Three
CJ
I grab my laptop and leave Baz hammering away at my windows—and his emotions—and head down the grand staircase, which has a fresh coat of paint.
Wow, it looks incredible. They must have done it last night while I slept. It did not look this good yesterday, and now, every single spindle that my nightgown billows against is a gorgeous alabaster white.
Wait, what the fuck?
I’m a hundred percent sure that when Andre carried me to bed, I was naked and in a towel.
And now I’m in this dry, silky, light pink nightgown with wide sleeves that hang down and fluffy edging around the billowing bottom.
I’m not sure what weirds me out more: that Andre must have dressed me while I slept, or that when I went shopping yesterday, I didn’t buy a nightgown.
Where did this come from?
Question for another day, because as the smell from the kitchen hits me at the bottom of the stairs, I am overtaken by another concern entirely.
I am starving.
In the kitchen, Wes is making a breakfast fit for a king—eggs, bacon, sausage, pan-fried potatoes, toast, jam—it’s all spread out on the kitchen table as if ten humans live here instead of just little old me.
I bite the end off of a perfectly crisp strip of bacon as he flips a pancake in the air.
“If you keep this up, I’m going to gain twenty pounds staying here.”
“Good morning, Princess.” Wes leans over from the stove and gives me a kiss on the cheek as if we’ve lived together for years.
I am so grateful for Wes. It’s been a weird, horrible, amazing, and mostly fucked-up few days.
Wes has been my comfort through them. He’s incredibly nice to me, cooks me delicious food, leaves me wads of cash on the counter (there’s another pile of hundreds just lying there this morning), and he’s pretty easy on the eyes.
“Eat up. Trust me, you won’t gain a pound. You might even find you’re losing weight despite eating more. Bloodletting is a taxing hobby.”
Bloodletting.
Jesus, every time I feel like I’m having a somewhat normal moment in this house, one of them says something that reminds me how abnormal this whole fucking thing is.
I’m living with three vampire kings.
I curtsy in my new nightgown. “I will. Thanks for breakfast, Your Highness.”
“Nice curtsy.” Wes whistles and puts a pancake on the plate closest to me. “So, you got quite the introduction to vampire culture last night. I imagine you have questions.”
“A few.” I take another bite of bacon and add some eggs to the plate.
What I really want to ask is if they’ve ever had a queen. Or queens. I want to ask what this setup looks like long-term. You know, assuming I wanted to do this blood tenant thing long-term.
But I start small.
“Exactly how long have the three of you been kings?”
Wes flips another pancake in the air and catches it in the pan.
“Well, the previous leaders were dead in the water. Total homeostasis. No insight or ingenuity. We took over easily, and have been here for… well, a while. There was a transition period. The previous leaders had a few die-hard followers.”
I grimace and ignore the quip.
“So, if you just took over, then couldn’t someone come and do the same to you?”
“Yes. And they’ve tried. And will continue to try.”
Pillaging and pancakes. Lovely. I wonder what happens to blood tenants when their “landlords” are taken over.
“So at any minute another vampire trio could come in and overthrow you?”
He chuckles, plating his newest perfectly browned pancake. “It’s not always a trio.”
“That’s not really my point. Historically speaking, what happens to the humans living with vampires when a vampire king is overthrown?”
“You worried they’d kill you?” He moves the butter and syrup closer to me.
“Um, or worse. I’ve seen Game of Thrones.”
“The three of us have held our position for quite some time. We have a vast army.”
“Is that army here in St. Phillipe?”
“Don’t you worry about logistics or armies. You worry about eating enough so you don’t waste away on us.” Wes adds a pat of butter to my pancake, winks, and smiles. “I promise, we got you, girl.”
I’m not sure why, but I believe him. The three of them don’t seem to be nervous about intruders.
I have to trust they have earned that confidence, along with their position.
Still, I’d feel better if I knew there were sentries in the swamps.
To make myself feel better, I’ll just imagine that there are.
“So, what’s the deal with the three of you? Are you like… you know, boyfriends?” I know I asked Andre last night, but I’m curious to hear Wes’s take on it. Andre was so formal and forthcoming. I half expect Wes to tell me we can all jump into bed if I want to.
“Yes and no,” he says, his smile growing a little.
“Do you ever respond to anything with a straight answer?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ugh.” I smile back, scrunch my nose at him, and shovel a forkful of eggs into my mouth. I open my laptop and start to go over my plot notes.
Wes turns off the stove.
“Is that your laptop?”
I peek out from behind it. “Yes.”
“Where you make your living?”
“I don’t exactly make a living with it yet, but that’s the plan.”
“What are you writing?”
“A murder mystery.”
“Do I get to read it when you’re finished?”
“Maybe.”
Wes wipes his hands on a dish towel and walks over to the counter.
“Here.” He adds several hundred-dollar bills to the already large wad of cash on the counter. “Taking your passion and position seriously is important. Please buy yourself a new laptop.”
“I like my old one. It’s familiar.”
“Then buy yourself some new notebooks and pens and a few extra gowns to write in. You do your best when you feel your best.”
“Gowns for writing?” I scrunch my eyebrows at him. “I usually write in my jammies.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
I shrug. “Admittedly, not great. My husband’s mother bought me a few suits to wear, but I hated them.”
“You have to find what fits you, not what fits someone else’s expectation of you.
The more extravagant, the better. Try it.
Trust me. Buy the clothes that make you feel powerful, be it a gown or a sweatshirt, and wear it while you write.
If it works, maybe you’ll be grateful enough to let me read a few pages.
Here.” He pulls a key fob from the rack by the back door and tosses it to me. To my great surprise, I catch it.
“Take my car again. For safety. It’s in the garage today. The key code for the door is 666.”
“Seriously? The key code is 666?” I narrow my eyes.
“What can I say, Princess? We’re powerful, and we have a great sense of humor.”