Page 5 of Bite
“Yes. If you provide your address, I’ll send a driver to collect you.”
“Oh. Okay.” Before I can second-guess it, I rattle off my address. She confirms it before hanging up, as if this whole conversation was the most mundane thing in the world.
I lower my phone slowly after the line disconnects, staring at the blank screen.
What the hell did I just agree to?
Ablacked-out town car picks me up at 2:45 p.m. on the dot, and the driver doesn’t speak a word to me beyond confirming my name. He just nods once, opens the door, then gets behind the wheel and drives in smooth, effortless silence.
I spend the whole ride fidgeting in the back seat, wondering if I’m making a huge mistake.
By the time we pull up outside a sleek office building, my stomach is in full rebellion, twisted into knots I doubt will ever loosen. The place looks like a tech company’s headquarters– glass exterior, towering white pillars, and a nameplate near the door that just saysSteele Holdingsin tasteful chrome lettering. Nothing about it screams ‘vampire blood agency’, which I suppose is kinda the point.
Inside, it’s even more surreal. The lobby is bright and inviting, all gleaming tile and brushed steel. The air smells faintly of citrus and cleaning products. There are no candles, no incense, no moody red lighting… none of the stereotypical things I’d expect for a place that caters to dangerous creatures of the night. Just sharp edges, quiet whispers, and a woman at the front desk who greets me like I’m here for a spa appointment.
I give her my name, and she taps something into a tablet and nods, handing over a temporary ID badge and directing me to the elevator.
I expect the fourteenth floor to feel different– darker, colder, more secretive. But it doesn’t. It’s just as bright. Just as clean. Just as white.
I kinda hate it.
White walls, white floors, white furniture. Even the air feels white– sterile and still and pristine. It’s like everything’s been scrubbed of color, and with it, emotion. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, warning me not to trust a place that deals in blood and doesn’t show a single damn stain.
I’m led into a private office by another silent assistant, and there, waiting behind a glass desk that probably costs more than my yearly rent, is Francesca Fox.
She rises to greet me, and I immediately clock her as the type of woman who could run an army. She’s both breathtaking and intimidating as hell. Supermodel tall, high cheekbones carved like a blade, tan skin glowing under the soft overhead lights. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe bun that somehow only makes her look more commanding, and her white power suit fits her like armor– sharp shoulders, nipped waist, not a single wrinkle in sight. Every inch of her is composed; perfectly polished.
She smiles– cool and professional– and gestures to the chair across from her.
“Taylor Holt,” she greets smoothly, settling back into her seat. “Thank you for coming in.”
I nod and sit, perching stiffly at the edge of the chair like I might need to bolt at any moment. The leather is soft and expensive, and the whole room feels like a page out of a luxury magazine.
“I’m sure you understand our need for discretion,” Francesca continues, pulling a folder from a sleek drawer and sliding it across the desk toward me. “Before we can proceed, I’ll need your signature on this.”
I glance down at the papers.Non-Disclosure Agreementis written in clean block letters across the top of the first page.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly too dry. My eyes scan the paragraphs, but the words start to swim. Legalese. Liability. Damages. Confidentiality clauses stacked like dominoes. The message is clear: if I say a word about this place to anyone, I’ll be held responsible in ways I probably can’t afford.
Which is ironic, because I already can’t even afford to keep a roof over my head.
Still, I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the pen. I can feel her watching me– not pressuring, just waiting. Calm and patient, like she expects me to sign without question.
And she’s right.
I pick up the pen, gripping it tightly as I scrawl my name on the dotted line.
“Perfect,” she remarks when I’m done, sliding the folder away smoothly. Her tone is cheerful and detached, like this is just another Tuesday in her world. She opens a second drawer and retrieves another folder, placing it in front of her on the desk.
“Let me give you a basic overview of what we do here,” she says, folding her hands on top of the thick packet. “As you may be aware, the vampire population has seen exponential growth over the last decade. With that comes increased demand for resources– most notably, blood. While many rely on traditional banks, our clients– typically affluent, influential individuals– prefer to feed directly from a living source. Bite exists to meet that need.”
She pauses, gauging my expression.
I nod once, though I’m not sure if it’s out of understanding or survival instinct.
“We provide vetted, willing donors to fulfill our clients’ requests,” she continues. “We handle all of the logistics, from transportation to security, contracts to confidentiality. Donors are paid per engagement, and the rates vary depending on what services are offered.”
My stomach clenches, but I keep my face blank. I force myself to nod again.
