Chapter 20
Twenty
TALULLA
Adjusting on the seat is inevitable when you have a giant butt plug in your ass.
The leather is cool beneath my thighs, and every tiny shift of my body reminds me exactly what Flynn did to me just minutes ago.
The plug is a constant pressure, a promise of what’s coming tonight, and I’m acutely aware of it with every breath.
I turn to look at Jonathan and try to study him. Hoping he has absolutely no idea about what just happened in the house.
Fuck I really hope he has no clue, but by the way he grips the steering wheel—knuckles white, jaw tight—he clearly knows something did happen. He can smell it. The arousal, the sex, the fact that I’m currently sitting here trying not to squirm. God, I hate how that makes me blush.
Vampire senses are the absolute worst sometimes.
The car is sleek and black, some luxury brand I don’t recognize because I’ve never cared about cars.
It’s not Flynn’s, but for what I know, he bought it just for the occasion.
The interior smells like leather and that generic new car scent, and there’s classical music playing softly through the speakers. Chopin, I think. Nocturnes.
“You’re younger than I expected,” I tell him, and the boy snorts, but doesn’t reply.
Like at all. He’s so immobile I truly start to think he’s not real.
His tousled dark hair falls on his forehead, giving him a youthful look—early twenties maybe, or maybe even less, frozen at an age where he probably thought he had his whole life ahead of him.
He might be a vampire, but one that got turned very young.
Younger than Flynn. And I don’t know how I feel about that.
The idea of being turned that young, losing all those years of growing and changing and becoming yourself—it makes my chest ache.
He’s rocking the emo look in a suit. Which I can tell he absolutely does not like.
The suit is tailored and expensive—Flynn’s doing, no doubt—but Jonathan wears it like armor he’d rather shed.
There’s a silver ring on his right hand, thick and worn, and his nails are painted black. The juxtaposition is almost funny.
We’re heading toward the Natural History Museum, the morning traffic surprisingly light for London. Gray clouds hang low overhead, threatening rain but not quite delivering. Typical November weather. Or at least that’s what Flynn says.
“So you can’t even talk to me? Did he actually tell you not to talk? Because that is absolutely ridiculous.”
“I just don’t want to potentially get killed.” He side eyes me, and I catch a glimpse of dark brown irises. “You might not be working for your father anymore, but that doesn’t mean you can’t become a problem.”
Fair point. I shift again—the plug moves with me and I have to bite back a small gasp—and turn more fully toward him. “Flynn trusts you with me, which makes me automatically trust you.”
He snorts again. “Yeah, I don’t believe that for a second.” At least he’s honest.
“I’m not like my father.”
“Yet, you killed five of my kind just the other night.”
The memory flashes through my mind—the warehouse party, the blood, the violence. The way it felt almost easy, like muscle memory, I couldn’t shake even after a year of trying to be normal. “Flynn helped.”
That’s when he sighs. “I know.”
“So why would you trust him, but not me?”
“He has his reasons to help you.”
The implication hangs in the air between us. Love makes you do stupid things. Love makes you compromise your nature. I get it—I’m the vampire hunter sleeping with a vampire, after all. Talk about compromising your nature.
“Then why did you accept to drive me around if you don’t like me?”
This is when he finally turns to look at me properly, and I see something softer in his expression. The corners of his mouth lift up into a soft smile. A genuine smile. “I never said I don’t like you. I don’t know you.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He shrugs, returning his attention to the road as we navigate around a double-parked delivery truck. “Flynn helped me out a lot, he showed me another way into this…life…I guess I owe him one.”
There’s a story there. I can hear it in the way his voice goes quiet, careful. Flynn has a habit of collecting things—vampires who don’t fit into the traditional power structures, who want something different than endless violence is one of those things. Aren’t I basically what Jonathan is too?
“He’s paying you a shit ton of money, isn’t he.”
He full-on laughs, and the sound is surprisingly warm. Young. “Oh yeah, the kind of money that will make me buy a castle in a couple of months.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I don’t know if you noticed, but he seems to be pretty fond of you.”
Fond. That’s one way to put it. I think about this morning—the way he dropped to his knees for me, the intensity in his eyes, the plug currently reminding me of exactly how fond he is. “Is that what you call an obsessive overprotective asshole?”
