Page 82 of Bite
“No, that’s… I just…” she stammers, a blush creeping up her neck. “I mean, yeah, if you expect me to be exclusive with you, then it needs to go both ways. But mostly I need your honesty, James. How can I trust you if I don’t even know you?”
“You know everything that matters.”
She barks a hollow laugh. “Do I? How old are you, James? Two hundred? Five hundred?”
“Somewhere between.”
“See? You can’t even give me a straight answer to the simplest question.” She shakes her head, frustration bleeding through. “Do you ever even think about what this is like for me? To wake up in a different world every day, to not know what’s expected of me or what’s going to happen next? How am I supposed to figure any of this out if you’re lying to me?”
I catch her chin again, angling her face toward mine. “I’ve never lied to you,mea dulcis.”
“Why do you always call me that?” she sighs, exasperated. “What does it even mean?”
I can’t help but smile faintly, despite everything. “It’s Latin formy sweet.”
Her brow furrows. “Isn’t that dead language?”
“And I’m a dead man,” I shrug.
“You look alive and well to me,” she mutters.
“Thanks to your blood.”
She rolls her eyes and slides off my lap, turning toward the window again. My eyes zero in on the pulse point at the base of her throat, appetite stirring.
Something tells me she wouldn’t be thrilled if I asked to feed right now.
Continuing this argument won’t serve either of us, so I let the silence stretch again– thick, unyielding, and full of everything we aren’t saying. The rest of the drive unfolds in a quiet standoff: her stewing in perceived betrayal, me burying the gnawing hunger.
I could tell her everything. Things I haven’t told anyone in centuries.
That every time I’ve come to care for someone, the world has found a way to rip it apart.
That vampires aren’t capable of human trivialities like love.
But I don’t.
She may be angry now, but she’ll come around. I’ve seen how she looks at me; felt how her body yields under my touch. And the way I can feel her frustration simmering beneath my own skin only strengthens the theory I’ve been forming about who Taylor Holt really is.
All that remains to be seen is whether science can back it up.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
TAYLOR
Ifeel like I’ve been wandering around blind for weeks, only now blinking my way into seeing the world around me clearly. Gone is that hazy contentment I’d let myself drift in, lulled by the illusion that this strange, impossible life could ever be real. Every sense feels sharper now– my body alert, my mind fresh, my pulse quick with awareness. I was dreaming before, but I’m finally awake.
Except for brief feedings, James has given me space since the argument in the car the other day– though ‘space’ feels more like exile than mercy. Tonight, at least, offers a distraction. It’s Sunday, which means we’re entertaining Dr. Elliott Faulkner– famous vampire scientist– for dinner. A week ago, I’d have been thrilled, losing sleep rehearsing how to act casual in front of a literal Nobel laureate. Now, all I can muster is a dull curiosity. Somewhere between the lies, the avoidance, and the tightly measured silence that’s filled the past few days, excitement has curdled into something sour.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror, fussing with the hem of my black dress like it’s going to magically grow and cover more of my thighs. The reflection that stares back is unfamiliar– too pale, too polished. My skin hasn’t seen much of the sunlately, and it shows. I look fragile. Like someone who could be killed with a whisper.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Living with a vampire has a way of blurring the line between beauty and danger until they’re almost indistinguishable.
James has been up since dusk, I’m sure, but I haven’t seen or heard from him. No request to feed, no instructions about what to wear or when to come down. Maybe he doesn’t care whether I show up tonight at all.
I tell myself I don’t care, either– that the distance is safe. But then my eyes catch on my reflection again, the dress hugging my body in a way that feels both elegant and exposed, and I can’t help imagining the slide of his hands over my hips, his gaze lingering like a brand. His voice saying my name– half command, half confession.
