Page 21 of Bite
He extends a hand toward me, my breath catching as I lift my own in response, thinking he’s going to shake it and introduce himself. Instead, his long fingers gently curl around my wrist and turn it over until the widest part of my Bite bracelet faces upward. He holds his phone over the band, a chime sounding as my profile registers.
His gaze flickers down to the screen, then back to me.
“Marilyn,” he drawls smoothly, the deep timbre of his voice like velvet dragging across bare skin.
It takes me a second too long to realize he’s using my alias.
“Y-yes,” I stammer, straightening my spine.
He releases my wrist only to raise his hand higher, gently tucking a rogue curl behind my ear. The tips of his fingers graze the curve of my cheek before he withdraws his touch, hand dropping back down to his side. “You’re new.”
“Sort of,” I manage, breathless. “This is my third engagement.”
Something sharpens in his eyes. Interest, yes– but also something else.Something darker.
“You’re remarkably calm for someone so new,” he remarks, his tone amused, as if I’m a puzzle he’s already halfway to solving.
A shaky laugh escapes me. “I’m definitely not.”
I dart a sideways glance toward Bex and Audrey, desperate for an anchor, but his gaze doesn’t follow. He still hasn’t acknowledged anyone else’s presence– his attention remains locked on me, never wavering, and it’s starting to feel less like focus and more like possession.
“I’d like to feed from you, tonight,” he declares without pomp or hesitation. “Would you allow it?”
My pulse skips. I flick another look toward Bex and Audrey, both of whom are making wide eyes at me, practically vibrating with silentsay yesenergy. Around us, the other donors have gone still, all staring this way. Staring athim.
He still hasn’t bothered to formally introduce himself, but I suppose a man like him needs no introduction. Everyone here knows exactly who James Devereaux is. Hell, I’ve been here for all of five minutes, andIalready know who he is. Which is precisely why I should refuse his request. A man like him– a king among predators– probably gets away with anything he desires, up to and including casual murder.
And yet, I feel my chin dip in a barely discernible nod, agreeing to a dance with the devil before I’ve even fully decided if I want to.
“Excellent,” he murmurs, the faint curl of his lips revealing two rows of perfectly straight white teeth. It’s not quite a smile, but something sharper that should require a warning label. “Shall we?”
He offers his arm, gazing down at me expectantly, and my hand lifts before I can think better of it, settling against firm muscle. The contact is grounding and intoxicating all at once, my head spinning as I blindly thrust my champagne flute in Bex’s direction.
She takes it with a little nod of encouragement, face splitting into an excited grin before James begins to guide me away, his presence eclipsing everything else.
The ballroom seems to exhale as we leave, a ripple of attention following us all the way to the exit. Every eye feels pinned to my back, heavy with envy and speculation. My spine stiffens, but I keep moving, remembering what Fran said at my intake.
‘If you accept an engagement, we expect you to follow through.’
I’m about to make five hundred bucks. This is a business transaction, plain and simple.
We step out into a corridor draped in velvet curtains and lit by soft golden sconces, the hush immediate. The echo of my heels on the marble becomes embarrassingly loud against the silence as I walk beside him, my heartbeat even louder.
“Where are we going?” I ask when I finally find my voice again.
“To my study,” he replies simply.
We pass closed doors, faint flickers of movement shadowing behind etched glass. Other donors, other feedings, other secrets sealed behind soundproof walls. Each one we glide past makes it harder to breathe, until he finally steers me through an open doorway into a large, dimly lit room.
A fire crackles low in the hearth, bathing the opulent study in a cozy warmth. A plush velvet chaise lounges near the fireplace, a decanter of something red on the table beside it.Probably not wine.
James turns to face me, and for the first time since we locked eyes across the ballroom, something in his expression shifts. The steel edges soften, the mask loosens. And it’s worse–so much worse– because without the armor of his severity, I can see him clearly: terrifyingly gorgeous, dangerously inhuman, the embodiment of everything I should know better than to tangle with.
My intense attraction to him overrides sensibility. I should be afraid to be alone in a room with a vampire king, but I’m not. I’m intrigued. Thrumming with anticipation. Shamefully, deliciously titillated.
I study his features, drinking in every detail. It’s impossible to guess his age by looks alone. Physically, he appears to be in his mid-twenties, no boyish softness left but no ravages of age weathering his features. Eternal in his youth, almost cruel in hisbeauty. He doesn’t speak, only assesses me with a patience so unyielding that the silence rapidly becomes suffocating.
I twist my fingers together uncomfortably, darting a glance at the chaise by the fire. “Should we sit down, or…?”
