Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
Twelve hours ago, I was sitting in an opulent mansion, dressed to the nines and sipping whiskey from a crystal glass while letting a vampire king bite me.
Now, my feet are aching in my cheap flats as I trudge up the stairs to my crappy little apartment after yet another failed job search.
My resume folder is creased from being shoved in and out of my bag so many times, and the pit in my stomach is even heavier than when I left this morning, dragging my mood down with it.
Every manager I spoke with wore the same brittle smile, delivering the same polite line that promised they’d ‘be in touch’.
They definitely won’t be, but it’s fine.
Rent’s paid– the overdue balance, plus next month’s– and I’ve still got time to find a job that doesn’t involve fangs and blood.
There must be some employer in this city desperate enough to take a chance on me, so I’ll just have to keep at it until I find them.
By the time I fumble with all three locks and shove my apartment door open, I’ve almost talked myself into believing that the perfect opportunity is still out there waiting.
The kitten trots out to greet me with an excited meow, tail high and golden eyes wide.
He’s tiny, unassuming, and yet his presence is somehow so damn grounding; a much-needed anchor amid the chaos of my life.
“No luck, buddy,” I sigh as I scoop him up, pressing my face into his warm fur before sidestepping to drop my bag on the futon.
My shoulders slump as I sink down beside it, prepared to wallow in my latest failure for at least ten minutes before I’ll have to suck it up and start brainstorming my next move.
My phone buzzes violently in my pocket, rudely interrupting the self-pity spiral I’ve just started down. I curse under my breath as I yank it out, glancing at the screen.
My spine goes rigid when I read the name displayed on the caller ID, stomach instantly knotting. It’s Steele Holdings calling– a.k.a. Bite’s downtown office.
I hesitate a second too long, pulse picking up speed. My fingers tremble as I click the button to answer, bringing the phone to my ear with a choked, “Hello?”
“Miss Holt,” Francesca’s voice greets, tone smooth and crisp as always. “Are you available to come in today? There’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you in person.”
“Um, yeah,” I manage, heart pounding harder. “Now?”
“The sooner, the better,” she replies coolly.
“Okay, sure,” I breathe, shifting the kitten off my lap and plopping him down on the futon beside me. “I can be ready in… twenty minutes or so?”
“I’ll send a car.”
The line disconnects and I lower my phone in a daze, mind racing a mile a minute.
Am I in trouble? Did I do something wrong last night?
James seemed perfectly satisfied when I left, but the rules of this whole blood business are still a little hazy to me. It’s entirely possible that I violated some unspoken donor etiquette by getting little too into it when he bit me– which would be mortifying, but not the end of the world.
Or maybe it was something I did at the gala. A few vamps propositioned me for feedings after James, but I wasn’t in the right headspace to get bitten again. Perhaps they perceived my refusal as an insult, or maybe I was expected to fulfill more than one request throughout the evening.
Why do I feel like I’m being called into the principal’s office?
Opening up my messages, I fire off a text to Bex.
Just got called in by Fran. If I don’t make it back, please feed my cat.
Bex
You got a cat?
I snap a quick photo of the tiny black furball, sending it on.
He still needs a name. Open to suggestions.
A slew of messages floods in immediately, name suggestions piling up faster than I can read them.
Thor
Onyx
Salem
Black Panther
The absurdity makes me chuckle despite the knot of nerves forming in my stomach.
It’s easier to laugh than to admit I’m already rattled.
My phone continues vibrating against the coffee table long after I toss it down onto the wooden surface, the constant hum becoming the world’s most annoying soundtrack while I rush to get ready.
I manage to change my clothes, sweep my hair up into a neat ponytail, and swipe on some lip balm before meeting the black car at the curb in front of my apartment. When I slide into the back seat, my heart’s beating a riot in my chest, hands already fidgeting in my lap as we start toward downtown.
I still don’t have a clue what this meeting could be about.
I haven’t requested a profile update, haven’t failed to appear for any engagements.
I’ve followed every one of Bite’s rules to the letter– mostly because I’ve been terrified not to– and all the feedback I’ve received thus far has been positive.
As the city blurs by, I rack my brain for some logical explanation for being called in on such short notice, but I keep coming up blank.
By the time the car pulls up in front of the shiny office building, my anxiety is at an all-time high. My palms are sweaty, my pulse is racing, and on the elevator ride up, I struggle to fight the wave of nausea that rolls through me.
When the elevator doors slide open into the gleaming lobby of Bite, the receptionist greets me by name, her smile polite and her expression impassive. She leads me straight back to Francesca’s office, the woman herself waiting patiently behind her immaculate glass desk.
“Miss Holt,” she greets brightly, looking as pressed and professional as ever in a tailored gray suit. She doesn’t rise when I enter, just gestures smoothly to the chair across from her as the receptionist closes the door to seal us inside. “Thank you so much for coming in on such short notice.”
