Chapter 1 #2
No way was I giving up Saturday nights. I’d been disappointed when I realized Lysandro only came once a month, but Rafe had explained to me that the older the vampire, the less they needed to feed. Although, neither one of us knew anyone who only utilized a donor once a month.
I’d been thrilled when he started coming in every other week, but he still only fed once a month, never the same person, always from the wrist, and never any funny business.
Which I was happy about. It sucked enough watching him consume someone’s blood who wasn’t me.
I couldn’t even imagine how I’d react to seeing him touch someone in a sexual way.
“You’re a good kid,” Ronan said. “If you kept up donating three times a week for much longer, you might have started aging backward, and we wouldn’t be able to let you in.”
He laughed, then stood up. “Sorry, I’m needed elsewhere. Have a good night.” He got up and strode toward the backroom. A quick glance toward Lysandro’s table showed he was once again alone.
Maybe it was time for me to approach him.
I couldn’t just keep showing up here on Saturdays forever, pining away.
But then again, what if he took me up on the offer, pierced my wrist with his long fangs, sucked my flesh into his mouth, and then never talked to me again?
He never even spared a look at the people who’d fed him before, and I knew because I watched.
“This seat taken?” a nasally voice asked, and I groaned internally.
Mr. Moreaux. I hadn’t met many people here that I outright didn’t care for, but this guy was one of them.
He’d been turned older than a lot of the other vampires who frequented the bar, most of them appearing to be somewhere between twenty and thirty-five, but this guy had to have been at least fifty.
He came off like one of those slimy dude-bros, who worked in the financial district and never left his golden days in a frat behind.
His suits were cheap, smelling of mothballs and grime, and he tipped like us supplying him nourishment was worth no more than a fifteen percent tip on a five-dollar meal.
He was also greedy. He’d hit up more than one donor a night, never satisfied until some poor unsuspecting soul escorted him into the booths for a little fun time. He constantly bragged about all the places he was welcomed, which meant he wasn’t around too much, but seeing him at all sucked.
“No, Mr. Moreaux. Please, sit,” I said in my fakest friendly voice.
“Benji. I haven’t seen you in a while, and I’ve so missed the taste of your blood.”
Behind him, Rafe wrinkled up his nose in an ew gesture. I agreed with him wholeheartedly. Was that supposed to be a hot pickup line? Hard pass.
“Yeah, I really only stop in to hang out with Rafe.” Which was more or less true. We’d become friends outside of the club though, too, but I wouldn’t be sharing that information. It was no one’s business but my own who I hung out with or why I was here.
He pushed in a little closer. “Well, since we’re both here, why don’t you let me make it worth your time?”
Rafe moved down the counter a ways, bending over so that only I could see him pretending to gag. I bit back a laugh. “I appreciate it—really. But I’m just here to hang out with my friend tonight.”
Disappointed agitation crossed his face, and I quickly leaned back.
In all my years of coming here, this was the first time I’d ever had one of the vampires frighten me.
I’d never lost sight of the fact that they were true predators, but the Velvet Vein had a strict code of conduct for their undead, and I’d never been around to see one of them attempt to cross it.
Moreaux must’ve realized his faux pas because he forced a laugh and waved a dismissive hand. “Of course. I’m sorry to have come on so strong. It’s just”—he licked his lower lip—“you’re so delicious.”
I swallowed back my fear. For a moment there, I thought I was off the hook, but the intent way he stared at me made me question whether I really was or not.
Darting a glance at Rafe, I saw his narrowed eyes, and I was thankful my friend was keeping tabs on me.
There wasn’t a doubt in my mind he’d signal for one of the bouncers if this went much further.
As I opened my mouth to say I didn’t even know what, I heard a whisper. “Come to me, Benji.”
Startled, I looked around me, but there was nobody there except douchey Mr. Moreaux, staring at me like he wanted to eat me for dinner. It was getting creepy.
“Come now, Benji. I won’t tell you again.”
Whipping my head around quickly, looking for the owner of the phantom voice that I had to be dreaming up, I was caught by Lysandro, who half-stood from his chair, penetrating gaze locked on me.
“Yes, it’s me. Be a good little human and come to me.”
I practically fell out of my chair wanting to obey that voice in my head. Lysandro’s voice.
Moreaux reached out a hand, grabbing my wrist. “Where are you going? Can’t we at least chat?”
“Uh, um, I need to—” I cut off as a cold presence pressed up behind me.
“Let him go,” Lysandro said in a tone that brooked no argument. A sexy, menacing voice. I shivered.
Mr. Moreaux tensed, eyes widening in what looked like fear, but in that typical dude-bro fashion, he puffed his chest, trying for confidence and looking like an arrogant fool. “I’m sorry, Mr. Morretti, but Benji and I were in the middle of—”
“You were in the middle of nothing,” Lysandro said, breath ghosting over my ear. “I heard the whole conversation. I believe it’s time for you to go.”
Moreaux huffed, standing stiffly from his chair. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure I can find—”
“You’ll leave the club now,” Lysandro said, cutting him off again.
Holy fuck, I knew he wasn’t an owner here or anything, but the authoritative way he spoke made my dick twitch. What must it be like to just expect to be obeyed? That was so hot.
Moreaux glared at the man over my shoulder, then spun on his heel and stormed toward the door. I breathed a sigh of relief as he exited, then turned to thank Lysandro, but he was gone.
Looking back toward his table, I saw that it was empty as well. Dammit.
“What in the hell just happened?” Rafe asked.
Wasn’t that the million dollar question.