Chapter 8 Dinner Games
DINNER GAMES
The morning stretched into the afternoon, and I found myself lost, completely consumed by the story he had left for me.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
I knew of it, but I had never read it. Then again, I also couldn’t remember a time where I had all day free to just read a book.
No, I would normally catch a chapter here and there, whenever I was free to do so.
Like in between work, all the overtime I could get and catching up on laundry, cleaning and then sleeping.
But this…this was the type of reading you do when you have nothing but time and a mind too restless to sit still.
And now, here I was, trapped in a stranger’s home, reading about a man who had once been trapped too.
A man who had been betrayed, imprisoned for years for a crime he didn’t commit.
Edmond Dantès.
He was young, hopeful, in love, and cruelly torn from everything he cared about. His friends had conspired against him, jealous of what he had, of who he was. They had stolen his life and buried him in a prison cell deep below the earth, where time and light no longer existed.
But he hadn’t died there.
No, he had transformed.
Years of suffering had hardened him, reshaped him into something new, something more.
When he finally escaped, he emerged not as Edmond, but as the Count of Monte Cristo, a man of wealth, power, and vengeance.
Every act he took was deliberate, precise, a slow unravelling of the lives that had destroyed his.
Yet, the more I read, the more I realised that his revenge was never just about justice. It was about pain. About the need to make others bleed because he couldn’t stop his own wounds from burning.
And I wondered, was that what Vas saw in this story?
Was this his way of speaking, when the words wouldn’t come?
I ran my finger along the edge of the page, tracing the printed words like they were secrets whispered from him to me. Maybe this was the only way he could explain himself. To give me this story instead of his own, as if through another man’s torment, I might understand his.
But was this a warning…
Or a confession?
Or something in between, a message wrapped in pages he could never bring himself to say aloud.
I thought of him again, of his voice, his eyes, the way he had gifted me his nickname, like it meant something he hadn’t intended to give away.
The memory made my stomach twist, not in fear, but in that strange ache I didn’t yet know how to name.
The light in the room had shifted without me noticing, turning from soft gold to dusky amber. My eyes flicked to the window, and I realised the sun was sinking fast. The day had slipped through my fingers, lost somewhere between chapters of vengeance and redemption.
My heart skipped as I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.
Nearly six.
Which meant he would be coming for me soon.
I closed the book and exhaled, the weight of the story was still heavy in my chest. How fitting that it should end with a man torn between the ruin he had made and the hope he never thought he could deserve.
I wasn’t sure which part of that story Vas belonged to.
“Jesus, Nessa, get a grip already and stop brooding about this!” I snapped at myself, now rising from the chair and stretching as I walked to the wardrobe before opening it with hesitant hands.
Rows of black dresses stared back at me, all in different styles but with little variation.
Nothing stood out, but then, wasn’t that the point?
Now, what exactly did one wear to dinner with the man who had kidnapped them?
The thought almost made me laugh, though the sound died quickly in my throat.
I didn’t want to be foolish enough to assume this invitation meant anything more than what it was.
Still, there was something about the word ‘request’ in his note that made my heart flutter, like he wanted me to join him.
In the end, I picked what I thought was the prettiest black dress.
The silk was cool against my skin, shaping to my body in a way that felt far too confident for the situation. The neckline dipped low enough to hint rather than reveal, with the straps crossing over my shoulders, leaving the small of my back bare.
From my waist, the fabric fell in soft, rippling folds, whispering around my legs as I moved.
The skirt brushed the floor like a sigh, heavy enough to feel expensive, light enough to make me feel ethereal.
Tiny beads trimmed the hem in clusters, with the design continuing at the waist like black teardrops that caught the light like stars scattered across a night sky.
I brushed my hair, having no choice but to leave it down as I found nothing to tie it up with in the bathroom.
I also had no way of hiding the bruises on my face, so as I looked in the mirror, my shoulders lifted and dropped on a sigh.
It would have to do, and I questioned why I cared so much.
Honestly, these warring emotions inside me were driving me crazy.
“It’s just dinner…dinner with my kidnapper…my very big, intimidating Vampire kidnapper…sure, no problem…I can do this…Totally,” I said aloud, trying to reassure myself that I could do this. And yet, when the knock came at the door, my pulse betrayed me.
“Come in,” I managed, though my voice sounded smaller than I intended.
The door opened, and for a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.
He filled the doorway like a shadow taking form, tall and broad, his usual dark and ominous aura replaced with something unexpectedly disarming.
A black shirt clung to his chest, the top button undone, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Faded jeans hugged the long lines of his legs.
It was almost too ordinary, and yet nothing about the way he wore it was.
His body seemed carved for the fabric, his presence swallowing the room whole.
The mask was different too. Gone was the harsh, leather half skull that had haunted my dreams. This one was subtler, sleeker, brushed silver that softened the sharp planes of his face rather than hiding them.
It revealed more of him, the strong jaw, the mouth that looked far too human, far too capable of warmth.
His eyes met mine.
And for once, he looked startled.
I realised too late that he was staring, that the silence between us was stretching into something heavy and breathless. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Then, after a moment too long, he said quietly, almost gruffly,
“You look… different.”
It wasn’t a grand compliment, but the way his voice dropped made my heart stumble anyway.
“Thank you,” I said softly, a smile tugging at my lips before I could stop it. The smile seemed to undo him. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he looked away, exhaling sharply as though annoyed with himself. When his gaze returned, the warmth was gone, replaced by that brooding mask of indifference.
“We should go,” he said curtly, turning toward the hall.
