Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
Alaia hides in her room the whole time, being a Bitter Betty. Not because I’m moving out, but because I scored an exclusive donor contract, and she can’t fathom how or why I’d be offered one over her.
Shallow, but honest.
Good riddance.
Devin at least has the decency to look genuinely sad that I’m leaving, seeing me off with a subtle dig about my ratty old hoodie and a warm hug.
Probably only because he still has to see me at work, but whatever.
Ronnie’s keeping me on the schedule at the tattoo shop so long as I can figure out the commute and balance it with my new gig as Dr. Faulkner’s ‘research assistant’...
which still sounds fake as hell every time I think about it.
My entire life is packed away in under an hour, reduced to a few cardboard boxes, two duffel bags, and my sad-looking houseplant. One of the movers eyes it like he’s debating whether it’s already dead.
Rude.
I’ve almost killed the thing at least half a dozen times, but somehow it always bounces back, its droopy leaves perking up again a few days later like it’s too stubborn to die. Guess we have that in common.
The movers haul the last of my boxes out while I linger in the doorway for a second longer, staring back into the apartment.
This place feels strangely distant already.
The drafty windows, the tiny kitchen. The narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms I’ve spent the past year crammed into with my roommates.
I should probably feel sentimental, but mostly, I just feel restless.
A black car waits at the curb downstairs, glossy enough to nearly blind me with the sun’s reflection bouncing off the hood. One of the relocation guys opens the back door for me, and I slip inside while the moving truck pulls out behind us.
For once, I don’t try to chat up the driver.
The movers lead us through city traffic, the view outside my window slowly changing the farther we go.
The neighborhoods get cleaner, the buildings larger.
By the time we pull into an underground parking garage beneath a massive high-rise in the heart of downtown, my stomach’s twisting with nervous energy.
The relocation team loads my belongings onto a pair of hand carts, then leads me toward a private elevator tucked behind a marble-lined wall, one of them swiping a key fob before pressing the button labeled PH.
Penthouse.
My pulse does a stupid little stutter.
Jackpot.
I’ve daydreamed about living in a downtown penthouse more times than I can count– typically while leaving Bite engagements in ridiculous luxury apartments late at night, still wearing some obscenely expensive dress a vampire paid to peel off me.
This is a little sooner than expected– and technically, the place isn’t mine– but who the hell am I to argue with luxury living?
When the elevator doors slide open on the top floor, I briefly wonder if I’ve died and gone to heaven.
Afternoon sunlight floods the entire penthouse in a blinding wash of gold, pouring in through a massive wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. For a second, all I can see is the endless blue sky and glittering glass towers stretching out in every direction below us.
Jesus Christ.
The entire rear wall of the apartment is glass. Actual fucking glass. The skyline sprawls beneath it like a living painting, sunlight flashing off distant buildings hard enough to make my eyes ache.
I’ve seen a lot of nice places since signing up as a donor for Bite. Lavish condos, historic mansions, and luxury hotel suites with bathtubs bigger than my old bedroom.
But this?
This place is the nicest.
My mouth falls open before I can stop it as I step inside, my boots sinking into a rug so soft it feels illegal to walk on. My head swivels slowly while I try to take everything in at once.
It’s all clean lines and monochromatic tones, modern furniture and polished marble and expensive minimalism.
The kind of place that looks professionally staged for a magazine, not like anybody actually lives here.
Nothing is out of place and there’s absolutely no clutter– or personality, for that matter.
It’s gorgeous.
And also somehow a little unsettling.
My pulse ticks in my throat as I look back and forth, again and again, unable to process the fact that I get to live here now.
Well, temporarily, at least.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulls me out of my spiral, and I turn toward the floating staircase near the center of the room just as a man starts descending it.
Not Dr. Faulkner.
The guy appears to be around my age– though with vampires it’s impossible to tell, and he’s got that look about him that’s distinctly immortal.
Dressed in fitted slacks and a baby blue polo that matches his eyes, his blonde hair is styled in the artfully messy way that’s meant to look casual but probably takes at least forty-five minutes of commitment.
Average height. Average build. Above-average face.
Unfortunately, he opens his mouth almost immediately and ruins the effect.
“Beatrix Hamilton?” he asks, his upper lip curling back from his teeth like he already disapproves of me on principle alone. “You’re late.”
