Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
From the moment I open my eyes, everything feels different.
It’s not just the lingering ache in my muscles, or the fact my skin still smells faintly of Valentina’s perfume and Elliott’s cologne.
It’s not even the reel of obscene images from last night playing on an endless loop in my brain, every nerve ending buzzing with the memory of being brought to orgasm multiple times by not one, but two vampires.
It’s more existential than that– a bone-deep realization that I’ve left one reality and am entering a new one.
For weeks, I’d convinced myself the thing I wanted most was for Elliott to touch me.
Last night, he did.
And now I can’t go back to pretending we’re two people awkwardly sharing a penthouse under the terms of a contract. Something shifted between us. Maybe everything did.
The change isn’t only internal, either. The bed itself feels different, and it takes me a second to realize why. A new blanket is draped over me, thick and weighted, made from the softest fur I’ve ever felt. It wraps around me like a hug, making me seriously consider ignoring my bladder altogether.
Pushing up on an elbow, I glance around, finding a glass of water and two bottles of pills on the nightstand that definitely weren’t there yesterday. The labels read ibuprofen and BounceBack– cures for my aching muscles and hangover.
I reach for the water first, draining half the glass in one go. My throat’s raw, like I spent the night screaming– which, to be fair, I sort of did. I chase the pills with another swallow before begrudgingly peeling back the blanket and extracting myself from my cocoon.
I’m naked, my lower half still tender, and… fuck, is that a bruise on my hip?
I roll sideways, examining it more closely. Four more bruises bloom beneath my fingertips in the unmistakable shape of a large hand.
Hot.
My lips curl into a smug smile.
Not bite marks, but I’ve been marked all the same, and there’s something deeply satisfying about that. Especially after weeks of Elliott acting like touching me would somehow bring about the apocalypse.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up, the floorboards cool beneath my feet and my muscles protesting just enough to make me aware of every place he touched me. My eyes sweep over the room, instinctively scanning for any other signs of life.
The blackout curtains are drawn, but the light spilling from the cracked bathroom door is more than enough to see by. After confirming there aren’t any vampires lurking in the corners, I start for the bathroom, stopping cold when my gaze snags on black silk draped over the edge of the bed.
I definitely didn’t leave my robe there.
I distinctly remember hanging it on the hook in the bathroom before slipping into my dress last night. Which means someone moved it.
My eyes drift toward the ceiling. He’s up there, fast asleep in synthetic darkness, while I’m down here wearing the fingerprints he left on my hips.
Did he carry me in here last night?
I picture those impossibly strong arms lifting me with ease, pulling the blankets over me, bringing my robe in from the bathroom because I might want it when I woke up…
No. Don’t read into it, Bex.
I scrub a hand over my face, refusing to invent romantic subplots because the man relocated a bathrobe.
Snagging it off the end of the bed, I shrug into the silk and shuffle toward the bathroom, wincing a little with each step. Every twinge is a reminder of a night well spent.
I squint against the harsh lighting as I push the door open, pausing in front of the mirror to rub away the dark eyeliner smudged beneath my eyes. It takes me all of two seconds to realize that someone’s been in here, too.
The ledge beside the soaker tub is suddenly stocked like the luxury spa aisle of a department store, filled with an array of new products. Everything from bath bombs and Epsom salts to scented bubbles and oils.
For a long moment, all I can do is stare.
Did he go shopping after I passed out?
The question sends my brain down an avenue I’m not prepared to explore, so I quickly abandon it in favor of brushing my teeth, washing my face, and generally pretending this level of thoughtfulness is a perfectly normal thing for someone to do after a hookup.
By the time I wander into the kitchen, there’s no denying Elliott Faulkner’s concept of aftercare exists in a league of its own.
The marble island is a crime scene of carbs and fruit– flaky croissants, an artfully arranged pile of strawberries and blueberries, and a glass pitcher of orange juice on a marble tray.
There’s also a handwritten note directing me to hydrate and replenish my nutrients, along with a business card for a private massage therapist who’s apparently on standby and awaiting my call.
Because naturally, the Nobel Prize-winning scientist approaches aftercare like he’s writing post-operative discharge orders.
