Page 53 of Blood Owed (Blood Mafia 1)
Grayson’s lips twitch. “Expecting company?”
I glare and sit opposite him. “I thought your fearless leader might be waiting for me, but alas, he’s still too much of a chickenshit to show his face.”
“Will seeing him change anything?”
His question makes me pause and think about why I’m angry. Putting a face to the person responsible for my kidnapping won’t lessen my rage. If anything, it’s likely to piss me off more. Especially if he’s as handsome as Colt and Grayson.
Why do the hot ones always come with baggage?
“No,” I finally grumble.
A waitress quietly enters the room. She places two menus on the table. Mine has a black backing while Grayson’s has a dark red covering.
It isn’t hard to figure out why.
She fills up our waters, avoiding all eye contact, and asks if we’d like wine.
Grayson says no the same time I say yes. He says no again, and the woman leaves.
“I wanted wine.”
He looks up from his menu. “In time, Demi.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not your prisoner anymore.”
“No, you’re not. You can drink wine once you’ve had more than licorice to eat.”
Seething at his response, I press my mouth into a thin line and wait for the waitress to return. I already know what I want, the Bolognese.
Grayson closes his menu and taps his finger on it. “I’m not trying to make you mad.”
“You are.”
“Demi—”
The waitress returns. “What can I get you, ma’am?” she prompts, all the while staring at her pad of paper like her life depends on it.
“The Bolognese, please.”
She scribbles on her pad. “For you, sir?”
“The ribeye, rare, and a blood tonic.”
Blood infused drinks aren’t new to me. Vampires started their own blood clinics a long time ago, paying people for their blood like the plasma clinics do. Humans of all backgrounds frequent the clinics. The blood obtained is sold by the bottle. I’ve seen it used for mixed drinks, dressing on salad, or taken like shots.
“You don’t drink from the vein?”
Grayson sips his water.
Vampires don’t need water or food to survive, but human habits stick for those that were turned. Natural born vampires—those birthed by vampire parents—don’t usually bother with eating food since all they’ve ever known is blood.
“Depends on my mood. I don’t like using feeders very often, and I’m too lazy to find a willing participant.”
I nod and let out a soft huff of air. “Does it matter who it comes from? Who cares as long as it’s blood, right?”
He wrinkles his nose. “It matters very much who and what it comes from. Animal blood is distinctly bland. Human blood is preferable, but each unique strain of DNA has its own flavor notes. Like wine.”
“What do I taste like?”