I lower myself into the seat nervously, crossing one denim-clad leg over the other. “Is… something wrong?” I ask, voice wavering.
“Not at all,” Fran reassures, folding her hands atop a thick manilla folder on her desk. “It seems you’ve made quite the impression on our clientele.”
I blink, heart stuttering a beat. “I have?”
She dips her chin in a nod, lips spreading into a warm smile. “Yes. On one client in particular.” Flipping the folder open, she slides it across the desk toward me.
I glance down at the neat stack of paper inside, Proposed Contract printed in elegant serif font on the top page of Bite letterhead.
“What’s this?” I ask warily.
“Mr. Devereaux has submitted a request for an exclusive donor arrangement,” she supplies.
My eyes ping up to meet hers, mouth running dry. “Exclusive?”
She nods again. “Yes. He’s requesting that you become his personal donor for a one-year term. If you accept, you’d be removed from our general donor pool and bound to Mr. Devereaux exclusively. You’d reside at his estate for the duration of your contract.”
I stare at her, brain short-circuiting. “He wants me to live there?”
“It’s quite standard for arrangements of this nature,” she replies smoothly, drumming her perfectly manicured fingernails against the glass desktop.
“Our elite clients often prefer on-site accessibility for both convenience and discretion. Of course, your safety remains our top priority, and Mr. Devereaux has assured us that you’ll be well taken care of while in his custody. ”
I shake my head slowly, as if moving my skull will help make the words sink in more clearly. “But… why?” I ask, blinking. “Why me?”
She smiles faintly, though it doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “You’ll have to ask him yourself. I can only speculate.”
I blow out a shaky breath as I look back down at the contract, heart beating out of rhythm while I start thumbing through it. There are pages– pages– of clauses. Feeding requirements. Boundaries. Discretion policies. Legal indemnity. It’s overwhelming just to skim.
“Is this… normal?” I ask quietly, glancing back up at Fran.
“More common than you’d think,” she replies.
“Many of our most successful donors have gone this route. Some for years. The compensation tends to be quite persuasive.” She reaches forward, flipping to the final page of the contract and tapping the line at the bottom with the tip of a fingernail.
“This would be your payout at the conclusion of the contract, after our administrative fee.”
I lean forward to read the number and nearly fall out of my chair.
“Wait,” I choke, blinking hard. “That’s… that’s real? That’s how much I’d make?”
Francesca nods, perfectly composed. “Yes.”
I try to speak again, but it comes out as a strangled sound of disbelief.
Half a million dollars.
That kind of money would change my life. I could buy a car, a little house, be set for life. I could finally stop clawing my way out of my survival mode and just… breathe for a change. Maybe even live a little.
Francesca watches me calmly for a beat, then flips to another section of the contract.
“However,” she says delicately, “there are elements of the arrangement that fall beyond your current contract purview.”
“What do you mean?” I whisper, gut twisting.
She nods down at the contract, my gaze dropping to the page. The title reads: Secondary Services– Physical Intimacy Addendum.
My mouth goes dry again. The page is filled with lined columns and checkboxes listing every imaginable fantasy and fetish, every type of pleasure and pain.
Some are familiar, some I’ve never done, and some I’ve never even thought about doing.
Many of them are checked. A few are highlighted. All part of the deal.
Francesca clears her throat. “Mr. Devereaux stipulated that this portion of the contract is required, but the specifics are somewhat negotiable.”
I can barely hear her over the blood pounding in my ears. Part of me wants to slam the folder shut and run, but another part– the reckless, foolish part that has made way too many questionable decisions lately– can’t stop reading. Because some of the things on this list, I might actually want.
Not just in theory, but with him.
“I…” I start, my throat suddenly too tight. “I need to think about it.”
“Of course,” Francesca says gently, not seeming disappointed in the slightest. “This is a significant offer, so please, take your time to think it over. I’ll send an electronic copy of the contract over to you through the app so you can review the entire document at your leisure.”
“Thanks,” I breathe, somewhat relieved that I don’t have to decide here and now. The fact that I’m even considering it is fucking insane, but so is that payout figure.
Half. A Million. Dollars.
“But don’t take too long,” she adds, snapping the folder closed and pulling it back in front of her. “Mr. Devereaux isn’t known for extending second invitations, let alone third.”
She rises gracefully, reaching across the desk to clasp my hand as I follow suit. Her shake is firm, confident, like she already knows I’ll be back.
“I’ll wait to hear from you,” she says with that same calm, knowing smile.
I walk out of her office in a daze, my muted footsteps echoing too loud in the sleek, sterile hallway. By the time I ride the elevator down and step back outside, the city air feels different– thinner, harder to breathe.
Because this is more than a job now. It’s a door being held open into a world I swore I wouldn’t enter, an offer I can’t unsee from a man I don’t understand.
And I’m not sure what scares me more– the idea of saying no… or how tempted I am to say yes.