Bite

Chapter 2 #2

“First,” she continues, flipping open the folder in front of her, “we’ll take a small blood sample to run a full panel.

Once we have your results, we’ll create your donor profile and you’ll be entered into our secure database.

From there, you’ll receive requests. Each one will include details about the client and the nature of the engagement.

You’ll always have the choice to accept or decline. ”

She takes the top page out of the folder and reaches out to place it in front of me, tapping a manicured fingernail against it. “This is your consent for the blood draw. Feel free to read it thoroughly.”

I pick it up with shaky hands and skim the page, signing before handing it back.

Francesca smiles as she slips the next packet from the folder and passes it to me. “This one is your intake form,” she supplies. “Medical history, lifestyle habits, physical preferences. The more complete your answers, the better your matches will be.”

I take it, flipping through the pages of questions that range from standard to invasive. I check boxes, scribble answers. I mark ‘no’ on drug use, ‘occasional’ on alcohol, and debate how honest to be about my mental health history before lying by omission.

When I finish and slide it back, she hands me another packet.

“This one is optional,” she says, her voice softening. “It’s for donors interested in offering extended services.”

I glance down at the words on the page and immediately freeze.

Sexual acts. Physical intimacy. Companionship. Kinks. Soft limits. Hard limits.

“Sexual acts?” I blurt, eyes wide.

“Entirely optional,” Francesca reiterates coolly. “But vampires are sensual creatures. Feeding is an inherently intimate experience for most, so we offer these services to meet those needs. Clients who prefer them are always willing to pay significantly more.”

“No,” I choke, pushing the form back toward her with a grimace. “Not interested.”

I refused to whore myself out to keep my last job, so I’m not about to do it to get this one.

She nods. Not offended, just efficient.

“That also includes companionship?” she inquires. “Some clients request conversation, company. Dinner, even. Just… time. Those types of engagements also have higher compensation, and clients often offer additional tips or gifts to their companions.”

I shake my head adamantly, recoiling at the thought of sitting through a dinner date with a vampire. “Just blood,” I croak.

“Very well,” she replies, lifting a tablet and tapping her fingertip against the screen. “You’re free to revise those preferences later, should you change your mind. Please scan this QR code with your phone to download our app.”

She flips the tablet around and I quickly pull out my phone, scanning the code and approving the download.

“How much does it pay?” I ask as I lower my phone to my lap, hoping I don’t sound half as desperate as I feel.

She cocks a brow. “Do you want a breakdown of our full range of services, or…”

“Just the blood,” I clarify.

“After our fee, your introductory rate will be three hundred per engagement, automatically transferred upon completion.”

My heart stutters a beat. Subtracting what Bex loaned me, that’s just three bites to make rent. It almost seems too easy.

A knock at the door interrupts us and a nurse swiftly enters the room, petite and neatly dressed, pushing a tray cart.

“This is Lucinda,” Francesca provides. “She’ll collect your blood sample.”

The nurse offers me a tight smile as she approaches with practiced calm.

I roll up my sleeve, fingers twitching as she goes through the motions of setting up everything she needs to draw my sample.

I try to look anywhere except at the needle, but I flinch anyway when it slips into my vein.

It doesn’t hurt that much, but still, I shiver.

If this little pinch is enough to rattle me, what the hell is it going to feel like when a vamp sinks their teeth into my neck?

Lucinda finishes in three minutes flat and disappears silently, Francesca standing and smoothing her already perfect jacket.

“Now we’ll move to the prep suite for your photographs. Nude or lingerie is standard, but it’s entirely your choice. We have wardrobe options available.”

I glance down at my worn jeans and pilled sweatshirt. “Can’t I just wear this?” I ask tentatively.

Francesca gives me a long, diplomatic once-over. “You can. But if you want engagement requests, I’d strongly recommend something more flattering.”

I wince and nod. Fair enough.

“Follow me,” she chirps, sweeping toward the door with the effortless glide of someone who’s always in control.

We step out into the hallway, and I swear it’s even brighter than the office.

The walls practically glow with clinical perfection, the floors reflecting the overhead lights like polished marble.