I arch a brow, already unimpressed by his attitude. “I wasn’t aware we were on a schedule,” I scoff, cocking a hip. “And it’s Bex.”
He reaches the bottom step and pauses there, giving me a long once-over, his eyes lingering on my ink. “Of course it is,” he mutters.
I blink. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
His gaze flicks lazily back to mine. “Oh, nothing,” he says in a tone that absolutely implies something.
Already annoyed, I fold my arms. “And who the fuck are you?”
He straightens, lifting his chin arrogantly. “I’m Albert Greene,” he announces. “Dr. Faulkner’s personal assistant.”
“Well, Albie,” I say sweetly, “assist yourself the hell out of my way if you’re gonna be a dick.”
His mouth drops open, and for one glorious second, he looks genuinely offended. Then his eyes narrow slightly as they flick over me again, reassessing, and he fucking smiles.
“Ooh,” he muses, the corner of his mouth ticking into a smirk. “You’re gonna be fun.”
The shift is so abrupt it almost gives me whiplash. One second, he’s acting like a pretentious asshole, and the next he’s practically vibrating with golden retriever energy.
Albert rushes toward me, hooking his arm through mine like we’re sorority sisters instead of complete strangers.
“C’mon,” he chirps. “I’ll give you the tour.”
I’m so thrown by the personality switch that I actually let him drag me forward, blinking at him while he barks instructions over his shoulder to the relocation team.
“Last room down that hallway– hanging clothes in the closet, the rest in the dressers,” he rattles off. “Leave the plant in here by the window, it clearly needs the sun.”
Against my better judgment, I can already tell I like Albert. He’s bossy in the same adorably annoying way I am.
The movers disappear down the hall in the direction he indicated, and the second they’re gone, he comes to a stop and pivots dramatically toward me, blue eyes bright with enthusiasm.
“So,” he announces grandly, sweeping an arm around us. “This is the kitchen.”
I stare back at him blankly. “No shit.”
The entire apartment is open-concept, the foyer bleeding seamlessly into the living room and kitchen in one massive space.
Sunlight gleams off black granite countertops and glossy cabinet fronts, reflecting against stainless steel appliances.
The brightness of this place would’ve thrown me for a loop six months ago, but contrary to popular belief, vamps aren’t allergic to the sun.
Shocker, right?
Turns out, they’re just creatures of habit, and prior to revealing themselves to society, they used the cover of night to avoid detection.
A few vampires I’ve met actually enjoy sunlight and have abandoned the nocturnal lifestyle entirely.
Most haven’t, and judging by the fact Dr. Faulkner’s nowhere to be seen, I’m assuming he still subscribes to the whole brooding creature of the night aesthetic.
I wander further into the kitchen, glancing around to take everything in.
“Nice,” I remark.
“Do you cook?” Albert asks, leaning casually against the island.
“Uh…” I hesitate. “Not really.”
I decide not to elaborate on the fact that there’ve been entire weeks where I survived almost exclusively on ramen cups, gas station snacks, and sheer spite because groceries are expensive and rent doesn’t care if you eat.
“No problem,” he says, pointing toward a sleek tablet resting on the counter.
“That’s pre-loaded with all the delivery apps, and Doc’s payment information is already stored.
You can order takeout from anywhere and the doorman will bring it up.
There’s grocery delivery, too, if you wanna stock the fridge.
He doesn’t typically keep food on hand.”
“Other than me, right?” I joke, gesturing toward the massive refrigerator. “Why’s he even need that if he doesn’t stock actual food?”
Albert smirks and sidesteps over to it, tugging one of the doors open. Inside, it’s almost completely empty– except for a perfectly organized row of blood bags lined neatly across the top shelf.
Yeah, guess I should’ve expected that.
“Gotcha,” I quip, my fingers unconsciously drifting up to the pulse point in my neck. “Guess he won’t need those for much longer, huh?”
“We’ll see,” Albert replies ominously, closing the door. “And speaking of, let me show you the lounge.”
He hooks his arm through mine again, steering me down the hallway before I can protest.
“So, Bex,” he says brightly, suddenly mister hospitality. “Where are you from?”
“Here,” I reply as I eye him with suspicion. “What’s with the personality whiplash?”
“What do you mean?” he asks innocently.
“You went from judgmental asshole to weirdly charming in like three seconds flat.”
He laughs, the sound echoing down the hall. “It was a test,” he admits.
“A test,” I repeat flatly.