Bite

Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

The low hum of my phone vibrating on the coffee table drags me out of sleep, pulling me from dreams of fangs, blood, and dangerously attractive vampires.

For a moment I lie still, the edges of the dream clinging like cobwebs and the phantom press of teeth against my skin so vivid that I almost reach up to touch my neck.

I consider rolling over and sinking back under, letting myself slip back into that dark, tantalizing dreamscape.

But the more consciousness seeps in, the more urgent checking my phone feels.

It could be Bex.

When I left the gala last night, she was still there laughing, flirting, and radiating the kind of boldness that people are instantly charmed by.

She thrives in danger, feeds on attention like vamps on blood.

‘Tiffany’ was completely in her element, while ‘Marilyn’ was embarrassingly off-kilter after letting James Devereaux take a bite.

He returned to the ballroom not long after I did, but he didn’t approach me again.

Instead, he watched. I felt the weight of his gaze on me all night, and every time I looked his way, those pale blue eyes held mine across the room like a tether.

I kept close to Bex and Audrey, politely declined feeding requests from other vamps, and drank champagne until the buzz drowned out my nerves.

The moment I received confirmation that my attendance fee was transferred, I bolted.

Rode home in the black car, stumbled up the steps to my apartment, and passed out.

The futon creaks beneath my weight as I roll over, reaching blindly toward the coffee table for my phone. Instead of finding it, tiny claws sink into my arm, piercing the skin like needles.

“Ow!” I groan, jerking my arm back and squinting an eye open.

The kitten blinks up at me from where he’s pounced, golden eyes wide, tail twitching. He looks positively smug about mauling me at dawn.

“Asshole,” I mutter, though my lips twitch into a reluctant smile. His fur is warm against my fingers when I reach over to rub his little head, and the tiny traitor starts purring instantly.

I manage to snatch my phone off the table without getting clawed on the second attempt, the light from the screen assaulting my retinas when I swipe it open.

The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, only a faint bluish haze pressing through the thin curtains strung over the window.

Nobody would text me this early– not even Bex.

Unless she was in trouble. My pulse spikes as my eyes adjust to the light of the screen, hoping she’s okay.

It's not a missed text or call from her that’s waiting for me, though. It’s a new engagement request from Bite.

My mouth runs dry as I stare at the notification.

After last night, I told myself I was done.

Done with invitations, done with requests, done with the contradiction of craving what terrifies me.

I’ve made enough money– more than enough, really.

Plenty to cover rent, groceries, even actual cat food for the little beast currently batting my phone cord like it’s a mouse.

I should’ve deleted the app the second I got home, but between the champagne haze and exhaustion, I guess I just forgot.

Or maybe some part of me didn’t want to.

Either way, the notification is still sitting there staring back at me like a dare, my thumb hovering.

Even though I’m not going to take the request, I suppose there’s no harm in just looking at it... right?

I click. The app loads, the request popping up. I bolt upright when I see the profile picture, my heart stuttering in my chest.

White-blond hair, ice blue eyes, and a carefully schooled expression gaze back at me from my phone screen. James Deveraux’s face has been lingering in my mind, haunting my dreams, and now it’s right here on my phone.

I immediately scroll past it to view the details of the request.

Name: James

Physical Age: 26

Engagement Type: Standard Feed

Location: Elm Grove, Private Estate

Time: 11:00 PM

Duration: 15 minutes

Compensation: $300

I blink at my phone, brain struggling to catch up.

Did he mean to send this?

Because if the stories are true, this shouldn’t be happening. He never drinks from the same human twice. Everyone knows that– I heard it at least a dozen times last night. It’s practically vampire lore.

And yet… here it is. A formal request for a second round with the vampire king himself.

I don’t think. I just tap ACCEPT, too curious not to.

The kitten mewls at my side, rubbing against me like he’s trying to warn me this is a recipe for disaster.

