Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
JAMES
The delicate melody of Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp minor drifts through the surround sound system, coaxing me gently toward consciousness. As the music builds, so does my awareness. Muscles twitch. Thoughts stir. My eyes open to the dark.
The king-size mattress beneath me is a sea of black silk– cool against my bare skin, perfectly smooth.
I never toss or turn, never wake tangled in the sheets.
I haven’t dreamed in over a century. The closest I get is waking up with my fangs half-extended and a sick craving tearing at my insides, which some people might call a nightmare. I just call it Tuesday.
Taylor, on the other hand, sleeps like she’s fighting for her life.
Arms flailing, knees kicking, sheets twisted around her body.
I lingered in the room long after she drifted off last night, just watching her breathe and listening to the steady rhythm of her pulse.
Wondering how to unlock the secrets running through her veins.
Even now, I can smell her on my skin; vanilla shampoo and faint floral perfume.
The scent sharpens my hunger as I roll over to press a button on the nightstand.
The blackout blinds hum to life, rising in slow, mechanical precision.
Blue twilight spills across the floor, chasing shadows into the corners.
My bedroom stretches out before me– vaulted ceilings, black marble fireplace, rows of antique swords glinting between pieces of fine art.
It’s the kind of opulence that would be gauche if I didn’t have the presence to back it up.
I stretch once, luxuriously, before sliding out of bed and stalking toward the closet.
My movements are fluid, effortless, lacking any residual stiffness from ten hours of rigidity. Lately, I’ve been waking stronger. Sharper. The fatigue that used to cling to me like a shadow has even started fading. All since I started feeding from Taylor.
Her blood nourishes me differently. It keeps me satiated longer, quiets the hunger for anyone but her.
I rise feeling rejuvenated, as though the centuries have rolled off my back.
My endurance has doubled; even my strength and speed have changed.
Yesterday, I nearly tore a door off its hinges without meaning to, like some newly-turned fledgling learning his limits.
I can’t decide whether the realization excites or unnerves me.
In my world, power is survival. Strength keeps you at the top; weakness buries you beneath it. I already hold the title of Sanguinis Rex– the Blood King– because none in this region can rival me. But the hierarchy is a delicate balance, and shifts in power never go unnoticed.
If I'm growing stronger, those above me will feel the tremor long before I speak it aloud. Fear breeds paranoia, and paranoia tends to make vampires homicidal. It’s far easier to remove a rival than risk being outmatched.
Which is why I’ll need to be selective, exercising absolute discretion in my search for answers about my little mortal.
In the closet, I pull a crisp charcoal gray suit from its hanger, pairing it with a black button-up and dressing the part of a king.
I’m scheduled to hold court at the estate this evening, granting audience to those under my rule.
It’s a weekly nuisance I endure out of obligation: listening to grievances, making rulings, approving or denying petitions to sire new progeny.
Tedious, but necessary. With luck, it’ll be over quickly.
Until then, I have a few hours to spend far more productively– feeding from Taylor and drawing those soft, desperate sounds from her lips that make me forget the centuries behind me.
In the en-suite, I rake a comb through my pale blond hair, then splash cold water over my face.
My reflection stares back, light blue eyes rimmed with that perpetual trace of red, no matter how long I rest. A reminder of what I am.
The scars at the base of my neck lie hidden beneath ink, but my fingers find them anyway, tracing the ridged skin. A reminder that even kings can bleed.
I return to the nightstand and press a recessed button on the wood panel, the door locks disengaging with a heavy thud.
My bedroom is a fortress– sanctuary and tomb in one, impenetrable without my consent.
Protection against a truth every powerful vampire knows: power means nothing when you’re at rest. No one is invulnerable in sleep.
I pick up my phone, swiping it open and thumbing through the notifications as I head for the door.
Most of them are meaningless– meetings, messages, reports– but one catches my eye.
An email from the genealogist I hired to investigate my new donor’s lineage.
The message is full of apologies and excuses, all circling the same point.
Genealogy is a dead end.
Fuck.
I stuff my phone into my pocket with a discontented grunt and head for the library, expecting to find Taylor draped over one of the armchairs with a book in hand.
If she’s not there, she’ll be in the kitchen inhaling carbs or harassing the staff– it’s a toss-up as to which.
