Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
JAMES
Asoft chime rouses me from sleep, and I wake with the distinct sense that something’s wrong. Not the jump-scare, cold-sweat kind of wrong, but something subtler. A hairline fracture in the glass of my routine; the instinctive awareness of a hunter waking to find the forest silent.
My internal clock– and the lingering weight of fatigue– tells me it’s early afternoon, still hours from sunset.
I’m rarely conscious at this time of day unless there’s fire or blood involved.
Harsh light grates against my enhanced senses, the world too loud, too sharp, too exposed when the sun’s out.
The nocturnal rhythm of vampires might’ve originated from our hunting habits, but our physiology’s to blame for the perpetuation.
For a few minutes I just lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to rationalize the disturbance so I can sink back under.
By all appearances, everything’s as it should be– blackout shades drawn tight, the room cocooned in synthetic dark.
No sound except the low hum of the vents.
And yet every muscle in my body is strung taut as a bowstring with the lingering sense that something’s off.
Unable to shake it, I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The source of the chime flashes on the screen: a message from one of the household staff, informing me that Taylor requested a car.
Of course.
After her last unsupervised excursion into the city, I made it clear the staff are to alert me any time she leaves the estate– a necessary security precaution given my position.
She’s more valuable than she knows; more vulnerable than she realizes.
I’d prefer if she was never out of my sight at all, but most mortals require the illusion of freedom and independence to remain content.
Strip that away, and they tend to panic. An annoyance I’d rather avoid.
Since I’m awake now, it seems simpler to bypass the messenger and just ask Taylor where she’s going myself.
Making my way to the en-suite, I wash the taste of sleep from my mouth, smooth pomade through my hair, and dress. Today, it’s black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a charcoal sport coat– understated, but presentable. Once finished, I disengage the locks and step out into the hall.
The house greets me in quiet order. I pause to listen, stretching my senses to their full, unnatural reach. I hear the clatter of pots from the kitchen, the hum of a vacuum somewhere below. Familiar sounds. Ordinary ones.
Still, unease clings to the edges of my awareness.
I move down the corridor, swiftly crossing from my wing into hers. Taylor’s door stands slightly ajar, her voice threading softly through the crack– along with the steady metronome of a heartbeat I’ve memorized.
I don’t knock. I never do. I push the door open and step in.
She’s standing before the mirror, twisting side to side and studying her reflection.
She’s wearing dark jeans and a pale blue cashmere sweater.
Simple, unassuming, just shy of angelic.
The color turns her skin luminous, that warm olive tone edged in softness like the light before dawn.
Her hair falls loose and curled, framing her face with an artful kind of disarray that can’t possibly be accidental.
She’s tense. I can see it in the line of her shoulders, the way she bites her lip. Restless energy bleeds through every movement– the same current that’s been humming through me since I woke. Too similar to be coincidence.
For a moment, I simply watch her, waiting for her to look up and catch my eyes in the mirror. There’s something almost painful about her beauty. Not a pain in my chest, but somewhere deeper; more primal. A pulse of hunger I have to actively force down whenever she’s near.
“What do you think, Oz?” she murmurs, gaze lifting in the mirror as she addresses the cat sprawled lazily on the bed behind her.
He cracks open a yellow eye, and that’s when the little bastard spots me. His ears flatten, a strangled hiss tearing out of him as he leaps to his feet.
Taylor startles, spinning around and slapping a hand to her chest as our eyes lock. “Jesus, you scared me,” she gasps.
“Didn’t mean to,” I lie, inhaling the scent of her fear like a drug. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping? Did I not wear you out thoroughly enough last night?”
A blush rises to her cheeks, but her mouth presses into a flat line. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be sleeping. It’s the middle of the day.” She glances at the clock. “Don’t you have at least another four hours in your coffin?”
I arch a brow. I can’t tell if she’s joking, but the look on her face suggests she isn’t.
“Decided to crawl out early,” I reply casually, stretching my arms out in front of me. “Gets cramped in there.”
Her hazel eyes widen as if she’s just confirmed some private suspicion. Ridiculous. Still, I don’t correct her. I’m not in the mood to give another lecture on the vampire species, and a little mystery serves its purpose. Uncertainty keeps mortals cautious. Keeps them aware.
