Page 8 of The Biting Bargain

I snort. "So I can bite you better."

Terrific, now I sound like the wolf in a fairy tale, about to devour your unsuspecting Little Red Riding Hood.

"But the onboarding email says that your kind would prefer the carotid artery..."

She falls silent, her green eyes wide, and for the first time since our brief interaction, she looks almost frightened. I'm on the verge of rolling my eyes. This is a waste of time. I need to get out of here.

"I would have thought you'd want to bite my neck," she mutters, hiding her hands under her thighs, palms facing down.

"I never drink from the neck," I reply curtly.

"Oh." She turns even paler around the nose and bites her lower lip. This doesn't make things any better, because her lower lip is like a ripe cherry that only looks plumper as her incisor presses in.

"Is that a problem?" I ask, sharper than I intended. She winces, shaking her head.

"No, of course not."

"Then give me your arm," I repeat. "Please."

She's still fidgeting, and I'm about to ask what her damn problem is, and if she shouldn't get another bullshit job instead of wasting my time any further, when she reluctantly holds out her left arm.

"No questions," she mutters, rolling up her sleeve.

I frown, narrowing my eyes when I see what the fabric uncovers, and I hardly suppress another growl.

Her delicate forearm is covered in bruises. They must be a few days old, slowly turning all shades of green and purple, covering her skin like a violent tattoo. Cold anger flashes through me and I grab her hand, pull her closer.

"Who did this?" I bite out.

"You promised. No questions," she protests.

"I didn't promise anything. The other arm?"

She glares at me, withdrawing her hand and rolling up her right sleeve as well. The same violent sight: dark purple stains speckle her skin, ruining its perfection.

"Who did this?" I repeat, because it's glaringly clear that she didn't get the bruises by doing yoga. The marks show the typical pattern of fleshy hands gripping and holding with force. Someone did this to her. A disgusting relative? A boyfriend? I suddenly feel an urgent need to slit his throat with a scalpel.

"That's none of your business," she says coolly, rolling her sleeves back down.

I glare back, but have to admit she is right. It is none of my business what lowlifes she associates herself with. Still I have to fight down that violent urge to hurt who did this to her.

"That's not the point," I hiss, the rumbling in my chest growing fiercer. "Hematomas affect extraction. Decrease the quality of blood."

She blinks. "What?"

"This isn't going to work," I say, averting my gaze and fighting down that strange, dark rage.

Honestly I have no idea if bruises affect me biting her and drinking her blood in any way. Most likely I wouldn’t be able to tell any difference. But that alarming tingle grows stronger by the minute, warning me that this girl is indeed dangerous.

Focus, moron. It's none of my business. I should be more upset that Club Sanguine's quality management seems to be slipping. How could they overlook something like this?

"What won't work?" Her face falls in something like horror and disappointment and I almost feel sorry for her. Which is completely absurd. There’s no reason to. I shouldn't care at all what she does or says. I didn't even know she existed until a few minutes ago.

And I almost wish I still didn’t.

"If I can't bite your arm, we're not doing business," I say, rising to my feet and smoothing out my cuffs. She turns even paler around her freckles.

I need to get out of here. I need blood, yes, but not that badly. I can quench my thirst elsewhere. Aidan will provide another suitable substitute. But just as I turn to leave — something stops me.

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