Page 19 of Bite
When I slip it on, it hugs every curve like it was poured over my body. I stare at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman looking back. She looks bold and unapologetic, like she belongs in their world.
I don’t, but I curl my hair into soft waves over one shoulder, darken my eyes with liner and shadow, and swipe a deep garnetgloss across my lips anyway, painting the illusion until it almost feels real. And by the time the sun sinks and the black car arrives, the woman in the mirror definitely isn’t Taylor anymore. She’s Marilyn. And Marilyn knows how to walk into danger with her head held high.
Still, I’m twitchy the whole ride over, legs crossed tight, fingers drumming against my thigh. My thoughts loop in circles until I’m dizzy.
Will Lucien be there? Sebastian? If they are, will I let them bite me?
The questions buzz through my skull like static, and I’m not sure if it’s dread or excitement sparking beneath my skin.
The mansion– or possibly fortress– is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
It rises in the distance like something out of a gothic painting as we travel the long driveway through the estate, massive and brooding against the dark sky. The driveway leading to it stretches nearly a mile, lined with wrought-iron lanterns that pool golden light onto cobblestones. On either side, towering hedges and frost-dusted trees close in like watchful sentinels. Behind us, the gates creak shut with a resonant clang, cutting off any chance of escape.
Up close, the mansion is breathtaking and terrifying all at once– part cathedral, part castle, its stone walls climbing high and tangled with ivy. Stained-glass windows glow faintly from within, and gothic spires claw upward into the blackness, like the house itself is trying to pierce the night sky.
The car eases to a stop and I step out carefully, the hem of my red dress whispering across the cobblestones. The night air is sharp, scented with pine and smoke. Before I can take more than a few steps, the massive doors swing inward, revealing a butler in a black coat and gloves. He regards me with a nod, then ushers me inside without a word.
The interior is a fever dream of opulence. Vaulted ceilings stretch above me, painted with sweeping murals that seem to move if I stare too long. Chandeliers drip crystals like frozen waterfalls, catching the candlelight and scattering it across floors so polished they gleam like liquid glass. Velvet curtains, gilded frames, flickering sconces everywhere– it feels like I’ve stepped into someone else’s fantasy, and it’s overwhelming. Too much of everything, and yet every detail demands my attention.
I’m led to the ballroom, where I quickly find that I’m not the only one wearing red. All the donors are in it– silk, velvet, chiffon– heels clicking, lips painted crimson, hair swept into fancy up-dos. Walking amongst them is like wading through a sea of blood, a buffet laid out for the monsters.
Men and women dressed in red move gracefully with drinks in hand, mingling with the vamps wearing blacks, blues, and shades of grey. Laughter and low music set the atmosphere, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses. My gaze drifts to the periphery, and I realize discreet feedings are happening near pillars and behind curtains.
They’re already drinking.
My throat tightens. I inhale, slow and steady, thinking maybe I should just… turn around. Walk out. Pretend I was never here.
“Bitch!”
A shrill voice cuts through the chatter, high and familiar, followed by Bex bursting through a cluster of guests in a cherry-red satin mini dress, eyes lighting up the second they lock onto mine. She grabs my hands, giving me a rapid once-over that makes me blush. “Damn, you clean up hot,” she remarks, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Come on, I want you to meet Audrey.”
She pulls me further into the room, and my feet barely seem to touch the floor, moving on their own as I stumble to keep pace. The hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and faint musicswirls around us, and I feel like I’m walking through a dream I don’t fully understand.
“Who are you tonight, by the way?” Bex whispers, nudging me in the ribs as she steers me across the room.
“Marilyn,” I whisper back.
She snorts a laugh. “Oh god, you let Fran pick, didn’t you?”
I wince, shrugging.
“I’m Tiffany,” she provides, brows wagging.
“Wow, way to pick a stripper name,” I mutter under my breath.
Bex just shrugs, flipping the ends of her short hair with practiced flair. “I mean, if they wanna pay for a strip show, I’m not above it.”
I snort in amusement, the sound lost in the murmur of guests, but it loosens something tight inside me as Bex directs us toward a statuesque blonde wrapped in red lace.
“Audrey, this is Marilyn,” Bex introduces smoothly. “Marilyn, Audrey.”
“Nice to meet you,” Audrey greets brightly, red-painted lips curving into a devilish smirk that makes my stomach flutter.
“It’s her first gala, so I was just about to tell her how this works, unless you wanna do the honors,” Bex continues, already flagging down a passing server. She snatches two flutes of champagne off his tray, handing one over to me automatically.
I don’t hesitate to take it, sipping slowly in an effort to ward off my nerves. My fingers tremble a little around the stem of the glass, betraying just how out of place I’m feeling here.
“You get your base for just showing up,” Audrey explains, edging toward Bex and looping an arm through hers like they’re best friends.
