10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Emma
The look on Dacre’s face is seared into my brain. The darkness in his eyes, his spine straightening as he leaned over me. I should have just pushed him. Done something other than gawk like an idiot. And I’m an idiot for reading anything more than blind hatred in his eyes. But he’d seen me.
It was like staring into the sun while my skin was unprotected, balmy and hot, barely wearing the skimpiest bikini.
As if he could see every curve, every inch of skin—of me—no one else could.
Now I’m imagining Dacre actually staring at me in a bikini.
Those dark eyes raking over me centimeter by centimeter till they’re focused on my neck.
I don’t think he realizes how often I see him staring there.
Dacre may think he knows everything about me, but he doesn’t. I know why I want to get into the culinary club, and nothing is going to change that.
Mom, Olive Osborne, was one of the most successful ballerinas in her prime. She would understand why I need to get in. I don’t need her to be here to know she would want this for me.
I type a text to her while I wait in the culinary lounge for Dacre and send it to myself:
I accepted. I’ll fill you in later.
My mom was my best friend as a child, and if she were alive, she’d love hearing about Dacre and the culinary club.
She used to take each of my sisters on their own outings for alone time, and she’d always take me to eat at different restaurants, ordering multiple things so I could try them.
My mother encouraged creativity and curiosity in all their forms, and though Olivia may be a spitting image of her, with the ballet and the dark hair, I got my own piece of her entirely.
We had our own code words, our own handshakes.
I could tell her anything, and she made me feel like the most special person in the world. I miss that the most.
“Well, who do we have here?” A man with a large build and full cheeks holds out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met, but my name is Luther.”
I dust myself off and reach for a handshake. “I’m Emma Osborne. I was waiting for Dacre to finish the tour. Verity started showing me the kitchen. It’s beyond anything I imagined.”
I stop because I can feel myself doing the word vomit thing.
I’ve been working on controlling my mouth.
Olivia used to lecture me a lot when growing up about thinking before I speak, which made me hate her a little bit, but I can admit she was right most of the time.
I was telling strangers about our business.
Luther has the same haircut as most of the men here at Doxlothia. Long and expertly gelled on the top, with short, tame sides. His eyes are pure turquoise, and every blink makes my face hot. Plus, he has a cute smile.
“I’ll be happy to show you to your station. You’ve seen the kitchen, right? We’re all delighted to meet someone brave enough to face Dacre.”
“What? Really?”
“Really really.”
He walks me into the kitchen. On the far side, there’s a huge window flanked by birchwood shelves stacked floor to ceiling with potions and the ingredients for making them, as well as vibrant vegetables.
One of the restaurants my mom used to take me to had a huge glass window in the middle, where they would demonstrate the work of potions on different dishes for subtle enhancements.
This place reminds me of that, with pristine floors you could eat off, but also life and magic brimming at the edges of the stainless steel.
He spins to face me. “What’s your specialty?”
“Baking and pastry.”
“Ah. Right. I remember Dacre telling me something about you baking in the dining hall.”
My interest is instantly piqued because, one, what does he mean Dacre has mentioned me to people in the club? And two . . .
“What’s his specialty?”
I’ve been curious, but it’s not as if he’ll say a word to me that isn’t an insult.
“You don’t know? He specializes in it all.”
That’s impossible—
“Dacre has been a culinary prodigy since he was a child. He’s been working through each specialty ever since he was young.”
My stomach drops. There was never anything about this in the papers. No articles about Dacre mention that he was a child prodigy!?
“Don’t look so scared,” Luther says, his canines on full display in a wide smile.
He’s so close to me that I feel the heat.
I was never taught how to identify werewolves and vampires without asking, but after being at Doxlothia for a few months, I’m starting to see the signs. Vampires like to step in close. It’s subtle. A step too many.
“Have you ever been to Solexxa House?” he asks.
“No. I’ve been to every house except that one. My sisters are in separate houses, and . . .” I stop myself from saying anything further. Making a good impression is imperative.
“There’s a party this weekend. You should come.” Oh, he’s flirting. At least he sounds like he is.
