Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
JAMES
Sunlight won’t set me on fire, but it ruins my mood all the same.
Too harsh. Too bright. Downright offensive, even when filtered through the top-of-the-line crystalline tint of the car windows.
I push my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose with a discontented grunt as the car rolls to a stop at the curb outside Steele Holdings, bracing myself to step out into the blinding glare.
The driver knows better than to linger once I exit the vehicle. The engine purrs softly as the car rolls away, leaving only the sharp clip of my shoes on concrete as I start for the building.
Daylight has always annoyed me. Everything laid bare, no shadows to soften the edges. Night conceals; forgives. The sun’s rays reveal everything you’d rather keep hidden.
The glass doors slide open at my approach, and I slip my sunglasses off as I move through them without breaking stride.
The security guard at the desk glances up, recognition flashing in his eyes before he quickly drops his gaze.
Smart. He stays rooted to his seat, pretending to study his screen while I cross the lobby to the elevator bank and punch the call button.
The door opens immediately, as if even the machinery here knows better than to make me wait.
My reflection glints faintly in the mirrored panels as it slides closed, the elevator humming as it rises.
Bet Taylor will soon marvel at debunking the myth that vampires don’t have reflections.
A few seconds later, the door slides open again to reveal the bright white lobby of Bite.
The little doe-eyed receptionist at the desk startles the moment she sees me.
Her head jerks up, soft mouth opening on a gasp like cornered prey.
“M-Mr. Devereaux,” she stammers, nearly toppling her chair as she scrambles to her feet.
Her heels click against the marble as she hurries around the desk, desperate to intercept me.
Pathetic. I don’t have an appointment and I definitely don’t require her assistance.
She doesn’t understand she’s mere furniture– background noise too low on the food chain to matter.
I don’t spare her so much as a glance as I stride past, my attention fixed solely on the path to Francesca Fox’s office.
The door is already standing open, Fran looking up when I enter. Only the barest lift of her brows betrays her surprise at seeing me here– exactly why she holds this position. She wears her mask well and rarely lets anything slip.
“Mr. Devereaux,” she greets smoothly, voice calm and professional with a flicker of warmth beneath it. “We weren’t expecting you today.”
I close the door behind me, the lock engaging with a soft click.
Her gaze sharpens, head tilting ever so slightly. She’s clearly waiting for me to explain why I’ve appeared in her office unannounced. I choose to let the silence stretch, curious how long it’ll take for her to break it.
Not long.
“Is everything alright with Miss Holt?” she questions, the faintest note of something smug in her tone. “Your arrangement–”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, pocketing my hands. “Better than expected, in fact. Perhaps I should’ve considered taking on an exclusive donor sooner.”
“I’m sure you would’ve had no shortage of volunteers,” Fran muses, tucking an espresso strand of hair behind her ear. “Our donors inquire about you constantly, your reputation clearly precedes you. I must admit, I was surprised when you selected one that was so… fresh.”
“Part of her allure,” I murmur. “Though you could’ve educated her better about vampires. It’s pathetic how little she knows of my kind.”
The corner of Francesca’s mouth curves, eyes glittering with amusement. “Well, if you’d like to swap her out for a more knowledgeable donor…”
“No,” I snap, the word echoing in the enclosed space of her office. “Taylor is mine.”
One sculpted brow arches. “Possessive.”
“Over her blood, yes,” I clarify, rapidly tiring of this exchange. Best to just get straight to the point. “I’m here to collect her complete file. And her blood sample.”
Francesca leans back in her chair, crossing one long leg over the other. Her pinstripe skirt rides up, exposing the smooth skin of her thigh. She rests an elbow on the armrest in a pose meant to be casual, but every motion is calculated.
“As you know, all of our donors are fully vetted,” she states.
“I’m aware.” I take a slow step closer.
“Then you’re also aware that this request is highly irregular.” Her hands fold atop the glass desk calmly. “Disclosing confidential donor information is a breach of protocol.”
I close the distance another foot. “The file. Now.”
Her lips twitch. “So commanding,” she murmurs, reaching for the tablet resting on her desk. “And to think I once found it charming.”
“You still do.” Not a question, a fact. Francesca Fox may be a ball-buster in public, but behind closed doors, she relishes in submission. Eager. Compliant. A dominant’s dream.
She laughs low in her throat as she picks up her tablet, the husky sound brushing the edges of memory.
“Fair warning, you may not like what you find,” she mutters as her fingers flick against the screen.
“Miss Holt’s records from foster care were sealed, it took considerable effort to obtain them.
Difficult childhood. Orphaned at five, bounced through the system… ”
I extend a hand in demand, curling my fingers impatiently. “The file, Fran.”
“Of course.” She dips her head, passing me the tablet. Her fingers brush mine, lingering a beat too long.
I lower the device and begin scrolling under the weight of her scrutiny.
Taylor’s background sprawls across the screen in reports and notes containing ugly scraps of a broken childhood.
I don’t linger on any of those details. I’m not here for sentiment, only facts.
Still, a few details catch my eye and my jaw tightens– not with pity, just recognition. Broken things bleed differently.
“I’ll also need her blood sample,” I murmur absently, still scrolling.
“We don’t have one.”
My gaze snaps up. Fran only shrugs.
“We draw just enough at intake for a basic panel. Nothing’s retained.”
