Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
The message comes just after noon the following day.
I’m lying on my futon, scrolling through job listings I’m not qualified for, when my phone buzzes in my hand and a push notification pops up.
You have a new engagement request!
My heart lurches.
I sit up slowly, blinking at my phone as if it’s a live bomb in my hands. A small red dot pulses beside the app icon, and I tap it with trembling fingers.
The Bite app opens with a flourish of sleek graphics, a notification filling the center of the screen.
Congratulations, Marilyn!
You’ve been selected for an engagement.
I’m already regretting that name. It makes me sound a hundred years old– but then again, most vamps are a hell of a lot older than they look, so I guess it works.
I hit the view button on the notification and the request loads on my screen, the client’s profile picture appearing at the top.
His photo is professional in quality and a little too perfect, depicting a clean-cut man in a well-tailored suit.
He looks like someone who belongs to old money and newer sin; strikingly handsome with a sharp jaw, tousled black hair, and that unreadable expression vampires wear like a second skin– somewhere that dances dangerously between charming and predatory.
I scroll past his photo, skimming the details of the proposed engagement.
Name: Lucien
Physical Age: 32
Engagement Type: Standard Feed
Location: Midtown, Private Residence
Time: 10:00 PM
Duration: 15 minutes
Compensation: $300
I stare at the number as if it might change, my pulse taking off like a rocket. That’s a lot of money for just fifteen minutes of my time. If I get two more requests like this one, I’ll make enough to cover my rent in less than an hour total.
Still, my thumb hovers over the option to accept or decline.
When things seem too good to be true, they usually are.
But then I think about the passive-aggressive text from my landlord warning me of my looming rent deadline, which he already extended twice. I think of my empty fridge, and the way my stomach curled when I had to count out change for a pack of ramen last night.
I hit ACCEPT.
Within seconds, my phone pings again with a new notification.
Your pickup time is 9:45 PM.
Dress to impress according to Lucien’s preferences: skirt or dress, high heels, red lipstick.
So, I guess I’ve got a little over nine hours to raid my closet for something decent and agonize over whether I’m picking out what I’ll be wearing to earn my rent or meet my demise.
Fantastic.
By the time the sleek black car glides to a stop outside my building, I’m dressed the part of ‘Marilyn’ in a short black skirt, black tights, and high-heeled boots that you can’t even tell came from the clearance bin last season.
My hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, my makeup subtle but sharp, lips painted blood red.
The bracelet on my wrist feels colder than it did before, my fingers fiddling with the metal band as the driver steps out.
It's a different man this time, but he’s equally as silent and stoic as the last. He comes around to open the back door, looking to me expectantly.
I slide in.
We start off, and the city rushes past in blurred motion, a winter palette of gray skies and steel buildings. My reflection flickers in the tinted window, and I barely even recognize myself.
What the hell am I doing?
Too late to ask that now. I’m already on my way, so I guess I’ll just have to hope like hell I’m about to get paid, not murdered.
When the car pulls up to the address, all I can do is blink out the window as I take it in.
The townhouse is all glass and black brick, elegant and modern, perched behind a sleek metal gate that glides open to admit us.
The driver parks up front and gets out to open my door, a single camera watching as I step past him to approach the house.
Before I can even knock, the door swings open, my breath catching.
Lucien is even better looking in person.
He stands tall in a charcoal sweater and tailored slacks, barefoot in the comfort of his own home. His eyes are a stormy gray, amused and assessing all at once. He gives me a slow once-over, not leering, but not exactly subtle, either.
“You must be Marilyn,” he says smoothly, voice deep and oddly calming.
“That’s me,” I breathe, glancing up at the gleaming facade of his townhouse. “Nice place.”
He smiles faintly before ushering me inside and closing the door behind me. The house smells faintly of cedar and cigar smoke, and the interior is stunning. Every piece of furniture looks curated, every object has its place. It feels like I’m walking through a showroom, not a private residence.
“Please,” Lucien says, gesturing to a plush white sofa in a room adjacent to the foyer. “Make yourself comfortable.”
I nod numbly and go to take a seat, crossing my legs and clasping my hands together in my lap to keep them from fidgeting. My fingers twitch anyway, my heart pounding at a chaotic rhythm.
