do.”
“Colt likes it too.”
Grayson nods. “Mateo won’t.”
“I don’t think I’m going to like him.”
“So you like us?”
I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t say that.”
The vampire lifts a shoulder, smirking at me as he says, “Close enough, tiger. Come on, I’m taking you to your new room.”
He proffers his hand. I stare at it, then slowly raise my eyes to meet his. He sees the look on my face and pulls the offending appendage back.
“Right, of course, this way.”
Grayson leadsme to the elevator and takes me down a few floors. We exit on level twenty-seven. There are less doors on this level. The rooms are much larger than the other floor.
He stops in front of room two thousand seven hundred and three. “Here we are.” Slipping a black key from his jeans pocket, he slides it into the door and the lock clicks open.
I follow him into the apartment, gawking at how opulent it is. There’s no carpet, instead the floor is covered in gorgeous cherry-red stained wood. A beautiful black chaise lounge is placed against one wall and a leather couch sits diagonally from it.
In between them is a low coffee table carved in the shape of a stack of books. The spines and covers are painted dark brown, but the pages are a pretty cream color which contrasts with the other colors in the room.
“Wow,” I say on a breath.
Grayson laughs. “Welcome home.”
“This isn’t my home. None of my stuff is here.”
“Check the bedroom.”
I eye him suspiciously before going down the hall. There on a soft, dark-burgundy rug is a stack of suitcases. “You brought my stuff.”
“Yup,” Grayson says, all too proud of himself.
“Why did you do that?”
He scrunches his brow. “Because you said you needed things. I gathered those supplies from your bathroom and the special underwear.”
“What am I, Mormon? Special underwear?”
“The frumpy ones you had in your dresser.”
I grit my teeth. “Frumpy?”
Holding his hands up to placate me, he says, “Don’t get angry. I even brought your stash of black licorice.”
Unclenching my jaw, I eye the bags with less hostility. “Really?” They were in the cabinet with my tampons. . . normally I hate black licorice, but when the estrogen is raging and my uterus feels like a punching bag, they hit the spot.
He nods. “I’m not sure I understand why you like them, but I thought they might help.”
I unzip the top suitcase, hunting for the candy. Now that I’m a willing participant in this shit-show that is my life with the Blood Mafia and my panic has slightly leveled out, my PMS has hit full force.
“They’re in the second bag.”
