Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Ishould’ve known James would work fast. Money always does.
He provides an overnight security detail to keep watch over my apartment building, and before noon even rolls around the following day, I receive an invitation for a meeting at Bite.
Or a summons, depending on how you look at it.
They give me a whole hour’s notice, but I spend most of it flopping around in bed, putting off showering until the last possible second and then hating myself for it as I rush through getting dressed and ready.
The apartment’s quiet when I emerge from my room, Devin and Alaia evidently still snoozing.
I didn’t hear them come in last night, but the aftermath of their return is everywhere.
Their shoes are abandoned on the living room rug, Dev’s shirt is draped over the back of the couch, and Alaia’s purse is dumped across the coffee table like she was digging through it while absolutely obliterated.
Alcohol, drugs, post-orgasm haze… honestly, your guess is as good as mine.
I lock up behind me and step out onto the street, finding a black car idling at the curb.
Punctual as always.
The driver barely even glances at me when I slide into the back seat, and he doesn’t respond when I greet him, either.
He’s one I recognize, but I’ve never managed to get more than three words out of the guy.
Apparently, today’s not the one when he finally cracks.
Even though I chatter to him all the way downtown, he stays silent the whole time, hands fixed at ten and two like he’s chauffeuring a mob boss rather than a part-time blood donor.
He drops me off in front of the Steele Holdings building– also known as Bite headquarters.
The exterior is all polished glass and towering pillars, designed to intimidate people before they even step inside.
The lobby’s even more off-putting with its gleaming tile floors and chrome accents, so spotless that touching anything feels wrong.
The whole atmosphere feels like a corporate nightmare, providing a perfectly unassuming cover for the illegal blood agency operating within its walls.
I give my name at the security desk, then ride the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, stepping out into Bite’s pristine white lobby. The receptionist greets me with unnerving cheerfulness before escorting me back to the office of Francesca Fox.
Fran runs things around here, and she looks every bit the part of a bitchy corporate executive.
Model tall and rail-thin, with a perfect tan and glossy dark hair that never falls out of place.
Her suits are always impeccably tailored, her red-bottom heels ridiculously high.
The woman radiates boss bitch energy, and I both hate and envy her for it.
I enter the office to find her seated behind the minimalist glass desk, her expression smoothing into practiced professionalism the second she sees me.
“Miss Hamilton,” she greets politely, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. “Please, have a seat.”
I drop into the chair while the receptionist closes the door behind her with a soft click, sealing me inside with Blood Agency Barbie.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” I say, glancing around as I cross one leg over the other.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a meeting with Fran, but absolutely nothing about her office has changed. It’s still stark white and aggressively impersonal, as if the woman’s allergic to color and clutter.
She doesn’t acknowledge my comment. Instead, she gets right down to business, swiveling her chair toward me with a tight-lipped smile and folding her hands neatly atop the desk.
“I assume you know why you’re here.”
I flash her a smile that’s every bit as fake as hers. “Should I?”
Her expression flickers for half a second, then smooths back into neutral.
Got her.
Francesca has a way of phrasing things like she already knows the answers.
It’s deliberate– a manipulation tactic designed to make people let down their guard and fill in the blanks– but I know her game, and I’m not dumb enough to play.
Especially since I know for a fact she isn’t part of the very small circle apprised of Taylor and James’ situation.
She smiles again, moving right along. “You’ve received an offer for an exclusive donor arrangement,” she provides, reaching for a manila folder on her desk. “Quite a lucrative one.”
“Really?” I ask, feigning surprise. “From who?”
She leans forward slightly, eyes gleaming like we’re girlfriends exchanging gossip rather than two hustlers negotiating my sale. “Dr. Elliott Faulkner.”
I blink at her, sure I must’ve misheard. Because when James said he’d find a suitable candidate, the internationally acclaimed scientist with a staring problem definitely wasn’t who I pictured.
But the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.
Dr. Faulkner is who James chose to confide in about Taylor’s blood. He’s the one who discovered their damn bond in the first place, and he’s been following up with them regularly to learn more about it. We’re guarding the same secret, which makes him the safest option for this whole arrangement.
“Dr. Elliott Faulkner,” I repeat, schooling my expression into one of casual indifference. “The scientist guy?”
“That’s the one,” Fran quips, flipping the folder open and sliding it across the desk toward me. “This contract is for a one-year term, and the offer also includes a salaried position as his research assistant. The compensation details are listed on the final page.”
I grab the folder and immediately flip to the back to see how much I stand to gain from this whole charade.
Taylor was promised five million for a year as James’ exclusive donor– before the whole soul-bond blood-magic situation complicated things, anyway.
Based on that, I fully plan on negotiating at least a million for myself.
When my eyes land on the number, my brain briefly exits my body.
A three… followed by an obscene amount of zeroes.
