Bite

Chapter 11

Chapter

Eleven

The city streaks by in fractured ribbons of neon and shadow, my reflection ghosting faintly in the tinted glass.

I ride cocooned in leather and silence, the faint hum of the engine the only sound.

The tequila I downed with Bex still thrums in my veins– warm enough to dull the edges of my nerves, but not quite enough to drown them out completely.

My pulse still jumps when the car slows to pass through the wrought-iron gates of the Devereaux estate, fingers twisting together in my lap as we start up the long drive.

I shift my weight on the seat, the creak of the leather too loud in the hushed silence. The driveway stretches ahead in a shadowy tunnel of manicured trees, the mansion rising at the end like some gothic cathedral, windows awash in pale golden light.

‘Mr. Devereaux isn’t known for extending second invitations, let alone third’.

Fran’s words from this morning echo through my brain, yet here I am, accepting an invitation that defies all logic– the third in as many days. And amidst all this madness and confusion, the question I can’t help but keep asking myself is, why me?

It can’t just be about hunger. A vampire king surely has an endless menu of donors at his fingertips– beautiful, willing, probably ready to claw each other’s eyes out for the privilege of feeding him.

He doesn’t need me, but I’ve been requested, summoned…

and, like a moth too dumb to realize the flame always wins, I keep coming back.

The car eases to a stop on the circular drive, the driver already at my door before I can reconsider. A shiver rolls through me as I step out into the cold night air, tugging my leather jacket tighter around me for warmth.

I’m so not dressed for this.

My black skinny jeans, ankle boots, and lime green tank top seemed perfect for a night of tequila shots and bad decisions– but in front of this castle, it feels like a joke.

Cheap neon clashes with old money gold, the frigid air biting through the ripped knees of my jeans.

It’s entirely possible that James could open the door, take one look at me, and slam it in my face.

It's not him who answers, though. When I make it to the top of the stone steps, the butler opens the door before I can even reach up to knock, sweeping out an arm in a silent gesture for me to enter.

I dart through the doorway, eager to escape the cold. The butler closes the door behind me, nods once without meeting my eyes, then turns and glides away down the long corridor. Not a word, not a glance back.

Awkward.

I pivot, unsure whether I’m supposed to stand here like lost luggage or follow the butler’s disappearing shadow, and that’s when I see him.

James waits in the grand sitting room off the foyer, an imposing figure carved out of darkness and ease.

Soft-looking black slacks hug his thighs, a crisp black button-down undone at his throat to reveal a tempting slice of his muscular chest. The sleeves are rolled casually, as though the immensity of his power doesn’t need starch or formality to announce itself.

He completely owns the room, lounging like a king on his throne with his frosty gaze locked on me, tracking my every move like a predator.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he murmurs, smoothly rising to stand.

“I wasn’t either,” I admit, my pulse ticking in my throat. Even though my heart is sprinting, I drift toward him, feet moving on their own accord.

James slowly drags a hand across his chin as he studies me, eyes lingering in a way that makes every muscle in my body tighten. “So, this is who you really are,” he muses at last, blue eyes sparkling when they lift to meet mine again.

“Uh, I guess,” I breathe, pushing a nervous hand through my hair. “I was out with a friend when I got the notification, so I didn’t exactly have time to go home and change…”

“I like it,” he cuts in, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a smirk that’s half sin, half promise. “It suits you.”

My face flushes with heat. I quickly turn away to hide it, pretending I’m fascinated by the décor rather than the man devouring me with his gaze.

It’s not hard to fake in a room this stunning.

It’s like stepping into another century– oil paintings gaze down from gilded frames, their colors burnished by lamplight spilling through stained glass shades.

An enormous Persian rug sprawls across the floor, intricate patterns softening the echo of my boots.

Every chair, every table, every piece of carved wood and velvet upholstery gleams with rich jewel tones and the weight of history.

I let my eyes roam over all of it, greedily drinking in the details, even as my erratic pulse insists that the most dangerous work of art in the room is standing behind me.

“Have you given the contract any thought?” James’ voice rumbles low, the deep timbre rattling down to my bones.

