Page 29 of The Biting Bargain

"Sorry, I stumbled," I grit out. He assesses me with sharp, cold eyes, and before I can so much as draw breath to apologize for destroying his pricey possessions, he is right in front of me. I can’t even blink. One second he’s there, several steps ahead of me, the next he’s crowding me. And then I give a yelp, because he swoops me up in his arms.

"What are you doing?" I sputter, hanging in his arms like a damaged seabird, legs dangling in the air and my hands clawing at his pressed shirt. I thank my lucky stars I'm wearing jeans today, and not another super-short skirt riding up my ass, when his coffee-black glare hits me, and everything in my head goes silent.

I barely dare to breathe as he starts moving again, carrying me down the hall.

"I can walk on my own," I bring out eventually, mortified that he's carrying me like a fucking princess, overwhelmed at how close he is, and marveling that he can just lift me up like I weigh nothing.

"Clearly not," he growls, turning into another hallway that is just as vast. How huge is this house, anyway?

I feel even more uncomfortable. He may be an arrogant fop, but it's basically my fault that we're in this situation. It's my fault he's turning into a werewolf again. It's my fault he's stuck with me. It's my fault that his bust of his favorite great-uncle — at least that's my guess — is in a thousand pieces on the floor, and it'll be my fault when he dislocates his back carrying me around.

Whereas, the hard steel of his arm muscles that I feel under the fabric of his shirt indicates he’ll have no problems in this department. He's a vampire, I shouldn’t forget that. And vampires are super strong and ferocious fighters. Once upon an ancient time they hunted humans for their blood. In a direct confrontation I'd have a survival rate of a frog on the highway at rush hour.

Vincent stops in front of a large, black double door and kicks it open. He carries me in and I stare at the dripping luxury filling the room. The colors are dark blacks and purples, as in the rest of the house. The room is dominated by a sprawling, queen-sized bed with four gigantic posts made of black ebony. The towering windows are also completely covered with black velvet curtains that drip from the ceiling like waterfalls of licorice.

"What..." I bring out, swallowing on the rest as he sets me down on the bed more or less gently. For a panicky second, I'm sure he's about to pounce on me, and I stare at him like a deer in the headlight, heart hammering in my throat. He gives a disparaging hiss, as if he's guessed my thoughts all too well, and then kneels in front of me.

"What...are you doing?" I ask, as he tampers with my sneaker.

"You hurt your foot," he says simply. I wince at the short pain flaring up as he pulls off my shoe with a gentle movement. "Are you always this clumsy?"

"Only when I’m crowded by mafia thugs."

That has him huff and I don’t know if it’s a stifled laugh or another sound of disparage. Vincent cradles my foot in his large hands and I hold my breath as he bends it back and forth, so carefully as if he’s afraid he might crush it. I bite my teeth while the pain subsides into a dull throb.

"Does anything else hurt?" he asks, surveying my foot as if he knows what he's doing.

"Are you a doctor or something?"

He shakes his head, lightly pushing against my heel, and I'm really, really glad I did a little pedi yesterday, and even more glad I’m not wearing a skirt. We’re way too close for comfort. My stomach is doing that telltale flip-flop thing every time his gaze hits me. It really doesn't help that now he's holding my foot and calf in his big hands, gently examining them as if it wasn’t my clumsy giant foot that steps on everything, but a rare treasure to be handled with care.

"I know enough about human anatomy." He looks up and my throat tightens. He really should watch where he's aiming with that gaze.

"There's really no need," I groan out and pull my foot away, shifting a bit from him on the bed. "I could have walked on my own. And you don't have to pretend to care about my wellbeing, either."

His mouth twitches.

"You haven’t figured it out, little dove, have you?" He crouches in front of the bed, sizing me up with that cold, calculating look.

"Figured out what?"

"You consented to be my companion."

I nod.

"That means for the duration of this little social experiment, you're mine." There' s no expression on his face, he doesn't even blink. "And I don't like it when my possessions are damaged."

A shiver runs down my spine as he says that.

"I'm not your property," I snort. But I can’t deny it’s not an unpleasant shiver. Quite the opposite.

His mouth twists into a smirk. "Believe me, I didn't intend for things to turn out this way, but you consented. And since you're keeping my curse in check, you and I are going to be spending a looong time together. So you better get used to me being in charge."

The first rule of Club Sanguine pops to my mind again. The master is in charge. Always. And with a sinking feeling, it slowly dawns on me what I've actually gotten myself into.

I swallow, my throat dry, trying to squash down some unpleasantly pleasant shivers blooming on my back.

Don’t you get any ideas, Polly.

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