“I’ll be there,” I say with no hesitation. I think of asking him what I should wear, and then I remember he’s a man and likely doesn’t care.
“Perfect.”
Dacre’s eyes widen when he emerges through the double doors into the kitchen.
He’s a few feet away, and he just looks as if he smells nice.
Despite the circles under his eyes, everything about him looks fresh.
His brows are groomed, and in his white coat, he looks a little like one of the handsome fae in the storybooks Mom would read to me as a kid.
A man with an otherworldly type of beauty, who could lead anyone to a painful death deep into the forest.
“Of course, I . . .” My voice trails off as another man follows Dacre.
He, too, is in a white coat, but he’s taller, with gray hair, a thick neck, and broad shoulders.
Dacre moves to walk next to him, incidentally putting his body in front of mine. Our hands nearly brush as they saunter toward another door across the room.
This must be someone on the board of directors.
He’s got the white coat on and an air of importance about him.
Something in Dacre’s eyes gives me pause.
It’s so brief. A widening of the whites of his eyes, a twitch of his furrowed brow.
I avert my gaze from the older man, and they both disappear into the next room without another word.
It’s a few degrees warmer once they’re out of sight.
“Who was that?”
“Dacre’s grandfather. He owns the culinary club.”
Of course. Dacre would call my lack of research “negligence,” but there are no photos of any of Doxlothia’s board of directors online or of the council members, either. Doxlothia may regularly have reporters on campus, but they’re very selective with what they share.
He didn’t look very friendly, and now I see where Dacre gets all that glowing charm and charisma.
My head tips back as a sneeze builds up, and I try to hide it with my elbow. Blood spews from my nose, painting my arm and the stainless steel countertop with a vivid gush of red. Oh no. The dry air this time of year always gives me nose bleeds.
“I’m so sorry.” I cover the wetness on my nose with my hand. It’s bad. It’s so bad and mortifying. Literally the worst timing ever. “I’ll clean it.”
I fumble for a towel, but the whole counter is free of clutter. Nothing is out of place, and there are no paper towels in sight. I’m leaving marks with every attempt at finding something.
“Here.” Luther’s hand reaches for the back of my head, and he places a rag in my hand, guiding my head back.
“I’m so sorry,” I start, then stop when I see his eyes are trained on my blood on the counter. Then on me.
“Don’t worry about it,” Luther says. “You know, Em, you aren’t in the Donor Program, right?”
Luther’s face is close to mine. He’s all in my space, actually, pulling me in while my head rests in his hand. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s not necessarily comfort in it either. I’m in a strange place with a strange person. Bleeding.
I cough, feeling blood trickle down my throat.
“I’m not.”
“Aren’t you worried you might get hurt?”
“No. Not really. It doesn’t happen that much.”
“But you know it is dangerous, right? And you should be really careful who you trust . . . Blood like this—”
“What the fuck?” I manage a glance at Dacre, who has emerged from the other room and is walking toward us.
Yep. Blood is still coming. Luther pulls my head back again.
“Just a nosebleed.”
“Here.” Dacre hands me a new towel and grips my forearm to take me from Luther’s grasp. “Let’s go to the bathroom.”
Huh?
“I’ve got it handled.” Luther’s voice deepens.
“Clean this up.”
Luther’s pleasant smile drops, and those little lines around his eyes disappear into a smirk. “You pulling rank?”
“Yeah. Move. Clean. Do something other than stare at me like a jackass.”
There’s a pause for what I assume is male posturing, then Luther whispers in my ear.
“I’ll see you at the party, Em?”
I nod. Still bloody. Still embarrassed.
With a hand on my lower back, Dacre guides me out of the kitchen, through the lounge, and into a little bathroom with a single toilet. When we’re there, he sits me on a toilet and takes the bloody towel from my hand.
“Fuck. Does this happen a lot?” His pupils are blown out as he surveys me.
“No.” Only at the most inopportune times, actually.
“Okay, just hold your head forward, squeeze here.” Dacre’s touch sends a trickle of something foreign down my spine.