I glance back at him over my shoulder, tongue darting out to wet my dry lips. “Some.”

His hands slide into his pockets as he advances closer, every step deliberate. “And?” He cocks a brow.

“I’m… still considering,” I mumble.

A slow, knowing smile unfurls across his lips. The kind that says he already knows the ending of this game. “How can I convince you?” he asks.

I lift one shoulder, forcing a casual shrug I definitely don’t feel. “You could always add another zero to the payment.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Done.”

I whip toward him in shock. “Wait, seriously?” I choke out.

He tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle he enjoys taking apart piece by piece. “Does money make you feel safer, Marilyn?”

The name rolls from his tongue with too much familiarity, making my belly flip. “No,” I breathe. “But… it helps.”

“Then you’ll have more of it,” he says simply, rolling his shoulders back with the calm certainty of a man for whom resources are infinite. “Anything else?”

The air between us hums with anticipation, the space somehow both suffocatingly small and impossibly wide. My instincts war between the urge to flee and the pull to be nearer to him.

My teeth worry my bottom lip as my gaze betrays me, skimming his broad frame.

The veins winding his forearms, the swell of biceps flexing beneath fine black fabric, the ink coiling over skin like secrets waiting to be unraveled.

I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about what he looks like out of those clothes, but my brain supplies the image anyway– lines of art etched across an immortal body, designs chosen with the arrogance of eternity.

“I want to talk about… specifics,” I finally manage, dragging my eyes back to his. They’re sharp, unyielding, but there’s a flicker of intrigue there, too– like he’s amused that I think I can negotiate.

He inclines his head, sweeping a hand toward the velvet sofa. “Then let’s talk, mea dulcis.”

This is probably the last thing I should be doing three margaritas deep, but then again, I’m not sure I’d be bold enough to even have this discussion without a little liquid courage.

My feet move, carrying me forward before my brain has time to second-guess it.

The rug muffles my steps as I close the distance between us and lower myself onto the edge of the sofa, spine straight, perched like a bird ready to take flight.

My fingers knot together in my lap as I force a shaky breath into my lungs.

“Some of the things in the contract,” I begin, already feeling heat climb my neck. “The ones on the secondary services addendum…”

James cocks his head slightly, eyes intent, waiting. He doesn’t fill the silence– he lets it stretch, lets me fumble.

I drop my gaze, words shrinking to a whisper. “I haven’t… experienced all of the things listed. I don’t know if I can agree to something when I’m not even sure whether I’d like it.”

“I assure you,” he says softly, the resonance of his voice wrapping around me like velvet. “Anything we explore would be for our mutual pleasure. Nothing forced. Nothing unwanted.” His eyes glint. “Was there something in particular that gave you pause?”

I wet my lips again, throat tight. “The, uh… impact play,” I manage.

One brow arches. “Spanking? Flogging? The bite of a belt?” His voice doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver– he lists them plainly, as if reciting poetry.

My cheeks flame. “I’ve never… had any of that,” I admit. “I don’t know if I’d like the pain part.”

“Pain,” he says, rocking back on a hip, “is only half of the story, darling. There’s release in it, too.

Relief. Some crave the sting, others the surrender.

It’s not about damage, it’s about sensation.

” His eyes trace my face intently. “I would calibrate it to you. Every touch, every strike, measured.”

I swallow hard, pulse thundering. “And the restraints?”

“Bondage?” His smirk curves, slow and wicked. “To be bound is to let someone else carry the weight of choice. Rope, cuffs, silk… each tells the body something different. Some find comfort in it, some find ecstasy. Do you fear it?”

“Yes,” I whisper. Then, shamefully, “And no.”

His gaze sharpens, satisfaction flickering in the pale blue. “A healthy answer. Fear keeps you cautious. Curiosity keeps you open.”

I nod slowly, suddenly desperate for air. “What about… control?”

“Dominance,” he supplies smoothly. “Submission. Power exchanged like currency.” He steps in closer, voice dropping an octave. “You would never be powerless with me, Marilyn. You would choose to give me the reins. That choice would always remain yours.”

