Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
TAYLOR
Inever imagined I’d become a kept woman, much less the kind that lives in a castle, has an entire staff at her disposal, and lacks any real-life responsibilities.
My days no longer revolve around covering rent and scraping up enough extra cash to afford groceries.
There are no double shifts, no graveyard closings, no rotating cast of asshole managers waiting to replace me at a moment’s notice.
Just me, my little dumpster kitten, and the lap of luxury we’ve fallen into.
I know it can’t last. Nothing good in my life ever does. So, I’m just savoring every moment while I can, hoping like hell that I’ll come out on the other side of this whole ordeal still breathing.
James made a rare appearance during daylight hours earlier to inform me we’d be entertaining guests on the estate tonight.
He didn’t provide any additional details, just dropped that vague little nugget of information before promptly returning to his coffin or wherever the hell he sleeps.
I then had the pleasure of spending the entire day overthinking what he meant by ‘entertaining guests’ and dreading whatever strange sort of vampire gathering I’m in for tonight.
Though if it ends anything like last night’s event, you definitely won’t hear me complain.
There was no evening gown delivery this afternoon, no team of stylists ready to primp and polish me within an inch of my life.
So, my best guess is that a few friends of his are coming over for dinner or cocktails; some low-key type of gathering that’ll involve me keeping my head down for a few hours while James rubs elbows with other rich vamps.
Once the sun goes down, I lazily flop between the bed and the armchair in my room for entirely too long, making zero progress toward being presentable.
Only when Ozzy leaps onto the vanity and bats my makeup bag onto the floor do I finally give in and start my get-ready routine, molding myself into the type of woman that looks like she belongs on the arm of a vampire king.
I spend considerable time choosing a dress from my closet– classic black, stretchy in a way that hugs every inch of my body and practically screams ‘please objectify me’.
It isn’t slutty, exactly, but there’s a definite old money, young mistress energy, especially when paired with red-bottom pumps and red lipstick.
I even attempt to recreate the smoky eye effect the glam squad gave me, though my own version pales in comparison to their practiced expertise.
My hair gets the least amount of effort– dried, raked through with a wide-toothed comb, then tucked into a low bun at the nape of my neck. Simple, elegant, passably chic.
When I finally emerge from my room, the mansion is quieter than usual, which I take as a good sign.
If there was some kind of full-scale soiree planned, the place would be swarming with staff and noise.
Instead, it’s just me and the echo of my heels on the marble, accompanied by a faint, unfamiliar thump of bass echoing from somewhere deep in the house.
As I follow the sound, I realize how little of this place I’ve actually explored.
Sure, I’ve poked around here and there, but I’ve been too chicken shit to wander far from the main areas.
I pass open doors to rooms whose purpose I can only guess at, many of them museum-like and untouched.
I’m driven forward by the music, hoping that whatever’s waiting at the end of the hall will be less terrifying than my own imagination.
I’m wrong.
The source of the sound lurks behind a heavy set of double doors, and when I push inside, I find a room I’ve never seen before– a space so decadent and over-the-top that it takes me a second to process what’s happening inside.
At first glance, it appears to be some sort of lounge.
Plush, jewel-toned sofas are arranged in a loose ring, and there’s a bar at the far end manned by someone who looks barely old enough to pour alcohol.
The lighting is low, punctuated by the flicker of dozens of candles set into crystal candelabras, the air sweet with the smell of incense.
Then my eyes adjust, and I realize this room is so much more than a simple lounge.
The furniture is arranged around a massive bed set like a stage in the center, king-sized and heaped with cushions.
The ‘guests’ that fill the room aren’t just lounging– they’re sprawled out in various states of undress, sipping drinks from glasses and blood from veins, limbs draped lazily over one another’s.
Two women are curled together on a velvet chaise, fingers intertwined, one pressing soft kisses to the other’s collarbone.
Another pair– a man and a woman, both impossibly beautiful– are locked in a slow, languid makeout session, the woman straddling his lap and grinding against him with a dreamy, absentminded intensity.
