Bite

Chapter 21

Chapter

Twenty-One

TAYLOR

It’s well past three a.m. and the mansion feels more like a crypt than ever– cold, echoing, cloaked in shadows and silence.

The sex haze from the past few days has faded into a low, buzzing restlessness.

My body’s wrecked, muscles tender and aching, but my mind won’t quiet.

I keep replaying the way James swept into my bedroom the moment he woke tonight, all hunger and command, ready to claim me like I’m his to ruin.

The way I let him– because some part of me wants to be.

So instead of resting, I roam.

It’s quiet except for the whisper of the heating system and the occasional groan of the house settling, but every so often the dark plays tricks on me, making me think there’s something just beyond my line of sight, moving where I can’t see.

I tell myself it’s just Ozzy, but I haven’t seen the little demon since this afternoon.

He has a habit of vanishing for hours, only to reappear at the most inconvenient times, fur scruffed and eyes blazing.

I drift through the halls with no real destination, fingers brushing the carved banister of the main staircase, then along the frames of the portraits in the hall.

The painted faces seem to track me as I pass, their eyes judgmental and sharp.

I pause in front of one– a woman in crimson silk, painted with an expression of quiet contempt.

Her raven hair is perfectly coiffed, her eyes so light they gleam even in the dark.

She looks eerily familiar– not in the way of recognition, but in the way old money always does.

Like a ghost you’ve seen in too many rooms.

Maybe it’s just the way all vampires start to look the same after a while– beautiful, bored, and a little bit starved.

There’s a flicker of sound from the far end of the hall– a low, rolling baritone, half-murmur, half-laugh.

For a second, I think it’s a TV, but the closer I get, the more I recognize James’ voice.

The door to one of the lounges is open just a crack, warm light spilling out in a long stripe across the marble floor.

I pause, toeing the line between eavesdropping and minding my own damn business.

This place is cavernous. Sound carries. If he really wanted privacy, he’d be in his office– or wherever else vampires retreat for solitude.

Is there a dungeon here? Because that seems fitting.

I take a step closer, leaning in just enough to catch the rhythm of his words, careful not to be seen or heard.

“–just between us. I wouldn’t be coming to you with this if it wasn’t of the utmost importance. The situation is extremely delicate.” James’ voice is soft, but the edge of command is unmistakable.

A long pause follows. He must be on the phone with someone, their response inaudible before James’ voice comes again.

“No, just a damn cat.”

My pulse spikes, suspicion winding its way through me. Is he talking about Ozzy? My mind spins, and then I hear my name– my real one, not the alias.

“–Holt didn’t yield any results, but she promised to keep digging,” James grumbles. “In the meantime, I thought it prudent to explore things from a scientific angle.”

Another pause.

I hold my breath.

“I’ll handle it,” he says. “Sunday, then.”

Something cold slithers down my spine.

I know I’m probably overreacting– maybe this is just normal vampire business, maybe ‘handing it’ means nothing– but I can’t shake the feeling that I just heard something I shouldn’t have.

The smart thing to do would be to walk away, pretend I was never here.

Apparently I have zero self-preservation instincts, because instead, I linger.

The conversation tapers off and a brief silence falls. Then James’ voice rings out, sharp and clear.

“You can come in, darling. There’s no need to lurk.”

Shit.

I jolt so hard I bash my elbow against the wall, the pain reverberating all the way down to my fingertips. Then I seriously debate making a run for it, but that would be even more incriminating. So, I suck in a deep breath, push the door open, and step inside.

The room is obscenely lavish, moonlight slanting through tall windows that run the entire length of one wall, pooling over a grand piano that dominates the center. It’s clearly meant to be the focal point– but the man by the fireplace steals the show.

James stands with one hand braced on the ornately carved mantel, the other dragging through his pale blond hair in a gesture of casual annoyance. His white dress shirt is half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looks effortless. Dangerous. Devastatingly gorgeous.