Water, painkillers, hangover pills, weighted blanket, luxury bath products, breakfast, massage therapist… did this man spend the rest of the night systematically working through a recovery checklist?
Once again, all I can do is stare, torn between rolling my eyes and giggling like a schoolgirl.
I’ve had plenty of hookups in my life, and the most I’ve gotten afterward is an awkward ‘see you around’. A rare few offered cab fare, but not once has someone left me with a full-blown recovery kit. I want to be annoyed by the absurdity of it all, but the truth is… it’s kinda nice.
Way nicer than I deserve.
I don’t get pampered. Even as a kid, anything beyond basic necessities was a luxury that wasn’t afforded to kids in the system.
I can’t remember a time anyone truly cared for or looked after me, and I learned a long time ago that if I needed something, I’d better figure it out myself. So I have no idea what to do with this.
Part of me wants to see it for what it is– a sweet, thoughtful gesture from someone who spent half the night making sure I’d wake up comfortable. The other part remembers exactly what he whispered before I passed out.
Mine.
And suddenly, all the little acts of care become harder to categorize. I can’t decide whether I’m being cared for by a lover or meticulously maintained by someone protecting something he considers valuable. A possession. The distinction feels important, yet somehow impossible to make.
It’s… confusing, to say the least.
My stomach chooses that moment to growl loud enough to interrupt the existential crisis.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter.
I reach for a strawberry, then quickly decide fruit is entirely too responsible for my current emotional state and grab a chocolate croissant instead.
The pastry is flaky and perfect, the chocolate melting on my tongue.
I’m licking a smear of it off my fingers when my phone vibrates against the marble countertop, the screen lighting up with an incoming call from Bite.
My pulse kicks. I immediately abandon the croissant and snatch up the phone, smearing chocolate across the screen when I swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
“Miss Hamilton,” Fran’s smooth voice purrs from the other end. “This is Francesca Fox. I just sent over a proposed addendum to your current contract, which you can access through the secure message portal in our app.”
“What kind of addendum?” I ask tentatively, my mind instantly flashing back to last night.
Did I fuck things up somehow? Because I’m pretty sure Elliott was a hundred percent on board with what was happening while he was fucking my throat and making me come until I blacked out.
“Please take some time to review it,” Fran replies curtly. “If you have any questions, I’d be happy to discuss them with you.”
“Sure thing,” I mumble, my thoughts churning a mile a minute.
“Excellent. Talk soon.”
She hangs up, and I immediately open the Bite app, navigating to the secure message portal with trembling fingers.
Just like she said, there’s a new message waiting for me. I tap it open, my heart stuttering a beat when it loads and I see the title of the document in bold lettering at the top of the page.
Secondary Services Addendum
I recognize the wording immediately. ‘Secondary services’ is Bite’s polished, corporate way of saying sexual intimacy. Which means…
My pulse hammers harder as I scroll down the page, eager eyes skimming over the words.
Part of me can’t help but be excited, because receiving this addendum means that more hookups with Elliott are officially on the table. Last night wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t a one-time anomaly. It’s something we’re both expected to discuss and agree to moving forward.
My stomach does an embarrassing little flip. Then, almost immediately, another feeling muscles its way in. That maybe I should find this offensive, because it’s a formal contract; legal paperwork with terms and conditions.
Just a few minutes ago, I was standing here wondering whether the blanket, the breakfast, and the bath products meant Elliott cared about me. Now, Bite’s reminding me that every part of this arrangement– even sexual contact– is something to negotiate, document, and sign.
The excitement doesn’t disappear. It just gets tangled up with everything else until my brain becomes a war zone of conflicting emotions.
The addendum goes on for pages, buried beneath enough legal jargon to make my eyes glaze over before finally getting to the sections that actually matter. Soft limits. Hard limits. Kinks. Safe words. Communication protocols. It’s… a lot.
I don’t even know where to begin processing all of it.
So naturally, I do the only logical thing.
I close the Bite app, scroll to my contacts, and call for backup.
“Well?” I ask, arching a brow expectantly as Taylor pauses midway through scrolling the contract on my phone to take a long sip of her margarita.