He’s touching me again, and that disgust I’m always going on about is nowhere to be found. His thumb brushes my cheek as he supports the weight of my head. Why is it kind of . . . nice? I don’t do the sensible thing, which would be to support my own damn head. I make him do it for me.
“The smell doesn’t bother you?” I ask.
“Fuck yes, it bothers me.”
“Oh.” I think about apologizing, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. “You could have let Luther help me.”
He scoffs. “You shouldn’t trust Luther. He had you choking on your own blood.”
Are we having a normal conversation? We’ve never had a conversation that doesn’t involve insults.
“Funny, he just told me something similar, but about everyone else.”
I’ve never seen Dacre in action, but watching him clean and tend to me makes me think Dacre must be something to watch in the kitchen. He’s doing it all thoroughly. Monitoring me. Wiping up droplets of blood. Checking every few seconds to see if the bleeding has stopped.
“Was that your grandfather? I wanted to introduce myself.”
“I promise my grandfather isn’t a man you want to meet.”
If I didn’t have my face buried in a bloody towel, I would ask more. Or maybe make a snide comment. Just a tiny one. “So, is that where you got all your charm?”
Where are his parents? It’s so hard not to ask questions, so I do it quickly.
“Maybe . . . your father or your mother is more . . . friendly?”
He smiles and speaks softly. “I wouldn’t know.”
That’s my cue to drop it, but I will be storing that in my memory bank for later.
I sit in the silence while Dacre cleans up my blood, and I try not to stare at his shaking hands. He’s trapped in this enclosed space with me, and I don’t know how hard this is for him.
I’ve had nosebleeds and cuts in front of other vampires before.
Growing up in Groveshire, our school nurse was a vampire, and I’d swing my legs onto the wooden table while I held paper towels to my nose.
There were so many large trees there that I barely saw the sky through the window, so I’d count the birds and ask her questions, like, “How uncomfortable is it to be around me with my blood exposed?” “Uncomfortable. But tolerable.”
But nothing about Dacre’s shaking hands is screaming tolerable. More like torture. Unbearable.
“You feel okay? Faint or anything?” His voice is calm despite his rigid shoulders and bulging neck muscles. The veins in his forearms pulse as he grips the counter.
“I’m okay. I’ll clean up. You don’t have to stay.” I check the towel. Still bleeding.
“No, I want to make sure that the bleeding stops, or I’m going to make you go to the nurse.”
I shake my head. Anything but that.
He sighs. “Fine.”
“Luther seemed very helpful,” I say, intentionally pressing a button I know he’ll press back.
“Luther is maybe the least helpful person I’ve ever met, and when you get to know him, you’ll understand why.”
“Oh, yes, but I can trust you? The man who harasses me every day?”
“Harass? I think you harass me.”
I roll my eyes and sigh.
“What?”
“Why does it always feel as if you want to say something, but you don’t? You’re . . . cryptic and bossy.”
Something about that budges his frown. “Bossy?”
“Yeah, you love telling others what to do.”
“You probably don’t get that much . . . You do the telling.”
My heart drums, and heat rises in my blood. Dacre leans in unexpectedly, and his voice grows deeper, sultry.
“How does it feel then, thief? To be told what to do?”
When I don’t say anything, he continues, “Maybe you should try it. You might find you like submitting and doing exactly what I tell you to do.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I spit.
He chuckles, standing to scrub his hands in the sink.
I let out a breath, thankful the blood is preventing me from smelling that stupid cologne and clouding my judgment. In fact, with the little distance, I feel more levelheaded than ever.
“I’m going to the Solexxa party this weekend. I can decide for myself who is and isn’t someone I can trust. And since you obviously hate me, I really hope you don’t show up.”
He snatches a clean towel and glowers at me. “You’re exhausting. Now, let me see.”
I remove the towel from my nose.
“Finally, it stopped.”
With a clean towel, I make quick work of wiping my face. “Allow me to remedy your exhaustion.”
The door is almost closed behind me when I stop. “Thank you.”
Mom taught me that killing people with kindness is the best way to travel through this world. It’s not a skill I’d say I’ve mastered, but I try.
“You’re welcome.” His voice echoes in the lounge as I reach the door.