He turns when I enter, his expression shifting– mask gone, jaw tight, blue eyes cold but edged with amusement.

“You should know better than to spy on a vampire,” he murmurs.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say, aiming for breezy but landing somewhere between defensive and flustered. “I was just… walking. Couldn’t sleep.”

He gestures to the velvet armchair across from the fireplace. “Sit.”

I hesitate for half a heartbeat, unease coiling in my gut. But arguing feels pointless, so I cross the room anyways, sinking down onto the plush cushion.

James moves to the sideboard and pours us each a glass of whiskey from a crystal-cut decanter, returning to hand me one.

I eye it warily, resting the glass against my thigh while I debate whether he’d actually poison me for listening in.

Then again, if he wanted me unconscious, he could probably manage it with a snap of his fingers.

Or my neck.

He perches on the arm of the chair across from me like some elegant gargoyle, watching with that predatory calm as I take a tentative sip of my drink. For a few seconds, neither of us speaks, the silence stretching taut as a wire.

“So,” I finally say, lowering the glass. “Who were you talking to?”

His mouth twitches. “A business associate.”

“Sounded more personal than that,” I prod, keeping my tone light. “You mentioned my last name…”

His eyes narrow, the blue turning flinty. “Did I?”

“Yeah.” I let the word hang between us for a beat. “Should I be worried?”

Silence again– measured, deliberate. He’s not angry, at least not in any way I recognize. It’s more like he’s parsing every word, cataloging every twitch of my fingers, calculating a hundred possible responses before choosing the one that serves him best.

“Not at all,” he finally says, leaning back and stretching one long leg out. “The man I was speaking with happens to be a scientist, and he’s quite intrigued by the fact that I’ve finally found a donor who satisfies my thirst. I invited him to join us here for dinner next week.”

“A scientist?” I ask, frowning.

He nods, finishing his whiskey in one smooth swallow before setting the glass aside. “Quite a famous one, actually. Perhaps you’ve heard of him– Elliott Faulkner.”

My heart stutters. “Wait, the Elliott Faulkner?” I choke, blinking. “The vamp who cured cancer and invented Rapi-Gen?”

“That’s the one.”

“You know him?”

“Our paths have crossed many times over the centuries,” he replies, cryptic as ever.

I gape at him, still trying to process, then remember the last time we entertained guests at the estate. My pulse spikes. “It’s not going to be like the last time you had friends over, is it?” I blurt.

The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Do you want it to be?”

“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head.

He chuckles low in his throat. “Still denying your taste for voyeurism, little mortal?”

A full-body blush ignites at my chest and burns all the way up to my scalp. “I don’t–,” I start, but he cuts me off.

“You do,” he says, voice dark and amused. “You liked watching, and you liked being watched. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

My mouth goes dry, body tensing in ways I wish it wouldn’t. Because he’s right– I did like it. But liking it makes me feel dirty.

James rises and advances toward me, the space between us shrinking in an instant. He looms over me, one hand braced on the back of my chair, his large body caging mine in a way that feels more possessive than threatening. My breath catches as he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“You wanted me to pull you onto my lap and fuck you right there in that booth last night, didn’t you?”

All the air leaves my lungs on a single exhale, brain blanking out, every muscle going tight and electric. His suggestion is both mortifying and so hot I want to scream.

He brushes his lips lightly along my jaw, then straightens, studying my reaction.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, mouth curving in a satisfied smirk.

I scramble for dignity, pushing to my feet so fast I nearly spill my drink. Red-faced and flustered, I pace to the window, staring out at the indigo stretch of sky while I try to piece myself back together.

James’ gaze tracks me as I make a slow lap around the room, pretending to study the art and furnishings, anything to keep from meeting those eyes.

By the time I drift toward the piano, my heartbeat has mostly steadied.

I trail my fingertips along its smooth, gleaming edge, finally daring a glance in his direction.

“Do you play?”