The entire scene pulses with heat, with anticipation, with a kind of low-grade electricity that vibrates the air. It’s not just sexual, it’s performative– every gaze, every touch, every tremble meant to be seen and savored.
I freeze in the entryway, hand still pressed to the door, brain refusing to catch up to the reality splayed out in front of me. I’m still standing there gaping like the world’s biggest idiot when a deep, familiar voice cuts through the haze.
“Don’t just stand there, darling. You’re letting cold air in.”
James is seated just to my left, relaxed back on a velvet sofa with one ankle crossed over his knee and a tumbler of something amber in his hand.
He looks right at home in his crisp black dress shirt and slacks, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the top few buttons casually undone.
His pale hair is mussed just enough to be devastatingly sexy, his face set in that practiced expression of impenetrable calm.
When I don’t move or respond, he simply raises a brow– and that’s when I realize every eye in the room has swiveled in my direction.
I quickly nudge the door closed behind me and stagger forward, trying to appear casual and not at all bothered that I’ve basically just stumbled onto a live porno set.
“Hey,” I manage as I approach James, voice about two octaves higher than normal. “I, um… wasn’t expecting this.”
He nods to the empty spot on the sofa beside him and I quickly take a seat, James leaning in to speak low in my ear.
“What were you expecting, some kind of boring dinner party?” he asks, the corner of his mouth quirking.
“Well, yeah,” I admit, face flaming. “Some advance warning would’ve been nice.”
He chuckles low in his throat. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of seeing you blush like this,” he murmurs, the backs of his knuckles grazing my cheek. “Adorable.”
I swat his hand away with a scowl. “Enough mind games,” I grumble, finding my backbone. “What is this, James?”
“Evening entertainment,” he replies with a shrug that’s far too nonchalant for this atmosphere. “Just relax, have a drink, and watch. Or play, if you’re feeling brave.”
I blink at him, not sure if he’s joking. Then a naked woman walks by with a tray of champagne glasses balanced perfectly on her hand, and I realize that he’s definitely not. Everything in here is a feast for the eyes; an indulgent buffet featuring every flavor of debauchery.
I swallow hard, trying to focus on anything but the glistening skin and soft moans filling the room. “Is this… a vampire thing?” I ask quietly.
James tips his head, considering. “It’s not exclusive to my kind, no. But we’re sexual by nature. Most of us find it easier to socialize when there’s something else to do with our mouths.”
“Like feeding,” I murmur, because apparently I’m incapable of shutting up when I’m this nervous.
The ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “Or other things.”
My pulse skips, the color draining from my face as I turn to gaze out over the room.
For a few minutes, I just sit there rigidly, hands clamped together in my lap, eyes pointedly fixed on a painting above the bar.
But the longer I sit, the more I notice– the way the people move, the ebb and flow of attention.
The way some pairs lock together for a few minutes then separate just as quickly, switching partners or wandering over to the bar for a drink.
There’s an easy rhythm to it, something almost hypnotic, and slowly, my nerves start to melt away.
Another naked server drifts by with a tray of shot glasses, each of them filled with bright green liquid.
James signals her over and she hands me one, her gaze flickering over my body in a way that’s not unfriendly, just curious.
I toss back the shot, the sweet burn of the alcohol going straight to my head.
“What was that?” I ask as I pass the glass back to the server with a grimace.
“Absinthe,” James provides, his hand landing on my knee. “It’s a high-proof spirit, so be mindful of how many you take.”
For some reason I register that as a dare, leaning forward to snatch one more off the tray and tossing it back just as quickly as the first. I grimace twice as hard after I swallow, though. The server winks at me as she takes my empty glass, then continues on her path around the room.
I settle back into the couch cushions, James’ thumb rubbing small, lazy circles on my knee.
It’s not an overtly sexual gesture; more of a subtle reassurance amid all this sensory overload.
The music and chatter settle into the background as I watch the party continue to unfold around us, trying not to look nearly as out of place as I feel.