Page 34 of His to Haunt

Her face contorts, breaking into a smile. “Wait, what?”

“Nothing. I just don’t like Ritter. He’s a rapey asshole.”

“Oh my god, Leena, he didn’t—“

“No, it didn’t get that far, don’t worry.”

“Funny choice of her words, though, calling him a vampire. Turns out, that’s Silis’s kink. He wants to drink my blood. Now that’s a new one I haven’t done before. Maybe?”

“Kimmie, seriously? You are officially a lunatic. Those guys are both freaks. Shady. Into vampire stuff. Obviously Zand hates them.”

She raises a brow. “So you care about his opinion, then?”

I shrug at her. “What choice do I have? He’s my neighbor slash step relative.”

She nods at me. “Back to the boys. You said they’re both into vampire stuff. Ritter is into that, too?”

I shake my head, irritated. “I don’t know. He made a joke about it in the cab. Asked me if I knew the name for a person into blood.”

“Is there a name for that?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I say, sighing through the window.

“What is it, hon? You’re worried about Zand?”

“Well, yeah. I want to be on good terms with him, or my life here is going to be hell. I can’t get comfortable knowing the natural heir to this place wants me gone. I have no idea why Rachel didn’t put him in her will. She tried to cut him out. He doesn’t want me here, Kimmie.”

“So, you want to let him paint you to get on better terms?”

“No, but…it feels like my only shot at making him like me, as pathetic as that sounds. I feel like such a whore, and I’m not even naked yet. He said I can bring you along with.”

“You shouldn’t slut-shame women posing for art, Leena. It’s how the classics did it. When does he want you?”

“Now.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

The moon is out from the clouds, brightening the path through the garden as we head that way. I tune out Kimmie’s blabbering, trying to clear my mind. She wants to analyze the happenings of the evening and the oh-so-fascinating vampire fetishism of Ritter and Silas, theorizing what all that may entail.

But all I want to do is get this night over with so I can wake up and see sunlight, knowing that I’m one day closer to Monday, where I’ll be surrounded by clean, stiff office air, psychology books, and people who think clinically. At least for a few sane hours, that will be my reprieve.

I feel guilty for not having a great time with my best friend. It’s not her fault so much as it is this awful place. This place where Rachel lived and died. This strange town, which so far, seems to have only two classes of people: weird or dead.

“I can tell you’re fake listening,” confronts Kimmie as we exit the hedge maze on the other side.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

We cross the so-called boundary line, officially invited. We should be so lucky.

The minute we reach the door, it’s already open. Zand appears in a long-sleeved grey shirt, unbuttoned and exposing the light smattering of hair and defined chest and abs muscles. His shirt looks expensive yet flecked with paint. His dark jeans ride low on his hips. I consciously keep my eyes above his neckline.

“Come,” he rumbles. One word and it resonates like a dark lord’s command.

The vibe inside Zand’s carriage house is noticeably different than the main house. Where the mansion feels old, sleepy, and haunted, this space feels more alive. It has a weird energy but an energy nonetheless—that of a creative space, I suppose. It’s almost refreshing.

“Have a seat, a drink,” he says, motioning to the sitting area where there is a table before a brown leather sofa, wine glasses, and a bottle of blood-red wine. The black label is nearly blank, with a scroll of gold splashed over it.

---