Not that it matters, so long as I don’t have to deal with her cat.
The clip of my footsteps echoes along the marble floor as I move through the halls, the sound sharp in the cavernous quiet.
Taylor isn’t in the library, but her pet is. The little bastard cracks one yellow eye at me from his perch on the sofa, hisses, then curls tighter and resumes his nap.
I should’ve fought harder on the cat thing, offered her more money to part with the animal.
I’ve considered just tossing it out and hoping it wanders off, but the creature seems to give her some misplaced sense of security.
So, I’ve let it stay… for now. But once she gets more comfortable, I may conveniently leave a door standing open.
I check the kitchen next. The head chef looks up when I enter, eyes sharp and wary.
“Taylor?” I ask, voice flat.
“She hasn’t been down, sir,” Flora replies, hands tightening around a mixing bowl.
I nod once and move on, blurring upstairs in a burst of speed to check Taylor’s room.
It’s empty.
Something cold winds its way up my spine. Not panic– I don’t do panic. But I do hate the unknown.
“Are you looking for Miss Holt?” a housemaid pipes up from the doorway, a stack of folded laundry balanced in her arms.
“Where is she?” I snap.
The woman blanches. “She, uh… Miss Holt went out this afternoon. Requested a car to go downtown. I suggested we clear it with you, but she was rather insistent…”
I dismiss her with a flick of my hand and pull my phone from my pocket.
The perks of owning Bite are considerable, one being that I’m granted unrestricted access to the entire system.
I can see every donor’s movements thanks to the trackers in their bracelets, pinpoint their location down to the square foot.
Taylor has been scrubbed from the relays, but I cloned the database to my private software beforehand.
When I pull it up and click her name, her dot appears on the map, a pulsing blue glow somewhere deep in the city.
I zoom in, pinpointing her location to a dive bar in a shitty neighborhood. Another dot glows beside hers– another Bite donor, bracelet active. Bex Hamilton, the friend from the foster system.
This may work to my advantage.
“Wait,” I call as the maid turns to leave. “I’ll be needing a car.”
The driver is already pulling up by the time I hit the front steps. I slide into the back seat, fingers drumming against the armrest, eyes fixed on the pulsing blue dot on my phone screen. The car glides through the city, windows blacked out, world reduced to a wash of darkness and motion.
When we arrive at the bar, I pocket my phone and take a long look through the glass.
The neon sign over the door reads Cabo Cantina, though half the bulbs are dead and the rest flicker between turquoise and sickly yellow.
I shrug off my suit jacket, undo the top buttons of my shirt, and roll my sleeves to the elbows.
Less predator, more man. Then I step out into the night.
The bouncer takes one look at me and moves aside without a word. Inside, the smell is unbearable– lime, spilled beer, fried grease, and the harsh bite of cleaning chemicals that never quite mask the rot. Given our enhanced sense of smell, it’s a cocktail practically designed to ward off vampires.
I pause just inside the threshold, eyes rapidly adjusting to the low light. A TV drones over the bar, pool tables clattering near booths lining the back wall. I spot Taylor instantly.
She’s sitting across from her friend in one of the booths, looking almost girlish with the pink flush staining her cheeks. A half-empty margarita sweats onto the table in front of her, condensation pooling beneath the glass as her fingers toy with the stem.
She hasn’t seen me yet. I take my time watching her, savoring the thrill of the hunt.
Then she suddenly stiffens. Her head snaps toward me, eyes widening. They lock with mine, and the effect is instantaneous– her body goes taut, knuckles whitening around the stem of her glass. I advance toward her, unhurried, amused, watching her scramble to hide the reaction.
Adrenaline sharpens her scent, sharp and electric. I breathe it in as I step into her space, resting a palm against the lacquered tabletop.
“Good evening, ladies.”
Taylor’s hazel eyes are huge and luminous in the dim light. “James, Hi,” she greets, her voice coming out high-pitched and shaky. “What are you… shit, did you need to…” She yanks her sleeve up to expose her wrist, as if I’ll feed from her right here and now.
Adorable.
And oh so accommodating.
My little blood donor has adapted faster than I expected, given the stubborn defiance I’ve seen her exhibit from time to time. She’s cautious. Clever. A survivor. Traits that drew me in almost as much as her blood.