My mom used to say I had a talent for finding trouble. Well, that and disappointing her, but that's a whole other therapy session. Right now, I'm proving her first point by sitting at a massive marble kitchen island, halfway through the most basic sandwich known to mankind. Just American cheese between two slices of white bread. Culinary masterpiece? Hardly. Comfort food from my childhood? Absolutely.
Emily's instructions before she stormed upstairs were crystal clear. "Don't. Move." Complete with that icy glare that could probably freeze hell over. But honestly, what did she expect? You can't just tell a guy he's been purchased by a hockey-loving vampire and then leave him alone in a literal castle.
So yeah, I moved.
I'd set out to find a computer. Not to call for help or anything dramatic like that. I just wanted to research this new world. Are vampires common? Do they hide? But instead of finding a study with a convenient desktop, I stumbled across this kitchen that's bigger than my entire apartment.
The place is ridiculous, all gleaming stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. I half expected to find bags of blood lined up next to the condiments, but it's stocked with normal human food. Well, normal if you're rich as hell. There's fancy cheese, expensive-looking wine, and ingredients I couldn't even identify.
I'm halfway through my second bite when the door swings open, and my entire world stops.
A Goddess appears…
The woman standing in the doorway isn't just beautiful. She's otherworldly. She's tall. Intimidatingly so. Six-foot-something of pure confidence wrapped in an unzipped Carhartt jacket and a black and gold Bruins winter hat pulled low over her forehead. Long black hair spills out from underneath it, framing a face that belongs on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
My sandwich hovers halfway to my mouth as I stare, probably looking like an idiot. Her jacket hangs open just enough to reveal a generous amount of cleavage that makes my brain short-circuit.
She tilts her head, her red eyes sparkling with amused curiosity. "You're the man Emily brought over?" Her voice is melodic, with just a hint of a Boston accent.
I swallow hard. "Yes."
She gestures at my half-eaten meal. "And you're just... eating a sandwich in my castle?"
"I got hungry," I say weakly, watching as she glides across the kitchen and pulls up a seat directly across from me.
Before I can react, she reaches out and takes my free hand. Her skin is cold to the touch. Her long nails trace delicate patterns on my wrist, sending little shivers up my arm. It should be terrifying, having a vampire playing with the exact spot where my blood pulses closest to the surface, but instead, I'm just... fascinated.
"What's your name?" she asks, her eyes never leaving mine.
"Vincent."
The corner of her mouth quirks up. "I'm Maeve Sullivan."
"Sullivan?" I repeat, finding my voice again. "That's a wild last name for a vampire."
She throws her head back and laughs.
"I see you've figured it out," Maeve says, her eyes twinkling with delight. "Emily told me you were quite inquisitive."
I set my sandwich down on the plate, wiping my hands on a nearby napkin. "So you're my owner, right?"
"Yes," she confirms, still smiling.
"Did the Bruins win?"
Her smile widens, pride radiating from her face. "Yes. Crushed the Lightning, 4-2."
I gesture to my half-eaten sandwich. "Mind if I finish this before you crack me open like a cold beer and drink me?"
Maeve laughs again. "Vincent," she says, leaning forward across the counter, "why aren't you afraid of me?"
I consider this for a moment, then shrug. "I've had a hell of a day."
"I can only imagine..." she murmurs, studying me with those crimson eyes.
Without warning, she moves, a blur of motion too fast for my brain to process. Suddenly her cold hand is around my throat, and my back slams against the wall. The impact forces an "oof" from my lungs as sandwich crumbs scatter across the floor.
Her fangs extend, gleaming white and deadly sharp. "I prefer when my blood bags are scared," she growls, her face inches from mine.
"Watch my head," I wheeze through her grip. "I'm concussed."
She scoffs, bringing herself closer, her breath cool against my skin. Then something changes. I watch her pupils dilate dramatically, just like what happened with Victoria and Valentina earlier. Something about me seems to trigger this reaction in vampires.
Abruptly, she releases me. I drop to my knees, gasping as air rushes back into my lungs.
"What are you?" she demands, staring down at me with a mixture of confusion and fascination.
"What do you mean?" I manage between breaths.
Before I can answer, she's suddenly on me again. This time, she hoists me up like I weigh nothing, lifting me completely off the ground. Her nose presses against my neck and she inhales deeply, making me squirm as her breath tickles my skin.
"Hey that…" I start, but then her tongue darts out, running along my jugular in one long, slow stroke.
I shudder, my protest dying in my throat. The sensation sends an unexpected wave of pleasure through me, and I'm horrified to find myself leaning into it rather than pulling away.
When in Rome…
She freezes mid-lick, her body going rigid against mine. "In all my years..." she whispers against my skin, her voice filled with wonder. "I've never..."
She pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, her crimson irises wide with something I can't quite place
"Where were you born?" she demands, still holding me aloft like I'm made of styrofoam.
"Mass General... probably?" My voice comes out embarrassingly high-pitched.
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. "You're sure you weren't born in a pool of virgin blood? Or perhaps bathed in moonlight during a celestial alignment?"
I can't help the nervous laugh that escapes me. "Well, no, I can't say for sure... I was a baby."
Maeve sighs deeply, finally setting me back on my feet but keeping her hands firmly on my shoulders. "I see what Emily meant now."
She grabs me by the chin, tilting my face up to meet her gaze. A slow, predatory smile spreads across her perfect features. "A meal like you deserves to be savored, Vincent. You're a lucky man. I never bring my snacks to bed with me." She leans in closer, her voice dropping to a purr. "But you..."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "Am I going to die?"
"Yes," she answers without hesitation.
She brings her face so close to mine that our noses almost touch. But strangely, I don't feel afraid. Maybe it's shock. Maybe it's that weird sense of borrowed time I've been feeling since the truck hit me. Whatever it is, I just feel... calm.
"Will it hurt?" I ask quietly.
Her eyes soften just slightly. "No."
I take a deep breath, then clap my hands together once with finality. "Well then, if this is how I was meant to die, I accept."
Maeve's perfectly shaped eyebrows furrow, creating a small crease between them. Her red eyes study my face with open confusion.
"You're not going to beg for your life?" she asks, sounding genuinely perplexed. "No pleas for mercy? No bargaining?"
I let out a small laugh that sounds more like a sigh. "Look, I'm basically just a toy in your hands right now. You've made that abundantly clear. The way you talked to me, I might as well be an ant beneath your boot."
Her head tilts slightly, those crimson eyes narrowing.
"Besides," I continue, "I was a horrible salesman, Maeve. Like, truly terrible. There's no way I'm talking you out of this."
"You were a salesman?" She seems surprised by this random detail.
"Yeah. And trust me, getting drained by a vampire is so much better than cold-calling businesses."
Before I know it, I'm airborne.
Maeve has scooped me up effortlessly, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back. She's carrying me like I'm nothing more than an overnight bag, my body cradled against her chest as she strides out of the kitchen.
"You're a strange little man, Vincent," she says, still chuckling as she carries me through a series of grand hallways. "Most men would be crying their eyes out by now."
"I'm not little! I'm five foot eight," I protest weakly, though compared to her towering height, I guess I am tiny. "And I think I cried all my tears out earlier today. I'm running on empty."
"That's too bad," she says, her lips curling into a predatory smile. "I would have loved to taste your tears."
My heart skips a beat as her words sink in. There's something deeply unsettling about the way she says it, like she's genuinely disappointed she won't get to lap up my sorrow along with my blood.
"Oh well."