Six of them, to be exact.
“Three million?” I breathe, jerking my gaze back up to Fran.
She nods once, her expression perfectly neutral.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, looking back down as I start flipping through the contract.
Because there’s absolutely, a hundred percent, definitely a catch buried somewhere in here.
There’s no universe in which a socially reclusive celebrity scientist offers me three million dollars out of the goodness of his weird little vampire heart.
“I’ve already sent you an electronic copy, and I encourage you to review it thoroughly,” Fran answers.
Vague corporate speech.
There’s definitely a catch.
I keep skimming through the pages, my eyes flicking over headings and clauses until I notice something missing. Specifically, the section that made Taylor balk at James’ offer.
“Where’s the sex stuff?”
Fran clears her throat, shifting slightly in her chair. “Dr. Faulkner doesn’t desire any physical contact from his donors,” she replies. “Only blood, cohabitation for accessibility, and assistance within his private laboratory.”
I jerk my head up so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. “No sex?”
She shakes her head.
I stare at her, dumbfounded. “Why?”
Fran lifts one slender shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose that’s something you’d have to ask him. Not everyone enjoys mixing business with pleasure.”
I snap the folder closed, leaning back and folding my arms across my chest. “Seriously,” I say, narrowing my eyes on her. “What’s the catch?”
“Honestly?” Francesca sighs, dropping the pretense for a moment and lowering her voice like she’s about to share classified information. “He’s known to be… difficult to get along with, socially. He’s made this exact arrangement four times now, and the longest any donor’s lasted was two months.”
I snort. “Please. I’m a pro at dealing with assholes.”
Fran gives me a look so deeply unconvinced it borders on offensive.
“Then I’m sure you’ll beat the odds,” she says dryly, settling back into her chair.
“I should mention that given Dr. Faulkner’s social standing with the public, becoming his exclusive donor means you’ll no longer be able to utilize your agency alias to conceal your identity.
The tabloids can be relentless, and if you’re spotted together, they’ll stop at nothing to find out who you are.
Use of an alias suggests you have something to hide and invites further investigation, which is generally bad for business. ”
“Noted,” I murmur.
Bye, Tiffany. It was fun being you while it lasted.
“Take the next twenty-four hours to review the contract,” Fran continues, “and you can e-sign if you’re comfortable moving forward. Once it’s finalized, we’ll coordinate our relocation team to assist with your transition.”
I cock a brow. “That easy?”
She dips her chin in a nod. “That easy. Exclusive donor arrangements are becoming increasingly common, Miss Hamilton. We facilitate them regularly.”
I toy with the bracelet around my wrist, eyeing the folder sitting between us.
Three million dollars.
A year living with a hot vampire scientist.
No sex– just blood, cohabitation, and whatever being his ‘research assistant’ entails.
Honestly, the last part sounds boring as fuck, but I’m more than willing to suffer boredom for a year in exchange for a three million dollar payout.
I heave a sigh, leaning forward to reach for the contract. “You got a pen?”
Fran visibly stiffens. “I’d strongly encourage you to review the contract thoroughly before making any final–”
“I’m good,” I cut in, holding out a hand and wiggling my fingers impatiently. “Pen?”
She clears her throat and swivels toward the pen holder on her desk, plucking one free and handing it over slowly, like she’s expecting I’ll come to my senses at any moment and back out.
Not happening, Franny.
I flip the folder open, thumb straight to the signature page, and sign on the dotted line.
Because the truth is, I never really had a choice.
This is what it’ll take to keep Taylor safe, and at least with Dr. Faulkner, I won’t have to play dumb about why I’m doing this.
There’ll be no pretending, no dancing around secrets, no wondering if he knows more than he’s saying.
This arrangement is exactly what it claims to be– transactional, necessary, and temporary.
At least that’s what I tell myself while signing away the next year of my life.
I scrawl the final letter of my name, then toss the pen down and slide the folder back across the desk. “Am I free to go, then?” I ask, uncrossing my legs and pushing to my feet.
“Yes, but…” Fran trails off as she checks my signature, brows lifting slightly. “We’ll need some time to process everything and coordinate the relocation team. Usually donors take a little longer before signing.”
“I’m good with whenever,” I reply flippantly, already wondering how the hell I’m supposed to break this news to Devin and Alaia.
Maybe they’ll be thrilled to have the apartment to themselves.
Maybe they won’t even miss me.
A hollow feeling cleaves through my chest, my stomach bottoming out.
Fran closes the folder with a soft snap. “I’ll be in touch, then.”
“Great,” I say, flashing her another fake smile.
She returns it perfunctorily, tipping her head. “Congratulations, Miss Hamilton.”
It takes everything in me not to laugh. “Thanks,” I mutter, tossing her a wave before heading for the door.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
If only my racing pulse would get the memo.