Page 44 of Bite
It's been several days since James blew my mind with that trick of his fingers in his study. The little incident in the kitchen the next morning– the thing that definitely wasn’t supposed to be a kiss, but sure as hell felt like one– still lives in my head rent free. I’d thought that was my initiation into vampire seduction, but for all his efforts to get me into this contract, the man hasn’t laid a finger on me since.
Unless you count the feedings.
Which, you sort of have to, because his hands areeverywherewhen his mouth is at my throat. Each bite leaves me strung out, buzzing, aching in places I can’t soothe no matter how many times I drag myself into the shower and try to take care of it.
My own hands never scratch the itch, because that itch has a name.
James Devereaux.
Did he put the dress in here himself?
Some part of me wishes that were the case, but I doubt it. He’s got a whole staff to handle his errands, and he rarely makes appearances in the light of day. Still, I tentatively call out his name, wondering if he’ll materialize.
“James?”
Nothing answers me but the hum of the heating system and the faint tick of a clock. Even Ozzy is MIA– probably bolted for the kitchen the second someone cracked my door open to deliver the dress.
James might act like my kitten’s the devil incarnate, but the staff? They treat Ozzy like he’s the crown prince of Devereaux mansion. No kibble bowls here– the little beast gets fresh chicken, cream, and dishes prepared with more care than I’ve ever had in my life. And of course, he’s already made himself at home with the kitchen crew, because Ozzy knows damn well where his bread– or his salmon– is buttered.
I edge to the door, crack it open, and stick my head out into the hall on the off chance that whoever left the dress is still lurking and I can get an answer as to what it’s for. Sure enough, the butler is striding in my direction, expression schooled into his usual cool mask of indifference. Behind him trail three women hauling bags and rolling cases. Huxley glances back at them, then gestures straight at me.
“Miss Holt!” one of the women chirps, beaming me a smile. It takes me a beat, but I recognize her as one of the stylists from Bite that primped me for my photoshoot.
That should put me at ease, but it doesn’t. I clutch my towel tighter to my chest with one hand and lift the other in a stiff little wave, Huxley silently peeling off and leaving me to the wolves.
“Can I help you?” I ask warily as the trio barrels closer.
“We’re here to helpyou,” a curvy redhead replies with a giggle, as if we’re sharing a secret that I’m just not in on yet.
My brow furrows, suspicion coiling in my gut. “Help me with what?”
They reach my door, but I don’t move to open it all the way, keeping my head and shoulder poked through the gap like some half-feral raccoon guarding its trash.
“Mr. Devereaux booked us to give you a full day of pampering,” the third woman announces cheerfully. “Manicure, pedicure, massage, the works.”
I blink at her, dumbfounded.
A full day of pampering? Booked by James?
I want to ask why– why me, why now, why the sudden shift in routine– but it’s unlikely that these women have the answers. Only James does, and given the sunlight streaming in through the sheer lilac curtains, I’m betting he’s out cold.
I wonder if he sleeps in a coffin…
“Can we come in?” the makeup artist from Bite asks, adjusting the strap of a heavy-looking bag slung over her shoulder.
“Uh, okay,” I reply unsteadily. Hugging the towel tighter around my chest, I swing the door open and step aside.
They waste zero time invading my space. Within minutes, my bedroom is transformed into a mobile salon and spa. Cases crack open, bottles and brushes are spread across every flat surface, and soft music lilts from a portable speaker. One of them pops up a collapsible massage table in the center of the room, and before I can even blink, I’m being steered onto it. I try to protest that I’m naked under my towel, but the women just laugh like I’m joking around.
An hour of deep tissue work wrings the knots out of my back and shoulders, untangling tension I didn’t even realize I’d been carrying.Well, most of it.There’s still one knot I know they can’t touch, but for the first time since I landed in this gilded castle, I actually get why people pay obscene amounts of money for this kind of thing. The massage is heaven.
The manicure and pedicure are just as decadent, featuring warm towels and lotions that smell faintly of citrus and mint. The cavalry takes a break when a delivery arrives from the kitchen: silver trays stacked with veggies and dips and neat little finger sandwiches. It feels absurd to be eating cucumber sandwiches in a towel while three strangers hover, but I polish off my share anyway. Hunger trumps dignity every time.
Once I’m fed, I’m herded toward the vanity like livestock being groomed for auction. Ozzy finally decides to reappear, and the women all coo over how cute and fluffy he is as he makes a little nest for himself on the bed and starts snoozing, completely oblivious to the bustle around him. The glam squad unloads brushes and palletes, sprays and curling irons, creating an arsenal of transformation right here in my bedroom.
What follows is similar to my prep at Bite, except on steroids. Their movements are efficient, their hands tugging, brushing, dabbing, and spraying. Fingers dig into my scalp, brushes sweep across my face, pins bite into my hair until it feels less like I’m being pampered and more like I’m being sculpted.
It’s worth it, though– when they’re done, the girl in the mirror looksincredible.
