Page 7 of Vampire Soldier

He opens his mouth to argue, but his phone rings, cutting him off. “I need to get the stage set. Blake’s here.”

He strides off, clearly still annoyed. I shake my head, returning to my seat at the table. I flip open Blake Taylor’s folder, surprised to find their experience is limited. Most of it comes from the Gentleman’s Study, an exotic dance club with a dark academia aesthetic.

Scanning Perry’s notes, I see why he advanced Blake to this stage. Despite the lack of formal education and limited venue exposure, Blake’s twelve years at the Gentleman’s Study have provided a wealth of experience in stage production. Perry notes Blake’s versatility and intimate understanding of the craft as justification for advancing them to the final interview.

Perry appears on stage, signaling the DJ in the back booth. The lights dim, leaving only a spotlight on him. He squints against the brightness, his voice crisp as he announces, “Blake Taylor, performing the feather fan act.”

My interest piques. Blake isn’t the first male candidate to make it this far, but the others stuck to the more acrobatic acts of the show. Blake’s choice of audition is intriguing. I lean back, hoping this will be the performance that finally lets me cross “hire new stage producer” off my list.

My nose twitches, catching the faintest hint of honeysuckle. I inhale deeply, but the scent is gone, replaced by the lingering stench of Jessica’s perfume. I shake my head, chiding myself for imagining things.

The first smooth vocals of Michael Bublé’s “Feeling Good” fill the room as the spotlight returns, illuminating the stage. Blake Taylor steps into the light, and my world tilts.

Blake Taylor is a woman.

Lilac hair styled into classic finger waves, full lips, a button nose, and pale blue eyes.

Her. The mystery woman from Blood Street.

I blink, convinced I’m hallucinating. But no, there she is, standing on my stage, holding two large ostrich feather fans. Blake Taylor—my mystery woman—is the candidate for the stage producer position at my restaurant and burlesque theater.

“Fuck,” I groan, closing my eyes. I should dismiss her on the spot. I should stand, tell her there’s been a mistake, and have Perry escort her out.

Instead, I watch.

Blake moves with an easy grace, the white fans framing her lithe figure. She’s dressed professionally—a light gray racerback tank that showcases her toned shoulders and arms, paired with black leggings that hug her strong thighs. Her dancing heels click softly against the stage, adding a rhythm to her movements. It shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.

She can’t see me from the stage, not with the spotlight blinding her. If she hadn’t been late, we would’ve been introduced before her performance.

My cock thickens, coming to life in a way it hasn’t for what feels like months. Certainly not since she left me in my Range Rover after dropping her off without a name and lips I can still feel on mine. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to focus on her performance rather than the way her movements stir something primal in me.

Her dance is sensual, teasing, the fans concealing and revealing her body in a way that’s both alluring and artful. She’s confident, commanding the stage as if she’s been doing this for decades. It’s clear she’s not just performing—she’s owning it.

I glance at Perry, who’s standing off to the side of the stage. He’s watching her with a fierce admiration that makes me want to slam him into the ground. The possessiveness that surges through me is unexpected and unwelcome. It’s another sign that we cannot—absolutely cannot—hire Blake Taylor.

Even if she’s the best candidate we’ve seen.

As the song fades, Blake returns to her original pose, the fans closing around her like a protective cocoon. The spotlight turns off, plunging the room into silence.

No one moves. No one breathes.

Then Carla, the bar manager, lets out a loud whoop, breaking the spell.

“If you don’t hire her, I’m quitting!” she shouts, applauding. Perry joins in, and soon the entire room is clapping. Everyone except me.

The house lights come on again. Blake turns to face the room, her face flushed with exertion and triumph. Perry steps onto the stage, grinning broadly. “That was a brilliant performance,” he says, gesturing to me. “Please, let me introduce you to the owner. This is Malachi Casadecappa.”

Blake’s eyes meet mine, and her brilliant smile falters as recognition dawns.

“Thank you, Ms. Taylor,” I say, my tone cool and professional. Every fiber of my being wants to tell her she’s hired, to give myself a reason to keep her close. But I can’t. I won’t. “If you’re selected, we’ll contact you.”

I sweep the candidate files off the table and turn away, refusing to look back. I hear Perry’s hurried apologies, his attempts to calm her down, but I don’t listen.

I storm up the black-and-gold velvet-carpeted stairs to the second floor, bypassing the private boxes and heading straight to my office. The door slams against the wall as I enter, and I drop the files onto my desk with a thud.

Perry charges in moments later, his face red with anger. “What the hell was that?” he demands, slapping his hand on my desk. “That was the best candidate we’ve had by a mile. Why didn’t you finish the interview?”

I pour myself a double whiskey, tossing it back in one gulp. The burn does little to soothe my frustration. “There are other candidates,” I say, my voice low.

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