“Kinda forgot curiosity killed the cat,” I chuckle dryly, reaching over to scratch his fur. “This is probably a bad idea, huh buddy?”

He tilts his head back to gaze up at me, gold eyes blinking.

“If you’re gonna stay here, I should probably give you a name,” I murmur. “How about… Milton?”

He blinks.

“Ed?”

He just stares at me some more.

“We’ll work on it,” I say, tossing the threadbare blanket off my body and stretching my arms over my head.

The kitten hops down from the futon and trots toward the kitchen while I glance back down at my phone, frowning when I see the confirmation waiting there.

Your pickup time is 10:40 pm.

Dress to impress according to James’ preferences:

I try to scroll down, but there’s nothing else. No preferences, no guidelines. Which begs the question… what the hell do I wear for a meeting with the vampire king?

When I step out of my building to meet the black car at the curb, I’m wearing a brand-new dress. Well, new to me. I thrifted it, but from appearance alone, nobody would know it’s second-hand.

Navy blue silk clings to my curves, a slit running all the way up to the top of my left thigh and the neckline so low I swear I blushed when I caught my reflection on the way out the door.

It looks almost as expensive as the lingerie I’m wearing beneath it– the set I was gifted from Bite after my profile photoshoot.

It may be concealed by the dress, but just knowing it’s there makes me feel sexy and powerful in a way I never have before.

My heels click against the sidewalk as I approach the town car, giving the driver a polite nod before sliding into the back seat.

We set off, the ride smooth and silent. By the time the car slips past the wrought iron gates of the estate and starts up the long stone driveway, my stomach is so twisted into knots that I’m not sure whether they’ll ever unravel.

The mansion looms ahead, lit from within like something out of a dark fairy tale.

Ornate and imposing; a fortress built for creatures who don’t live by mortal rules.

We glide to a stop in front of the house, the driver coming around to open my door. I step out, and the same butler from last night appears before I even make it up the steps. He inclines his head and waves me inside without a word, his eyes never quite meeting mine.

The butler ushers me down a hauntingly familiar velvet-draped hallway, leading me back to James’ study before scurrying away.

A fire burns low in the hearth, the dim lighting creating pockets of shadow around the room.

The moment I enter, James rises smoothly from an armchair near the fireplace, those arresting blue eyes locking onto mine.

My heart skips a beat.

He’s dressed more casually tonight in charcoal gray slacks and a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. No suit jacket– just muscle and menace and effortless elegance.

“Marilyn,” he greets, his voice a low purr. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for… inviting me,” I say, standing awkwardly just inside the door, my fingers clasped tight around my silver clutch.

He inclines his chin, gaze dropping to give me a slow once-over. “You look ravishing.”

“Thanks,” I breathe, standing a little taller and trying to project a cool kind of confidence I definitely don’t feel. “You didn’t have any style preferences, so I wasn’t sure what to wear.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement. “I find you can learn a lot more about a person if you allow them to decide for themselves.”

“Then what does this outfit say about me?” I ask, cocking a brow.

He gives me another long once-over, the weight of his gaze so intense it damn near makes me squirm.

“That you’re playing a role, trying to conform to some arbitrary set of rules or expectations for what’s desirable to someone like me,” he muses, swiping a hand over his chin as his eyes ping back up to mine. “Aren’t you, Marilyn?”

I swallow thickly. He knows it’s an alias– of course he knows– and the way that name rolls off his tongue just feels wrong.

It’s not mine, and for some insane reason I’m suddenly desperate to hear how my real name would sound on his lips, way too tempted to break protocol and strip away the cloak of anonymity hanging over us.

I don’t. My brain catches up just in time to remind me that this entire encounter is purely transactional. Bite, feed, get paid. That’s why I’m here.

“Drink?” James offers, already crossing the room to the small bar cart in the corner.

It feels rhetorical, so I don’t answer, watching as he pours amber liquid from a crystal decanter into two matching tumblers. He approaches to offer me one and I take it– both because refusing feels silly and having something to hold onto will help keep my hands from fidgeting.