There’s no sound– no music, no voices, no footsteps except ours.

Just the steady hum of the air conditioning and the click of Francesca’s red-bottomed heels.

It feels like walking through a dream.

Or maybe a laboratory.

She stops in front of a door, pushing it open with a manicured hand and gesturing for me to step in. “This is our wardrobe suite.”

I blink into the room. When she said they had options available, it was a massive understatement.

The room is a full-on boutique, and not the cheap kind.

There are racks and shelves and drawers of lingerie, all color-coded and organized by size and style.

Lace, satin, silk, mesh, leather. Delicate garments in black and crimson, emerald and ivory, blush and midnight blue.

A gold-trimmed mirror leans against the far wall, and there’s a velvet sofa with tiny glass dishes of jewelry and accessories beside it.

The place looks like a high-end showroom crossed with a boudoir, and the air smells faintly of perfume– something floral and expensive.

Francesca waves me inside. “Choose whatever you feel most comfortable in, then head across the hall to hair and makeup. They’re expecting you.”

And just like that, she leaves, the door clicking quietly shut behind her.

Letting out a slow breath, I take a step deeper into the room, the carpet soft under my boots.

I trail my fingertips across a rack of hangers, each set more luxurious than the last, tags still attached.

Some of these pieces probably cost more than my rent.

Some of them look barely wearable– delicate whispers of fabric, sheer or cut so high or low they’re basically decoration.

Eventually, I settle on a simple black lace set. It’s elegant and sexy, with scalloped edges and a sculptured bra that promises support plus a bit of lift. I grab a silk robe from a hook on the wall– deep plum, buttery smooth– and set everything out on the sofa.

The moment I peel off my worn clothes and put on the lingerie, something in me shifts.

My body looks… different. Familiar, but not.

The bra hugs just right, the panties sit high on my hips and hug my curves like they were custom made for them.

I cinch the robe over it, relishing the feel of the silk against my skin.

I look… powerful. A little dangerous.

I try not to overthink that.

With one last glance in the mirror, I slip out of the suite and pad across the hall on bare feet.

Hair and makeup is a flurry of activity the moment I walk in.

A man and woman greet me like they’ve known me for years, chirpy and warm and fast-moving.

I barely manage to say hello before I’m ushered into a swivel chair and handed a bottle of water.

My robe is loosened, clips go in my hair, a brush sweeps foundation across my cheekbones.

They don’t ask questions. They just work.

Hot tools click to life. Brushes flutter over my face. Something cool rolls over my skin, then something warm. I just close my eyes and let it all happen, listening to their easy chatter, my pulse still ticking in my throat.

It’s oddly calming, and by the time they finish, I feel transformed.

One of them leads me over to a full-length mirror, and when I take in my reflection, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me.

I look incredible. Like someone else entirely.

My chestnut hair has been tamed into soft waves that cascade over my shoulders, glossy and perfect.

My olive skin glows, bronzed and dusted with something shimmery.

My lashes are full and dramatic, framing my large hazel eyes, and my plump lips look lush and confident, painted a deep maroon.

The robe clings to my waist like it was tailored just for me, the lingerie peeking through at all the right angles.

I don’t look like a hopeless girl who got fired from a diner yesterday.

I look like someone with secrets. Someone you’d pay for.

“You’re ready,” the makeup artist announces with a smile, stepping back.

I nod, heart thudding, and let them guide me down the hall to the studio.

The photography suite is minimalist like everything else– clean white backdrop, tall umbrella lights, a single camera on a tripod. A man in slim black clothes greets me with a warm smile and a practiced handshake.

“Daniel,” he introduces himself. “Let’s get a few test shots to start.”

He positions me on the white drop cloth, instructing me where to stand and how to angle my body. The lights strobe in bright, rhythmic bursts. I try to pose like I belong here, but it’s harder than it looks. My shoulders are too stiff, my expression too guarded.

“Chin down. Eyes up. Loosen your hands.”

I follow the instructions, but I still feel like an imposter.

Because I am.

Bex probably slayed this photoshoot, and here I am, fumbling through it like an amateur. Thankfully, Daniel doesn’t push too hard. He clicks a few more times, then lowers the camera with a nod.

