Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
My phone buzzes against the edge of the bathroom sink, rattling the toothbrush holder. Bex’s name lights the screen, and I quickly answer the call and put it on speaker, grateful for the distraction.
“Hey,” I say, my voice still rough with sleep.
“How was it?” she asks excitedly, skipping right past greetings.
Yesterday, I swallowed my pride and told Bex I’d signed up at the agency. Not to hear her gloat with an ‘I told you so’, but because I was nervous as hell for my first engagement and needed someone to know what I was about to do.
Just in case I didn’t make it back.
“It was…” I hesitate, searching for the right word and coming up short. “Weird.”
“You’re gonna need to give me a little more than that, Tay,” she scoffs.
I sigh, leaning closer to the mirror and pulling my hair aside to get a better look at the puncture wounds on the side of my neck. “It wasn’t really what I expected,” I mumble.
“Okay, but what did you expect?” she presses. “Coffins and cloaks? Creepy candlelight and violin music?”
I snort a laugh. “Maybe? I don’t know, I’m just still… processing.”
There’s a pause on the other end, then a soft sigh. “Well, at least it’s fast money, right?”
“Right,” I echo, picking up the small tube of Rapi-Gen cream from my bathroom counter and twisting off the cap.
When I got dropped off last night, the driver handed me a sleek black box as a parting gift. Inside, I found the tube of Rapi-Gen and a note from Francesca: Apply generously after each engagement.
Rapi-Gen is a miracle drug that came to market a while back: a tissue-regeneration compound that closes minor wounds in a matter of hours, healing them completely.
Before last night, I’d only ever seen it in glossy magazine ads and TV commercials.
It’s ridiculously expensive– the kind of thing rich people use for papercuts, while the rest of us learn to live with our scars.
Having my own tube feels strange, like I’ve stolen something precious.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask,” I murmur as I gently dab the cream over the wounds on my neck, its coolness a strange contrast to the sting beneath my skin. “What services did you sign up for at Bite?”
Bex lets out a low laugh. “Are you gonna judge me if I tell you?”
“No,” I lie. I’m absolutely going to judge.
“I signed on for it all,” she replies breezily.
I blink. “All? Like, even–”
“The sex stuff?” she finishes, clearly amused. “Yeah, girl.”
I gape at the mirror. “Jesus, Bex.”
“Don’t be such a prude,” she laughs, completely cavalier. “And anyway, I haven’t fucked one yet, just a little oral. But damn, girl, his tongue… vamps know what they’re doing. The fact I got paid for it was just an added bonus.”
“You do realize that’s prostitution,” I say flatly.
“So’s letting them bite me,” she counters. “Either way, I’m for sale, so why not get a little something extra out of it for myself?”
I re-cap the tube of Rapi-Gen, frowning at myself in the mirror. She kinda has a point.
“And don’t act like you’re above it,” she scoffs. “You’re clearly thinking about it. You wouldn’t be asking me if you weren’t curious.”
I roll my eyes, but she’s right. I am curious. And that scares me more than anything else.
Glancing down at my phone, my eyes snag on the clock icon in the upper corner.
“Shit, I’ve gotta go,” I mutter, pulling open the mirror to place the tube of Rapi-Gen on the shelf in the medicine cabinet. “I’ve got my follow-up with Fran at nine.”
“Ooh, have fun with the robot,” Bex teases. “Call me later?”
“Will do,” I say before tapping the end call button, nerves already flaring to life in my stomach.
I swing the mirror closed, checking my reflection and sweeping my hair in front of my shoulders to cover up the bite mark on my neck. Then I swipe on some lip balm, grab my purse, and hustle downstairs to the black car already waiting for me at the curb.
They’re really spoiling me with all these free rides.
Fifteen minutes later, the perky receptionist at Bite is leading me down the hall to Francesca’s pristine office, where she greets me with that perfectly polished smile.
“Welcome back, Miss Holt,” she says smoothly, gesturing to the chair across her desk. “Please, have a seat. I’m eager to hear about your first engagement.”
I slowly lower myself onto the chair as she picks up a tablet, swiping at the screen.
“The client gave you an excellent review. He indicated you were polite, punctual, a touch reserved, but very palatable.”
I blink. “Palatable?”
“A compliment,” she says with a smile. “How do you feel? Any boundaries crossed? Anything that made you uncomfortable?”
My fingers drift up to the side of my neck, instinctively tracing over the bite mark. “The whole thing was kinda uncomfortable,” I murmur.
Her gaze drops to my neck. “I see you’ve been applying the Rapi-Gen.”
“Yeah,” I reply, letting my hand fall back to my lap.
“Good. We recommend application as soon as possible post-engagement. It helps with any tenderness and will also allow you to take engagements more frequently, as our clients prefer their donors with unmarked skin. You may also want to consider adding a regular iron supplement to your diet.”
“Sure,” I say with a tight nod.
“Do you have any questions, or any revisions you may want to make to your donor profile?” she asks coyly.
“Um…” I shift my weight on the chair, my stomach churning like it did last night on the way home. That strange mix of adrenaline, arousal, and shame I still haven’t made sense of.
Francesca leans a little closer, lips curving in a knowing smile.