He clinks his glass lightly against mine, lips curving into the ghost of a smile as he nods toward the chaise near the fire. “Shall we sit?”

“Sure,” I say, tightening my fingers around my glass.

James gestures for me to lead the way, the back of my neck prickling as I feel him following closely behind.

Subconsciously, I register his presence as a threat– but consciously, I’m so drawn to him that it overrides my base instincts.

I flick a glance his way as I ease down onto the chaise, not even flinching when he sinks down right beside me.

We nurse our drinks in silence for a moment, the burn of the whiskey warming my throat and loosening the knots in my belly.

“I heard you never feed from the same donor twice,” I say, glancing over at him.

He lowers his tumbler to rest atop his knee, eyes twinkling with amusement. “True.”

“So, what changed?” I probe, cocking my head.

He shifts his weight as he leans back, his thigh brushing mine. “You did.”

My breath hitches, pulse taking off like a rocket.

He watches me for a beat longer, expression unreadable, then reaches over to the side table and sets his glass down gently.

“I’ve sampled every blood type, every variation,” he murmurs.

“I’ve fed from royalty and rebels, saints and sociopaths.

But you?” He tilts his head as he leans in, a rogue strand of white-blond hair catching in his eyelashes.

“You’re uniquely delicious, mea dulcis. A rare find. ”

Heat licks up my spine, cheeks flaming. “So my blood… tastes good?” I stammer, voice pitched too high.

A slow smile curves his lips. “Not just good,” he states, reaching up to trail his fingertips over the pulse point in my neck. “You taste dangerous. Like something I could get addicted to.”

My whole body tightens, a treacherous throb pulsing between my thighs. As I stare into his eyes, there’s no denying the pull I feel toward James Devereaux. It’s magnetic, inevitable– like jumping off a cliff without looking down.

He doesn’t ask permission this time. Just watches me for a beat longer, then slides right into my space, fingers grazing my throat. His touch is startlingly gentle, almost reverent as he brushes my hair aside and leans in.

The bite comes fast, the ache that follows blooming instantly.

It’s deep and warm, heady and intoxicating.

I clutch at his shirt in a feeble attempt to stay grounded, but it feels like the room tilts anyway, everything blurring until only the two of us remain.

His lips seal over my skin as he feeds, each pull sending pulses of heat through my body.

His hand lands on my hip like an anchor, fingers flexing as he adjusts his grip.

I want his hand to stay there.

No, I want it to move. Under my dress, between my thighs…

He slowly withdraws his fangs from my flesh, but doesn’t pull away entirely. His tongue traces over the wound, then travels lower to lick a drop from the curve of my neck, breath ghosting over my skin.

“Your profile says blood only,” he murmurs as he draws back to meet my eyes, fingers grazing up the curve of my waist.

I nod stiffly, pulse skipping. “It does.”

He cocks a brow. “Can I change your mind?”

My lips part, but no words come out. I should say something. Anything. But my tongue is suddenly too heavy in my mouth, my thoughts a blur of heat and want as he lets the moment hang between us like a held breath.

“No rush,” he says, lips quirking into a wicked smirk. “Think on it.”

Then, like nothing happened, he rises to stand, offering me his hand.

I take it, legs wobbling slightly as he pulls me to my feet. I start to sway, but his large hand clamps down on the side of my waist to steady me, those piercing blue eyes locked on mine.

Once I’m steady, James walks me to the front door like a perfect gentleman, silent but still overwhelming. He pauses at the threshold, turning to face me.

“Until next time, darling,” he murmurs, raising my hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

My cheeks heat as I nod back at him, then step out into the night, the air cold against my flushed skin. My heels click against the stone as I descend the steps to the black car idling at the curb, and as I approach the back door, I can’t stop myself from glancing over my shoulder.

He’s still there, standing on the grand steps. Watching me like he already knows I’ll return.

And I hate that he might be right.