My frown is immediate, irritation pricking sharp under my skin. The file was of passing interest, but the blood is what truly brought me here. Last night proved that whatever runs through Taylor’s veins isn’t rare to me alone. Lucien noticed, too.
I quickly navigate to the portion of Taylor’s file listing her previous engagements with the agency, bringing up her client list. Only three names are on it– mine, Lucien’s, and one other.
The name Sebastian Avalon sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
Not that it matters. Lucien’s feedback form contains a rave review about Taylor’s blood being uniquely delicious, while Sebastian found her appearance more pleasing than the feed itself.
Average marks for taste, texture, and overall palatability.
Interesting.
I made Lucien, so it’s possible that the anomaly is specifically linked to my line. But without a sample of her blood to test, there’s no way of confirming the connection.
“Surely you can collect your own sample since she’s living under your roof,” Francesca suggests with a casual shrug.
“Of course I can,” I mutter. My thumb flicks across the screen, sending myself a copy of Taylor’s file before shoving the tablet back toward Fran. “Delete her profile and scrub her from the database,” I instruct.
Her brows lift as she takes the tablet, not even bothering to hide her surprise this time. Bold of her to question me, though she’s one of the rare few who’d even dare. “That’s not–”
“Protocol?” I finish, pinning her with a glare. “Don’t insult me by quoting rules I wrote. Remember who signs your checks, Francesca.”
She goes still. Then, slowly, she inclines her head. “Of course, Mr. Devereaux” she breathes, tone smoothing out again. “Should we at least retain a copy of the contract?”
“No. Delete all of it. As far as this agency is concerned, Taylor Holt doesn’t exist.”
Her lips twitch with something sly, like she’s picked up on a tell I didn’t give. “If you planned to keep her, why bother with the contract at all?”
“Because humans are more compliant under the illusion of choice.” My gaze locks with hers, unblinking. “They need to think they’re free, or they panic. It’s cleaner this way.”
“You vamps and your mind games,” she sighs, rising to stand. Her heels click against the floor sharply as she circles the desk and approaches, her mask of professionalism slipping, hand brushing my sleeve. “You seem tense, James,” she purrs, voice low and silky.
We’ve done this dance before– blood, sex, power. Old habits I have no desire to reprise.
“You should really find something to take the edge off,” she continues, sweeping her dark hair over one shoulder and offering her throat. “Perhaps a drink?”
“You know I never drink from the same–” the words catch, the rest of that sentence not making it past my lips.
Because it’s no longer true. For the past week, I’ve been feeding from the same throat, living on the same pulse.
Indulging in the same blood– a flavor so distinctly rich that I’m certain I’ll never get enough of it.
“I have a preferred source,” I amend, cool and precise.
Fran’s smile falters, but doesn’t fall completely. “Something else, then?” she suggests as she leans in, palm skimming my sleeve. Her fingers trail down my chest, moving toward my belt. “It’s been a while since we–”
My hand clamps around her throat before she can finish. I shove her back against the wall with a burst of speed, the thud of her back hitting the drywall echoing through the office. Her pulse jumps under my palm, hot and frantic, toes barely grazing the floor.
“Did I say you could touch me?” I growl, brandishing my fangs.
Most would quake in fear or beg for mercy, but not Fran. Her eyes blaze with delight, pulse thrumming in anticipation. She loves the knife-edge.
I tighten my grip until her breath stutters, reminding her how easy it would be for me to end her pathetic mortal existence. Still, there’s no fear in her expression– only raw, hungry excitement.
Disgust curls through me like ice. I abruptly release her, stepping back and smoothing the front of my blazer like nothing happened.
She rights herself with practiced grace, smoothing her skirt and reclaiming her composure in a single breath. “Apologies,” she mumbles, a faint flush crawling up her neck. She studies me for a long beat, then brazenly asks, “Why her?”
It’s a question I shouldn’t dignify with a response, but curiosity can be dangerous.
“She’s uniquely palatable,” I say flatly.
Fran tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “It’s more than that.”
I close the distance between us in a blink. “Careful,” I warn, voice dropping an octave. “You’re a damn good employee, but everyone is replaceable.”
The light in her eyes dims and she bows her head in deference. She’s been around long enough to know I mean it.
I turn and leave her office without another word, striding down the hallway and passing through the lobby.
The receptionist shrinks back into her chair as I call the elevator, riding it down to the ground floor and exiting the building.
The car pulls up before I can even make it to the curb and I slide into the back seat, sealing out the sun’s offensive rays.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asks.
“The estate.”
As we pull away, I slip my phone from my pocket and bring up Taylor’s file on the screen.
Her intake picture looks up at me– so innocent, so unassuming.
I still remember the first time I saw it, my initial thought being that the image fails to capture the true depth of her beauty.
Gorgeous bone structure, plump lips. Wide, angelic eyes.
There’s something more behind them that speaks of her past, the fight in her– a flicker of something defiant and guarded, even in a photograph.
Normally I’d find that kind of thing irritating, but with her, it’s intriguing.
Something beyond her blood that draws me in and makes the whole package impossible to ignore.
I scroll past her photo, the fractured record of her life unspooling beneath my thumb. Foster homes. Sealed files. Trauma etched into the bones of her existence going so far back she probably doesn’t even remember it.
Humans. So fragile, so simple, their lives pathetically short. Yet her blood burns brighter than all the rest.
And I intend to find out why.