I followed, the heels I had foolishly chosen clicking against the polished floor.
The manor seemed different by the added light, proving he had more than just candles to light the way.
Some corridors we walked along were lined with portraits that watched in silence as we passed.
One painting in particular seemed to judge me more than most. A beautiful, regal woman that held her chin higher than the rest as if her purpose was to look down at the world.
But it was the blood red jewel at her throat that really caught my eye.
The deep red stone hanging from the necklace seemingly calling to me.
“Come.” His voice cut the cord, that for a moment had me fixated.
My body jolting at his command, forcing me to continue walking.
Ornate mirrors reflected our figures, his tall shadow beside my smaller one as we descended the grand staircase.
The scent of old wood and waxed polish filled the air, mingled with something faintly floral, like lavender clinging to the edges of centuries past.
Every detail of the place spoke of wealth and age. Gilded picture frames. Marble busts. Velvet drapes in deep crimson and gold. England’s quiet decadence wrapped around the manor like a secret it refused to share.
When we reached the dining room, I stopped at the threshold, unable to hide my surprise.
It was… beautiful.
The table was long, carved from dark oak and gleaming beneath a cascade of candles that threw their light across crystal glasses and silver cutlery.
A vase of deep red roses stood at the centre, their scent heady and intimate.
It felt far too romantic for what this was supposed to be, and the thought unsettled me.
He moved to pull out a chair for me, the gentlemanly gesture at odds with the predator I knew him to be. I hesitated, nerves tangling as I stepped forward. My heel caught on the edge of the rug, and before I knew it, I stumbled forward straight into him.
His hands were on me instantly, one bracing my waist, the other catching my wrist before I could fall. My breath hitched as I collided with his chest, hard muscle meeting soft fabric, and for a moment, neither of us moved.
I felt it, the sharp inhale he tried to swallow, the way his body tensed beneath mine, caught between instinct and control. His heartbeat thudded against my palm, steady but faster than before.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual.
I tilted my head up, our faces close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the glint of candlelight on his mask. His eyes burned with something I couldn’t name.
For a breathless heartbeat, I wondered what would happen if I leaned closer. But then he stepped back, his hands falling away as if burned.
“Sit,” he said, the word clipped, too sharp, as though he could erase the moment by sheer force of will. I obeyed, trying not to let the tremor in my actions show.
But as he moved to the head of the table nearest to me, I caught the faintest crack in his composure, the ghost of a smile he tried, and failed, to hide.
And I knew then, with a quiet certainty that both thrilled and terrified me…He wasn’t as immune to me as he wanted to be.
For a moment, I could still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin.
Then, from behind us, came the faint creak of the door.
I turned, startled, as an older woman entered, carrying a large silver tray balanced in her hands.
She was small and stout, her grey hair tied neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck, her face kind but weary in the way of someone who had worked hard her entire life.
“Good evening, sir,” she said softly with her soft English accent that I couldn’t help but find charming. Then her gaze flicked to me, before her eyes widened, the shock clear, even in the dim candlelight.
“Oh, I…I didn’t realise you had female company.” Her tone was polite, but there was an unmistakable tremor of surprise. Vas’s head turned sharply, the silver of his mask catching the light as he replied, his voice low and unreadable.
“This is the house guest I spoke with you about.” House guest. The words hung awkwardly in the air, tasting foreign, as though they were meant to sound normal but didn’t fit his mouth right. The woman nodded quickly, lowering her gaze.
“Of course, sir. I’ll just… set your evening meals down.”
She began arranging the dishes before us, her hands moving with practised grace.
Steam rose from roasted vegetables, golden and glistening in oil.
A cut of meat, perfectly seared, sat in the centre, surrounded by thick gravy that shimmered like liquid mahogany.
A basket of warm bread rolls sat beside it, the buttery scent mingling with herbs that made the room feel suddenly, comfortingly human.
“Everything smells wonderful,” I said, offering a small smile.
“Did you cook all this?” The woman looked up, her eyes softening as if she hadn’t expected me to speak to her at all.
“I did, dear. I’ve been preparing meals here for quite some time now.” I glanced between them, curiosity getting the better of me.
“Do you live here too?” However, before she could answer, Vas replied, his tone quiet but weighted.
“She lives in her own home. On the edge of the property.” Something in his voice made me pause. It was haunted, almost regretful, as if the very idea of anyone living here unsettled him. The woman’s eyes darted briefly to him, her expression tightening, though she said nothing.
“Well, it’s lovely to meet you,” I said softly, trying to ease the tension.
But when she looked back at me, her kind eyes were wary, as though she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to return the sentiment.
“I’m Nessa, what’s your name?” I asked then, trying to make conversation. The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through bone. Vas’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood, the sound echoing like a warning.
“That’s enough. She doesn’t need to concern herself with who you are.” He said sharply, making us both flinch at his tone. Although, unlike me, she lowered her head.
“Of course, sir. I’ll leave you to it.” And just like that, she was gone, her footsteps retreating down the hall until only the crackle of the fire remained. I stared at him, the tension thick enough to feel in my throat.
“You didn’t have to be so harsh,” I said quietly. His eyes flicked to me, dark and unreadable.
“If you think that by befriending her, she will help you escape, you are mistaken.” My mouth fell open slightly, more at the accusation than the words themselves.
“I wasn’t trying to…” He raised a hand, cutting me off.
“Don’t insult us both with lies, little rabbit.” Again, I opened my mouth ready to defend myself when he added even more insight to his paranoid mind, telling me…
“I know the games females play.”