The air between us now feels molten, a buzz tingling beneath my skin that’s definitely not from the tequila. I shift my weight, thighs pressing together, forcing myself to look up at him again.

“I just… don’t want to go into something like this blind.”

“Good,” he replies with a derisive nod. “I want you to be fully apprised of every aspect of the agreement before you enter into it. We can mark those line items as conditional, if you’d like.”

I nod again, hardly believing I’m even having this conversation right now. My eyes slide over the room– lampshades with stained-glass petals, the carved arm of a chair– anything to avoid looking at him while my thoughts sprint in circles.

“Was there something else?” he asks, as if he can sense where my mind has wandered.

My gaze snaps back up. “The part about… other partners,” I say hesitantly.

He inclines his head, expression neutral for a beat, then answers in the same flat, casual tone he’s used all evening.

“I enjoy voyeurism. I also don’t like to limit my own participation.

I’d never require it of you, but I will request it.

And when I do, you’ll have full consent and control over who, when, and how. ”

My brows draw together. “So I’d choose the other person?”

“Yes. Always.”

“And what about you?” I ask, heart thudding. “Would you…?”

“I will have other lovers,” he says plainly, completely unapologetic. “But I won’t drink from anyone else, and nobody else will drink from you. Your blood is mine alone.”

The proprietary tone in his voice stirs something hot and complicated inside me. I swallow thickly, eyes skittering around the room again.

I can’t let him see how close I am to unraveling. Because if I actually look at him– really look– then I know what’ll happen.

A dull, insistent ache settles between my thighs, a slow burn that’s equal parts shame and want.

My mind floods with images it’s not supposed to conjure: surrendering to his desires, being pleasured by someone else while James watches on.

The idea of exploring my sexuality, of dancing the line between fear and arousal until they blur into the same thing, feels both obscene and thrilling.

It should be insane to even be entertaining this. And yet it’s also a rush– like pausing at the top of a roller coaster, stomach curling in on itself with anticipation for the drop. Even knowing it’s coming, part of me is desperate to throw up my arms and just fall.

“And I’d live here?” I ask after a beat. “With you?”

“You’d have your own private suite,” he replies steadily.

“A full wardrobe. A driver at your disposal. A monthly stipend for whatever you need, on top of your payout at the completion of the contract. You may come and go as you please, but you’ll have a security detail if you leave the estate alone.

My name and position carry certain notoriety, so precautions must be taken to ensure your safety while under my patronage. ”

The words settle over me as I nod stiffly. “So I’d be kept.”

“You’d be chosen,” he corrects, finally lowering himself to take the spot beside me on the sofa, close enough that our shoulders brush. “You’d be comfortable. Safe. Adored. Mine.”

His voice drops an octave on that last word, making my breath catch and my pulse quicken.

He leans in, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear. “So, what do you say, little mortal?” he coaxes, lips skimming lower.

I flinch at the soft pop of his fangs extending, shivering at the faint, electric scrape of them trailing along the hollow of my neck.

Everything tilts. I freeze, thoughts scattering, my pulse roaring in my ears. My hands fumble for something to steady myself against, finding him.

“Okay,” I whisper, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

His palm slides to my waist, anchoring me, fingers spreading just enough to claim. Then his mouth opens and closes on my throat with a tenderness that’s both terrifying and precise, fangs piercing my flesh with delicious pressure.

The rush is instant. My breath stutters, hands fisting in his shirt as he drinks from me in greedy pulls. Heat coils low and fierce in my belly, pleasure unfurling until my thoughts dissolve into a single, intense need that floods every nerve ending until my thoughts blur together like melting wax.

His throat vibrates with a groan, and the breathy moan that escapes my lips betrays exactly what he’s doing to me. I lean into him, back arching, thighs squeezing together.

Then it’s over.

James lifts his head and licks a drop of blood from my skin, eyes half-lidded and pupils blown wide. “What’s your real name?” he murmurs.

“Taylor,” I reply on a shaky exhale.

His lips spread into a slow, sinister smile, fangs still on show. “You move in tomorrow, Taylor.”