Also, the scent of her fear is exquisite.
I advance further into the room as if pulled toward her by gravity itself.
The cat makes his displeasure known by hissing again, his back arched, tail puffed like a bottlebrush.
One pointed glare sends him bolting off the bed and skittering out the door, claws scraping the floorboards.
I frown after the irritating creature, still plotting his demise, then refocus on Taylor.
“Going somewhere?” I ask before she can give me an attitude about scaring off her cat.
“Yeah,” she breathes, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I have a check-in at Bite.”
My jaw tightens. “Since when?”
“Since I got a reminder call this morning,” she mumbles, crossing to the vanity to grab her purse. “Monthly check-ins are part of the contract, remember? To make sure I’m alive and well and you haven’t drained me dry.”
Oh, I remember. I remember including the clause to ease her mind, give her some sense of safety in entering the agreement. I also remember having her completely erased from Bite’s database a week ago, so she absolutely should not be getting reminder calls for appointments that no longer exist.
My mind cycles through possible explanations. None of them are good.
“I’ll go with you,” I say.
She waves me off. “No need, I can handle it.”
“I insist.”
Her mouth opens– then closes. Whatever retort she’s swallowing stays there, bitten down behind her teeth. She tugs her sweater lower instead, smoothing it over her hips in a nervous gesture.
“Fine,” she grumbles. “I already requested a car.”
I’m aware, little mortal.
“Excellent,” I say evenly, though irritation simmers in my veins. “We’ll leave now. Wear a coat, another cold front rolled in this morning.”
She glares at me as though she doesn’t like being told what to do– lie– but obeys anyway, pulling a black puffer jacket from the closet and shrugging it on. I watch the graceful way she moves, tracking the steady tick of her pulse in her throat.
She has no idea what she does to me.
We descend to the waiting car and slide into the back seat, sealed in the hush of leather and glass. Taylor doesn’t speak as the driver pulls away from the house. She’s still vibrating with anxious energy as she stares out the window, arms wrapped tightly around herself for warmth.
I subtly adjust the heat a notch, my gaze lingering on her profile– the fine line of her nose, the soft bow of her lips. My strange fixation with this one is starting to border on obsession.
Dangerous for her.
Disarming for me.
The city blurs past through the tinted windows.
When we arrive at the Steele Holdings building, I step out first, offering a hand she ignores.
I settle for placing it on her lower back instead, proceeding to escort her through the glass doors and into the gleaming marble lobby.
She glances toward the security guard, but I urge her forward without pause.
We step into the elevator and the doors close, sealing us in mirrored quiet.
Taylor leans against the back wall with her arms folded, pretending not to steal glances at me.
I don’t bother to pretend I’m not looking at her.
Light catches threads of gold through her chestnut hair, glinting along the contours of her face.
When the doors open, I gesture for her to go ahead, following her into Bite’s lobby.
The receptionist’s eyes go wide when she spots me, lashes fluttering rapidly. “Mr. Devereaux!” she stammers, scrambling upright. “I–”
I sweep Taylor past her before the sentence finishes, my patience already worn thin.
“That was rude,” Taylor whispers, frowning up at me. “You can’t just walk in here like you own the place.”
I huff a quiet laugh. I can and I do. I keep walking.
The door to Francesca’s office is ajar, the woman herself seated behind the sleek glass desk. She looks up when we enter, surprise flickering across her face before smoothing into a practiced smile.
“Mr. Devereaux,” she greets as she rises to stand, tone cool and professional. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“My donor got a reminder call this morning for a check-in,” I say in a clipped tone, watching her reaction closely.
Fran’s lips part, a little crease forming between her brows. Little does she know that perplexed expression is the only thing saving her from my wrath.
The way Taylor’s blinking up at me with those doe-eyes helps, too. She’s so innocent, so utterly unaware of how close I am to choosing violence. It’s adorable.
Francesca lifts her tablet from the desk, swiping it open.
Her posture is rigid, every muscle perfectly controlled as she taps the screen with a manicured nail.
“There must be some kind of error,” she murmurs, employing the kind of tone intended to soothe a client while burying the truth beneath good manners.