Page 63 of Bite
That earns a real laugh from me, one that finally unravels the knot in my chest I’ve been carrying around all day. “Who knows if that’d even work,” I snort, taking another sip of my own drink. “Turns out a lot of the things I thought I knew are just myths. Did you know they eat? And they don’t burn up in the sun, they just prefer the dark.”
“For real?” Bex gasps incredulously.
Before I can answer, the air in the room shifts. Subtle at first– like a sudden drop in temperature, a current moving against the grain. The tiny hairs on my arms rise. Laughter dims, music softens, conversation dips just enough for my instincts to prickle.
My gaze drifts toward the entrance like I’m being pulled there by some invisible thread, and there he is.
James looms just inside the doorway, a dark silhouette framed by neon. He’s shed his usual armor of formality– no tie, just an open-collared black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looks impossibly out of place in this messy bar. Too sharp, too composed, toohim.
His icy blue eyes lock with mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
“What’s he doing here?” Bex wonders aloud, clearly noticing the shift in my attention.
I can’t answer. My pulse is pounding too hard in my ears as he moves toward us, the crowd seeming to part for him without even realizing why. His expression gives nothing away, but his gaze burns with an intensity I can’t name. Possession, maybe. Or fury, or hunger.
Or something far more dangerous.
Chapter
Twenty
JAMES
The delicate melody of Chopin’sNocturne in C-sharp minordrifts through the surround sound system, coaxing me gently toward consciousness. As the music builds, so does my awareness. Muscles twitch. Thoughts stir. My eyes open to the dark.
The king-size mattress beneath me is a sea of black silk– cool against my bare skin, perfectly smooth. I never toss or turn, never wake tangled in the sheets. I haven’t dreamed in over a century. The closest I get is waking up with my fangs half-extended and a sick craving tearing at my insides, which some people might call a nightmare. I just call it Tuesday.
Taylor, on the other hand, sleeps like she’s fighting for her life. Arms flailing, knees kicking, sheets twisted around her body. I lingered in the room long after she drifted off last night, just watching her breathe and listening to the steady rhythm of her pulse. Wondering how to unlock the secrets running through her veins.
Even now, I can smell her on my skin; vanilla shampoo and faint floral perfume. The scent sharpens my hunger as I roll over to press a button on the nightstand. The blackout blinds humto life, rising in slow, mechanical precision. Blue twilight spills across the floor, chasing shadows into the corners.
My bedroom stretches out before me– vaulted ceilings, black marble fireplace, rows of antique swords glinting between pieces of fine art. It’s the kind of opulence that would be gauche if I didn’t have the presence to back it up. I stretch once, luxuriously, before sliding out of bed and stalking toward the closet.
My movements are fluid, effortless, lacking any residual stiffness from ten hours of rigidity. Lately, I’ve been waking stronger. Sharper. The fatigue that used to cling to me like a shadow has even started fading. All since I started feeding from Taylor.
Her blood nourishes me differently. It keeps me satiated longer, quiets the hunger for anyone but her. I rise feeling rejuvenated, as though the centuries have rolled off my back. My endurance has doubled; even my strength and speed have changed. Yesterday, I nearly tore a door off its hinges without meaning to, like some newly-turned fledgling learning his limits. I can’t decide whether the realization excites or unnerves me.
In my world, power is survival. Strength keeps you at the top; weakness buries you beneath it. I already hold the title ofSanguinis Rex– the Blood King– because none in this region can rival me. But the hierarchy is a delicate balance, and shifts in power never go unnoticed.
If I'm growing stronger, those above me will feel the tremor long before I speak it aloud. Fear breeds paranoia, and paranoia tends to make vampires homicidal. It’s far easier to remove a rival than risk being outmatched. Which is why I’ll need to be selective, exercising absolute discretion in my search for answers about my little mortal.
In the closet, I pull a crisp charcoal gray suit from its hanger, pairing it with a black button-up and dressing the part of a king.I’m scheduled to hold court at the estate this evening, granting audience to those under my rule. It’s a weekly nuisance I endure out of obligation: listening to grievances, making rulings, approving or denying petitions to sire new progeny. Tedious, but necessary. With luck, it’ll be over quickly.
Until then, I have a few hours to spend far more productively– feeding from Taylor and drawing those soft, desperate sounds from her lips that make me forget the centuries behind me.
In the en-suite, I rake a comb through my pale blond hair, then splash cold water over my face. My reflection stares back, light blue eyes rimmed with that perpetual trace of red, no matter how long I rest.A reminder of what I am.The scars at the base of my neck lie hidden beneath ink, but my fingers find them anyway, tracing the ridged skin.A reminder that even kings can bleed.
I return to the nightstand and press a recessed button on the wood panel, the door locks disengaging with a heavy thud. My bedroom is a fortress– sanctuary and tomb in one, impenetrable without my consent. Protection against a truth every powerful vampire knows: power means nothing when you’re at rest. No one is invulnerable in sleep.
I pick up my phone, swiping it open and thumbing through the notifications as I head for the door. Most of them are meaningless– meetings, messages, reports– but one catches my eye. An email from the genealogist I hired to investigate my new donor’s lineage. The message is full of apologies and excuses, all circling the same point.
Genealogy is a dead end.
Fuck.
I stuff my phone into my pocket with a discontented grunt and head for the library, expecting to find Taylor draped over one of the armchairs with a book in hand. If she’s not there,she’ll be in the kitchen inhaling carbs or harassing the staff– it’s a toss-up as to which. Not that it matters, so long as I don’t have to deal with her cat.
The clip of my footsteps echoes along the marble floor as I move through the halls, the sound sharp in the cavernous quiet.