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Miss Holt,” she says gently, sliding smoothly from businesswoman to confidante in seconds.
“Many of our donors are surprised to learn that feeding a vampire can be an enjoyable experience. It’s a biological response, nature’s way of ensuring the species’ survival.
Just like the enzymes in a vampire’s saliva cause blood vessels to constrict and encourage platelet plug formation, stopping blood flow, the venom in their fangs boosts dopamine and serotonin receptors in the brain. Enjoying a bite is completely natural.”
“It is?” I breathe, relief crashing through me like a wave.
She nods, sitting back and picking up her tablet.
She taps the screen a few times, then flips it toward me, showcasing a menu with a range of options.
“Additional services are categorized here, with various compensation tiers. Again, you can choose any level you feel comfortable with or decline entirely.”
I glance at the list ranging from ‘companionship’ to ‘soft touch’ to ‘full service’, each bracket promising a different pay scale. The highest tier catches my eye– five figures for a single engagement. Enough to keep the lights on for months.
That kind of money is temping. Ridiculously tempting.
Francesca watches me closely, picking up on where my gaze has homed in. “I should mention, our top-tier clients are exceptionally discreet, but as with any high-value arrangement, there are risks. Our safety protocols are stringent, but no system is infallible.”
My throat tightens as I jerk my head up to meet her gaze, and in it, I can see what she isn’t saying. Safety not guaranteed.
“Perhaps you’d be interested in something mid-tier?” she prompts, tapping a fingernail against the middle of the screen. “Many donors find it rewarding. Empowering, even.”
I shake my head, heart pounding at a chaotic rhythm.
I should’ve known better than to let myself be tempted. I may be broke, but I’m not suicidal.
Then again, every bite is a risk.
Why the hell did I let myself get involved in this?
“No,” I snap, suddenly on the defensive. “I’ll just stick with the blood.”
“Of course,” she replies with a bright smile. “If you change your mind, you can update your preferences at any time to suit your interests.”
I nod stiffly as she clicks the tablet off, setting it down on her desk.
“This initial follow-up is standard, but your future follow-ups will be monthly,” Francesca provides.
“Should you ever wish to schedule additional follow-ups, simply call the office. You’ll continue receiving engagement requests through the app, and after five successful engagements, you’ll qualify for a fee increase. ”
“Great,” I reply, feigning enthusiasm.
This whole thing was a mistake.
I only need to endure two more bites to get the money I need, and then I fully plan on deleting that damn app.
Fran rises to her feet, smoothing the front of her dress. “Thank you for coming in, and please, don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything.”
I stand, mumbling a quick thanks, and she escorts me to the door with her usual warmth– like we’re old friends instead of players in an underground blood economy.
My mind churns the whole drive home, and when I’m dropped off in front of my apartment building, I feel hollow inside.
The air is frigid, but I barely register the cold as the car drives away.
I just numbly stare up at the crumbling brick, wishing I could go back in time to the girl I was before I set myself on a crash course to my own demise.
A tiny sound cuts through the fog in my brain, pulling my attention in the direction of the alley. For a second, I think I imagined it, but then I hold my breath to listen and hear it again.
It’s soft, barely a squeak. A desperate mewl.
Following the sound around the side of the building, I step past the peeling brick and broken glass, finding nothing but the overflowing dumpsters. The smell hits first, but when I pause to listen, I hear it again– closer than before.
Stepping closer to the nearest dumpster, I crouch to peer behind the bin, scanning for any flicker of movement. My breath catches on a gasp when I see a set of gold eyes peering back at me.
It’s a kitten– tiny and trembling, huddled against the brick as if it’ll offer some warmth.
My heart twists.
“Hey,” I whisper, extending a hand toward the creature. “C’mere, little buddy.”
The kitten doesn’t budge. I edge closer anyway, stretching until my fingers brush against its coarse, matted fur.
It’s lighter than I expect when I scoop it up– just skin and bones wrapped in black fluff, a shivering weight that fits in my palm.
The weak sound it makes is more of a croak than a meow, but it doesn’t fight me when I tuck it under my coat and push to my feet.
I carry it inside and up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, fumbling to open the locks one-handed before shutting the door firmly behind us. My place is cold, dim, nothing special… but compared to the alley, it’s sanctuary.
I set the kitten down on the kitchen floor and pour some coffee creamer into a chipped mug.
The little thing dives right in, lapping noisily, tail twitching with renewed energy.
While it drinks, I rummage through the few canned goods I’ve got left in my cupboard until I find a forgotten can of tuna.
I crack it open, dump it on a plate, then stand back and watch as the kitten attacks the food like it hasn’t eaten in days.
I lean against the counter, arms folded, watching. I’ve been making reckless choices lately, going down a dangerous path and getting in too deep– but looking at this filthy, half-starved creature, I feel something thaw in my chest.
My apartment may be shitty, but at least it’s shelter. It may be chilly in here, but it’s warmer than outside. And I may not have much to offer, but what I do have, I can share.
I can give this helpless little thing safety; a fighting chance for survival.
And maybe that means I’m not as far gone as I thought.
I’m still human. Still me.
Or at least trying to be.