Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Iwake the next morning still buzzing, though I’m not sure if it’s from Sebastian’s bite, the fancy wine, or the money that landed in my account overnight.
Sleep didn’t come easily– I kept replaying the feel of his mouth on my skin, the heat it sparked through me, the way I giggled like a teenager when he suggested more.
Every time I closed my eyes, I swear I could feel the ghost of his teeth at my throat.
It should’ve left me shaken. Terrified, even. But what rattles me most is that it didn’t. Instead, I’m embarrassed by how much I liked it– how much a part of me actually wanted more than a bite.
That thought sits heavy in my chest as I stumble through my morning routine, trying to distract myself with shitty instant coffee and kitten snuggles and anything else that feels remotely normal.
By noon, the adrenaline has mostly faded, leaving me with nothing but restless energy and a dull ache of confusion. Just when I start to think maybe last night will settle into the background noise of bad decisions and worse impulses, my phone lights up with a notification from the Bite app.
Special Engagement Invitation!
For a moment, all I can do is stare at it. Then curiosity gets the best of me, and I tap on the app icon to open it up.
Event: Donor Gala
Location: Elm Grove, Private Estate
Duration: 4 hours
Base Compensation: $1,000
Additional Donations: $500 each
My stomach somersaults.
Holy. Shit.
This isn’t a one-off, it’s a party– and I could earn a thousand bucks by just showing up.
Before I can spiral too far, my phone buzzes again with a text from Bex.
You get the invite for tonight’s gala?
Just now.
Say you’re going? I promise it’s not as scary as it sounds.
Plus, free drinks!
For us, not the vamps. They’re paying out the ass and we’re reaping all the benefits.
You in?
My thumb hovers over the screen as I hesitate. Rent is due in two days, and one more short engagement would cover what I owe… but if I attend this ‘gala’, I could cover next month, too. And if I allow just one extra donation– hell, maybe two– I could give myself a safety net.
It’s tempting. Too tempting. The kind of temptation that feels like a slippery slope.
One taste, one choice, one little compromise, and suddenly you’re not sure where you’ll stop.
Fuck it, I’m in.
Hell yeah! See you there!
I tell myself I’m not nervous as I go through the motions of officially accepting the invitation through the app, but the way my gut twists when the confirmation pops up says otherwise.
Your pickup time is 9:00 pm.
Evening attire will be provided via delivery.
A few hours later, when a sleek garment bag is hand-delivered to my door, my heart nearly drops into my stomach.
I unzip it slowly. Inside waits a dress I have no business touching, let alone wearing. Blood red silk gleams in the afternoon light, the fabric luxe and impossibly soft. It’s cut low at the chest and scandalously lower in the back, the silhouette slinky enough to make my pulse quicken.
It’s stunning. Obviously expensive and sexy as sin. The kind of dress that should come with a warning label.
When I slip it on, it hugs every curve like it was poured over my body. I stare at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman looking back. She looks bold and unapologetic, like she belongs in their world.
I don’t, but I curl my hair into soft waves over one shoulder, darken my eyes with liner and shadow, and swipe a deep garnet gloss across my lips anyway, painting the illusion until it almost feels real.
And by the time the sun sinks and the black car arrives, the woman in the mirror definitely isn’t Taylor anymore.
She’s Marilyn. And Marilyn knows how to walk into danger with her head held high.
Still, I’m twitchy the whole ride over, legs crossed tight, fingers drumming against my thigh. My thoughts loop in circles until I’m dizzy.
Will Lucien be there? Sebastian? If they are, will I let them bite me?
The questions buzz through my skull like static, and I’m not sure if it’s dread or excitement sparking beneath my skin.
The mansion– or possibly fortress– is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
It rises in the distance like something out of a gothic painting as we travel the long driveway through the estate, massive and brooding against the dark sky.
The driveway leading to it stretches nearly a mile, lined with wrought-iron lanterns that pool golden light onto cobblestones.
On either side, towering hedges and frost-dusted trees close in like watchful sentinels.
Behind us, the gates creak shut with a resonant clang, cutting off any chance of escape.
Up close, the mansion is breathtaking and terrifying all at once– part cathedral, part castle, its stone walls climbing high and tangled with ivy.
Stained-glass windows glow faintly from within, and gothic spires claw upward into the blackness, like the house itself is trying to pierce the night sky.
The car eases to a stop and I step out carefully, the hem of my red dress whispering across the cobblestones.
The night air is sharp, scented with pine and smoke.
Before I can take more than a few steps, the massive doors swing inward, revealing a butler in a black coat and gloves.
He regards me with a nod, then ushers me inside without a word.
The interior is a fever dream of opulence.
Vaulted ceilings stretch above me, painted with sweeping murals that seem to move if I stare too long.
Chandeliers drip crystals like frozen waterfalls, catching the candlelight and scattering it across floors so polished they gleam like liquid glass.
Velvet curtains, gilded frames, flickering sconces everywhere– it feels like I’ve stepped into someone else’s fantasy, and it’s overwhelming.
Too much of everything, and yet every detail demands my attention.