“We’ve got what we need.”

I let out a breath, the knot in my chest unraveling.

He escorts me back to the wardrobe suite, where I peel off the lingerie and robe, folding them neatly before slipping back into my own clothes.

Except they feel different now. The fabric is coarse, the seams itchy.

Everything seems two sizes too small. It’s not just the texture, it’s the weight of it.

The way it tugs me back to who I was just an hour ago.

When I step into the hallway again, Francesca is already waiting, tablet in hand, suit still pristine. She doesn’t smile this time. She beams.

“Miss Holt,” she greets. “Your blood panel just came back. Excellent results. High hemoglobin, strong platelet count. Very desirable for our clientele.” She swipes across the tablet, then pulls something from her pocket that appears to be a slim, metallic bracelet. “May I?”

I extend my wrist and she clips it on with a quiet click.

“This contains your microchip, which allows clients access to your profile,” she explains.

“No personal data, only your demographics, blood type, and engagement preferences. It also allows us to track your location for pick-up and while on an engagement to ensure your safety, so please wear it at all times. We strongly encourage the use of an alias for confidentiality, so all that’s left is for you to choose a name. ”

“Okay,” I murmur, rubbing a thumb across the smooth band on my wrist. “Can I think about it?”

She gives a small shake of her head. “We encourage you to select one before your donor profile goes live so we can ensure confidentiality from the start. I’d be happy to suggest one with the auto-complete function, if you’d like?”

“Sure.”

She taps a few times on the tablet. “Claudia?”

I wrinkle my nose, shaking my head. I knew a Claudia once in grade school– she was a royal bitch that got the whole class to start calling me “Faylor” after I bombed a pop quiz.

A flicker of amusement crosses Francesca’s face. “How about…” she murmurs, tapping again. “Marilyn?”

I hesitate. It sounds… pretty. Almost glamorous.

“Yeah,” I agree. “That’s fine.”

“Very good,” she replies, locking it in.

“You’ll begin receiving encrypted messages through the app if a client requests you for an engagement.

You’ll see their profile and the details of the proposed engagement, including location, time, and type.

Most clients request engagements at their private residences.

You’ll have the option to accept or decline, and if you accept, a driver will be dispatched to your location to escort you to and from the engagement. ”

“And if I decline?” I challenge, arching a brow.

“Nothing happens,” she says simply. “There’s no obligation. But once you accept, you’re expected to follow through. Our agency has a reputation to uphold.”

“Right,” I breathe.

She gives me a final, assessing look, then gestures down the hallway. “That concludes your onboarding, Miss Holt. Welcome to Bite. We’re so pleased to have you in our ranks.”

I nod numbly before walking away on auto-pilot, passing through the gleaming halls, the silent elevator, and the polished lobby. The black car is waiting for me at the curb with the same driver, who gives me the same silent nod when I approach.

“Miss Holt!” a chipper voice calls, and I turn back to see the perky receptionist from upstairs trotting in my direction, stilettos clipping the pavement and a matte black shopping bag dangling from her hands. “You left this,” she says breathlessly as she approaches, holding the bag out to me.

I take it from her warily, peering inside and finding black lace and plum silk– the lingerie and robe from my photoshoot.

“Miss Fox said to consider it a welcome gift,” she adds, flashing me a bright smile.

“Um, okay,” I stammer, my fingers curling around the satin handles of the bag. “Thanks.”

She tips her head and spins around, strutting back toward the building. I turn back to the car and slide in, the driver closing my door before taking his place behind the wheel.

I stare at the dainty bracelet on my wrist as we pull away from the curb, heart hammering against my ribs.

What the hell did I just do?

The sleek town car glides through the city in the direction of my apartment like nothing’s changed, but I feel it. Something has shifted.

There’s a part of me that wants to scream. Another part that wants to laugh, or cry, or throw up.

And then there’s a quieter voice– one I hate myself for listening to– whispering that maybe this is the beginning of something exciting.

Because as much as I’m dreading that first message coming in…

A part of me is also eagerly waiting for it.