“I’ll make sure to tell him that.”
“Please do. I’ll write it down if it helps.”
“You’re funny.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Jonathan.”
We’re approaching the museum now, the familiar columned facade coming into view. My stomach does a nervous flip that has nothing to do with the plug. First day. New job. The chance to actually be Talulla Popescu the historian instead of Talulla Popescu the vampire hunter.
He parks the car right in front of my new place of employment, the engine purring to a stop. “Have a great first day, Talulla.”
“Thank you babysitter, I’ll see you this afternoon,” I reply, getting out of the car.
The cool November air hits me as I step onto the pavement, and I’m grateful for the trench coat.
The museum steps stretch up before me, grand and imposing, and I can see early visitors already making their way inside.
Tourists with cameras, school groups with clipboards, and I can’t help but swallow air, a knot forming in my throat.
I see the young vampire nod and with that, I walk up the stairs, my heart starting to beat faster and faster.
Here we go, time to shine, Tal.
The butt plug shifts with each step, and I have to focus on walking normally, on not letting my face show what I’m feeling.
The stone steps are worn smooth, and the columns tower overhead like ancient sentinels.
This place holds thousands of years of human history, and now I get to be part of preserving it.
I make my way to the ticketing office and ask where Mr. Evans’s office is, and introduce myself.
The girl is cheery and tells me to take the elevator and go down one floor. Archive level one. She’s young, probably a university student working part-time, with a bright smile and a museum badge that says “Sophie.”
Of course the archives and offices are underground. It’s a museum.
Pretty standard practice. Climate control, protection from light damage, security—all easier to maintain below ground. Plus, the museum needs all its above-ground space for exhibitions.
So I go, get in the elevator and press the button A1, supposing that’s the right level. I mean, seems pretty standard.
The elevator is small and old, the kind with brass fixtures and a slight mechanical groan. The doors are etched with art deco patterns, and there’s a faint smell of dust and old paper—the scent of archives everywhere.
The door closes, and then opens again.
Mr. Evans is right there waiting for me—a tall man in his fifties with wire-rimmed glasses and a cardigan that’s seen better days. His gray hair is thinning but his smile is warm. “Good morning, Talulla, ready to start?”
“Absolutely.”
“Wonderful,” he says. “Follow me.” And then he starts walking, and I run behind him.
He moves fast for an academic, his long legs eating up the hallway. We pass door after door, each labeled with cryptic archive codes. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, and the air down here is noticeably cooler. Temperature controlled for the artifacts.
My phone buzzes, and I quickly check what it is and see a text popping in.
Unknown number
have a great first day, sweetie. Love you always. - m
M?
Mom.
The world tilts slightly. I stop walking, staring at the screen like it might bite me.
A knot in my throat grows. Needles forming and making it impossible to breathe.
I miss her. I miss being able to talk to her, miss the way she used to make me tea when I was stressed, miss her laugh and her terrible cooking and the way she’d braid my hair even when I was too old for it. But these little things…they remind me that not everything was totally terrible.
She’s still out there. Still my mom. Still thinking about me even though I ran away from the family business, even though I’m with Flynn now, even though everything is different.
My eyes burn but I blink it back. Not now. Not on my first day.
“Talulla?” Mr. Evans has stopped, looking back at me with concern.
“Sorry, just—” I shove the phone in my pocket. “I’m coming.”
We get to Mr. Evans’s office and start working on paperwork—boring administrative stuff, tax forms and employee handbooks and confidentiality agreements about not photographing or discussing artifacts outside of official channels.
Then he shows me around the archives, and I fall a little bit in love.
Rows and rows of carefully labeled boxes and climate-controlled storage.
Mesopotamian cylinder seals in felt-lined drawers.
Cuneiform tablets in protective cases. Fragments of ancient pottery organized by dynasty and region.
It’s a researcher’s dream, and I can already feel myself getting lost in it.
Then we walk around the museum itself—the public galleries I’ve visited before but seeing them now as staff feels different. The Assyrian galleries with their massive winged bulls. The Sumerian exhibits I’ll be working with. The Egyptian wing that always draws the biggest crowds.