Page 12 of Bite Me

“Try not to make trouble for everyone, thief,” Dacre says. “Imagine how upset your family would be if something happened to you because you strolled into a vampire’s house with a fresh cut that’s not properly bandaged. Or, at the very least, think of what a nuisance it would be for everyone else, including me. The meetings for the council would be a nightmare.”

I hate that he’s right. I also hate that when he’s this close, I’m fixated on the smell of his cologne again. Seriously, I need to get laid soon. This is a huge problem.

He inspects the bandage once it’s finished.

I pull my hand back. “Well, if we’re done—”

“What do you want to do with all that fame you’re so eager to acquire? What do you think you’ll gain?” His eyes darken.

He doesn’t understand how long I’ve wanted this. I’ve spent hours in the kitchen teaching myself things no one else would because, at one point, it was all I had. When my family was broken, food gave me purpose. It gave me hope. How could Dacre, who’s probably never had to work for anything a day in his life, ever understand that?

“You don’t answer my questions. I don’t answer yours.”

I snatch my box of food, pull down my dress, and turn toward the door. That should give him a decent look at my ass, which he can kiss.

“You can’t have my blood.” I don’t care in the slightest if anyone else hears of his doomed ultimatum.

Chapter Five

Emma

There aren’t many things I hate more than being wrong, but proving Dacre Everhart right is at the top of that list. I finger the cloth napkin in my hand and shamelessly breathe in the scent of it. There’s a black D.E. embroidered on the edge.

Okay, there is shame involved, even in the safety of my room.

I didn’t mean to steal it. In my rush to leave Dacre’s family mansion, I must have gathered it up on my way out. Is it stealing if it wasn’t intentional? Though I have no plans to give it back for two reasons: one, because Dacre is a jerk who doesn’t deserve it and probably hasn’t noticed it was missing, and two, because it sits on my nightstand, and I can’t bring myself to wash it.

His cologne lingers where he touched it. He must bathe in the stuff because even though it was used once to wipe his face, there’s no trace of any lingering food odor. I like the smell, and I don’t care to admit that embarrassment to any soul alive, including my sisters. I’m having a hard time accepting it myself.

I sigh and grab my phone to type a message:

Mom, Dacre asked me to be his source.

I can’t believe I’m even typing that.

I wait a few more seconds.

Don’t worry, I didn’t say yes. I don’t think I will . . . Probably not. But either way, don’t worry about me. I’m being careful.

There’s a strange, hollow feeling when I hit send, only to see the message notification to myself pop up a few seconds later, and I’m left alone in the silence of my room.

I don’t always feel sad about her being gone. I try hard not to be sad about it, ever. Even on her birthday, I make her favorite cake and try to make it like any other birthday.

Sadness never helped anything. It was grief that nearly tore my family apart. But sometimes, when I imagine what I would do if she were actually alive and able to answer my messages . . . it makes me feel so hollow inside that I don’t know how to make it end.

I type one last message.

I love you. Hope your day is good.

I like to imagine my mother sitting on a warm, sunny patio with a coffee in her hand, reading the morning paper, her dark hair and violet eyes warmed by the sun. There’s a gaping emptiness that accompanies it, reminding me that there is a hole in my life that nothing is ever going to be able to fill. Spending time wallowing won’t bring her back, and I already allowed myself my ten minutes of sad time this morning when I put on the locket she gave me and thought about the moment she strung it around my neck for the first time.

I jump as my phone vibrates. It’s not her, but sometimes, for a split second, I throw caution to the wind and pretend it is.

It’s the Doxlothia University News notification: Culinary Club to Announce Its Second Semester Barring New Students From Applying.

A scream curdles in my throat and I snatch the nearest pillow from my bed to smother it. Why is Dacre doing this? Surely, this can’t all be because of me. Doesn’t this man have anything better to do than ruin my life?

“That’s too bad,” he’d said.