He dips his chin once in a quiet nod.

“Would you play something for me?”

He considers me for a long moment, then pushes off from where he’s standing and prowls toward the piano. Stepping around the bench, he looks down at the keys, then up at me. “Come here.”

I obey too quickly, lowering myself beside him on the long bench. He places his fingers on the keys and begins to play– fluid, precise, each note ringing clear and oddly gentle for someone whose hands are capable of so much violence.

I don’t recognize the melody. It’s something unhurried and melancholy, the kind of song that sounds like rain on glass. I watch his long fingers move over the keys, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each chord.

After a minute or so, he suddenly stops.

“Why’d you stop?” I ask breathily.

He turns his head, meeting my eyes. “Play with me.”

“I don’t know how,” I admit.

“I’ll teach you.”

The idea of taking piano lessons from a vampire is so absurd I almost laugh– but instead I just nod, the knot in my chest loosening a little.

He smoothly pulls me onto his lap, guiding my hands to rest atop his. When he starts to play again, I can feel the music through his fingers– steady, fluid, alive. I follow the rhythm, watching the man beneath the monster emerge in each quiet note he strikes.

For the first time, it’s easy to believe he was human once.

As the music flows and our hands move together, something stirs deep inside me– a whisper of memory I can’t quite reach. Before I even realize it, a tear slides down my cheek.

James abruptly stops playing, turning me on his lap so he can see my face.

I swipe the tear away, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he murmurs, sweeping a strand of hair behind my ear. “Where did you go just now?”

I frown, eyes fixed on the keys. “There’s always been something about piano music.

A memory, maybe. I think one of my parents might’ve played.

” I shake my head, dismissing the thought as quickly as it came.

“But if they had a piano, then they would’ve had something of value to leave me, and they didn’t. ”

“Do you remember your family?” he asks, curiosity sharpening his gaze.

The question lands like a bruise. I search my memory, but all I find are fragments– a woman’s hand, soft and warm, guiding mine across ivory keys. Maybe I’m imagining it, or maybe it’s real. I’ll never know.

I shake my head. “Not really. It was always just me and my parents. After they died, I wound up in foster care since I didn’t have any living relatives.” My eyes flicker up to meet his. “But you already knew that.”

“I did,” he confirms. “But I’d rather hear it from you.”

“I’m sure you’ll get a lot more from a background check than you can get from me,” I mutter. “My social worker used to say that I blocked out my trauma on purpose, but I honestly just… don’t remember.”

He presses a key on the piano, the note echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Strange,” he mutters.

“What is?”

He smiles faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing. Just… you’re an anomaly, Taylor Holt. A mystery I’ve yet to unravel.”

The compliment makes me bristle– not in a bad way, I just don’t know what to do with it. I look away, tracing the pattern of moonlight on the black and white keys.

A sudden streak of black fur shatters the moment.

Ozzy vaults up and lands squarely in the middle of the piano, gold eyes bright.

James bares his fangs, glaring daggers at my kitten, who arches his back in response, hissing and spitting like a pissed-off muppet.

The standoff lasts exactly one second before Ozzy bolts, claws skittering over the keys in a discordant explosion of sound.

I scowl at James, who looks entirely unrepentant. “Did you have to do that?” I huff.

“He started it,” he grumbles.

I push off the bench and follow the trail of black fur and wounded pride out of the room, calling Ozzy’s name.

Behind me, the piano starts up again, each note spilling from the room and echoing through the cavernous hallway. The music drifts after me, soft but insistent, weaving around my steps as I make my way toward the staircase.

I pause at the base, letting the sound wash over me, feeling the faint pull of something still unspoken between us. This house has started to feel smaller lately– not in size, but in how tightly it holds him.

And now me.

I draw a slow breath, letting the melody cling to my skin, and for a brief moment, I let myself wonder if any part of this– him, the music, the impossible intimacy– could ever be mine to keep.