Lucien disappears for a moment, then returns with two crystal tumblers and a bottle of vodka so expensive it doesn’t even have a label. He sets them down on the glass coffee table and pours us both a drink, offering one to me like this is a date.
It isn’t, but I still take the drink.
He sinks down onto the sofa beside me, a little too close for comfort. Then again, I’m not sure what’s considered appropriate behavior in this situation– I’m so out of my depth here that I don’t even know which way is up.
I take a sip from the glass, the vodka burning its way down my throat and loosening something in my chest. Then I take another. It helps with the nerves, albeit marginally.
Lucien watches me with hooded eyes, one arm resting along the back of the sofa. “First time?” he asks.
I nod, my throat tightening. “That obvious?”
His smile sharpens a little, but not unkindly. “Most first-timers are more nervous.”
“I’m doing great, then,” I chuckle uncomfortably.
“You are,” he agrees, gaze dropping to the side of my neck and homing in on my pulse point. “May I?”
Straight to the point.
Then again, I suppose there’s no sense in beating around the bush. We both know what I’m here for, and I’ve only been booked for fifteen minutes, five of which have already expired.
I jerk another nod, posture stiff and muscles wound tight.
Lucien shifts closer, his knee brushing mine. One hand lifts to sweep my ponytail behind my shoulder, the other resting lightly on my waist. His fingers are cool and precise as they ghost across the hollow of my throat, tracing the flutter of my pulse.
“Try to relax,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing.
Easy for him to say.
My heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest as he leans in, his breath warm and intimate against my skin. My stomach clenches with anxiety and a strange sort of excitement, and it takes everything in me to stay still and not pull away when I hear the soft pop of his fangs extending.
A shiver ripples up my spine when his lips land on my neck. The sharp points of his teeth scrape my skin, eliciting another shiver. Then he bites down.
It’s not like a needle, or a blade, or like anything I expected. His fangs pierce my skin with a strange, slick pressure, and I gasp– not in pain, but something else entirely.
Heat floods through me in a wave, rushing from my neck down my spine and curling low in my belly.
Every nerve ending lights up like wildfire, my breath stuttering.
Lucien’s throat bobs as he begins to drink from me, and a slow, impossible throb starts between my legs.
I clamp my teeth down on the inside of my cheek to stop a sound from escaping, trying my hardest not to squirm.
What the hell is happening to me?
Lucien drinks in slow pulls, his grip steady and firm. His hand at my waist is like a grounding force, holding me still and anchoring me to the moment. I feel myself swaying slightly toward him, lashes fluttering.
It’s dizzying. Electric. Erotic in a way I don’t understand.
And then it’s over.
His withdraws his fangs, tongue sweeping over the puncture wounds in the side of my neck to stem the blood flow. He lazily licks the last drop from his lips, retracting his fangs as he sits back, studying me with fascination like I’m a rare wine he’s just discovered.
“You’re delicious,” he murmurs, voice low and eyes bright with renewed interest.
I blink at him, still a little woozy. “Uh… thank you?”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “No, thank you,” he croons, licking his lips once more before sliding his phone from his pocket and tapping something on the screen.
A second later, my own phone chimes. I pull it out, staring down at the notification in disbelief.
Engagement Complete.
$300 Transfer Pending.
Well shit.
Just like that, I’m a third of the way to keeping my apartment.
Lucien stands and smooths the front of his sweater, gazing down at me reverently. “Thank you for your services, Marilyn. You were… exquisite.”
A compliment and a goodbye.
I manage a stiff nod and rise to my feet, still flushed and off-balance. “Anytime,” I breathe, as if anything about what just happened is normal.
He chuckles softly as he slides a palm to the small of my back, guiding me toward the door. My legs are wobbly, my head feels floaty, but all things considered, that wasn’t so bad. It’s the easiest three hundred bucks I’ve ever made.
The black car is still idling in the driveway when I step back outside. I slide into the back seat, heart still pounding, an ache lingering on the side of my neck– and somewhere else I don’t want to acknowledge. I press a hand to my chest, trying to catch my breath.
I don’t even know what I’m feeling.
Turned on. Confused. Weirdly… alive.