I’m led to the ballroom, where I quickly find that I’m not the only one wearing red. All the donors are in it– silk, velvet, chiffon– heels clicking, lips painted crimson, hair swept into fancy up-dos. Walking amongst them is like wading through a sea of blood, a buffet laid out for the monsters.
Men and women dressed in red move gracefully with drinks in hand, mingling with the vamps wearing blacks, blues, and shades of grey.
Laughter and low music set the atmosphere, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses.
My gaze drifts to the periphery, and I realize discreet feedings are happening near pillars and behind curtains.
They’re already drinking.
My throat tightens. I inhale, slow and steady, thinking maybe I should just… turn around. Walk out. Pretend I was never here.
“Bitch!”
A shrill voice cuts through the chatter, high and familiar, followed by Bex bursting through a cluster of guests in a cherry-red satin mini dress, eyes lighting up the second they lock onto mine.
She grabs my hands, giving me a rapid once-over that makes me blush.
“Damn, you clean up hot,” she remarks, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Come on, I want you to meet Audrey.”
She pulls me further into the room, and my feet barely seem to touch the floor, moving on their own as I stumble to keep pace. The hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and faint music swirls around us, and I feel like I’m walking through a dream I don’t fully understand.
“Who are you tonight, by the way?” Bex whispers, nudging me in the ribs as she steers me across the room.
“Marilyn,” I whisper back.
She snorts a laugh. “Oh god, you let Fran pick, didn’t you?”
I wince, shrugging.
“I’m Tiffany,” she provides, brows wagging.
“Wow, way to pick a stripper name,” I mutter under my breath.
Bex just shrugs, flipping the ends of her short hair with practiced flair. “I mean, if they wanna pay for a strip show, I’m not above it.”
I snort in amusement, the sound lost in the murmur of guests, but it loosens something tight inside me as Bex directs us toward a statuesque blonde wrapped in red lace.
“Audrey, this is Marilyn,” Bex introduces smoothly. “Marilyn, Audrey.”
“Nice to meet you,” Audrey greets brightly, red-painted lips curving into a devilish smirk that makes my stomach flutter.
“It’s her first gala, so I was just about to tell her how this works, unless you wanna do the honors,” Bex continues, already flagging down a passing server. She snatches two flutes of champagne off his tray, handing one over to me automatically.
I don’t hesitate to take it, sipping slowly in an effort to ward off my nerves. My fingers tremble a little around the stem of the glass, betraying just how out of place I’m feeling here.
“You get your base for just showing up,” Audrey explains, edging toward Bex and looping an arm through hers like they’re best friends.
She’s my best friend, but whatever.
“If anyone wants to feed from you and you consent, it’s five hundred more per donation,” Audrey continues. “Plus tips.”
“Wait.” I blink. “They tip?”
“Sometimes,” Bex shrugs, lazily sipping her champagne. “Especially if they like you. Especially if it’s, you know…” she trails off with a suggestive wink.
My heart thunders in my chest.
“Yeah, I… didn’t wind up making any changes to my donor profile,” I admit, heat creeping up my neck.
“Pussy,” Bex laughs, loud enough for a few nearby guests to glance our way.
“The money’s good enough as it is,” I mumble defensively, taking another sip of champagne to hide my embarrassment.
Then it hits me– a subtle chill skimming the base of my spine, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. I freeze mid-swallow, pulse spiking as I lift my gaze.
Across the room, a man stands at the top of the stairs leading down from the second floor balcony, backlit by the chandelier above.
He radiates authority in a deep black suit that’s custom-fitted to his broad shoulders and lean, powerful frame, white-blond hair swept back from his severe face.
There’s something hauntingly beautiful about him; almost otherworldly.
Shadows accentuate his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, pale blue eyes like shards of ice trained in my direction.
He’s watching me.
My breath catches at the realization, pulse taking off like a rocket.
“Don’t look now,” Audrey titters, voice hushed and reverent, “but that’s James Devereaux.”
Too late. I’m already looking, and I can’t look away.
“He holds the title of Sanguinis Rex, the vampire king of the northeast,” she explains quietly. “Ancient. Gorgeous. Unbelievable in bed– or so they say. Nobody on our side knows much beyond that since he never feeds from the same human twice.”
“He’s looking right at you, girl,” Bex adds excitedly, poking me in the ribs.
I swat her away and try to look anywhere else, but it’s like my gaze is drawn back to the man by gravity itself.
He starts descending the stairs purposefully, moving like smoke, elegant and untouchable. Each step down the staircase is deliberate, his eyes locked on mine like he’s already made a decision and I just haven’t caught up yet.
The crowd at the base of the stairs parts for him instinctively, as if compelled by some invisible pressure in the atmosphere. He doesn’t acknowledge any of them. It’s like he only sees me.
The air thickens, heavy and charged, taking on a pulse of its own.
My chest constricts, fight or flight instincts going haywire.
Though my mind’s screaming at me to run, to hide, to look anywhere but at him, I can’t.
I’m trapped in the intensity of his stare, completely captivated by this handsome stranger.
His attention is a heavy, intoxicating thing that makes every nerve in my body hum with some strange mixture of warning and longing I can’t even begin to make sense of, and I’m not even sure I want to.
He’s close now. Ten steps away. Five.
One…