Page 29 of Bite Me

“I’ll be there,” I say with no hesitation. I think of asking him what I should wear, and then I remember he’s a man and likely doesn’t care.

“Perfect.”

Dacre’s eyes widen when he emerges through the double doors into the kitchen. He’s a few feet away, and he just looks as if he smells nice. Despite the circles under his eyes, everything about him looks fresh. His brows are groomed, and in his white coat, he looks a little like one of the handsome fae in the storybooks Mom would read to me as a kid. A man with an otherworldly type of beauty, who could lead anyone to a painful death deep into the forest.

“Of course, I . . .” My voice trails off as another man follows Dacre.

He, too, is in a white coat, but he’s taller, with gray hair, a thick neck, and broad shoulders.

Dacre moves to walk next to him, incidentally putting his body in front of mine. Our hands nearly brush as they saunter toward another door across the room.

This must be someone on the board of directors. He’s got the white coat on and an air of importance about him. Something in Dacre’s eyes gives me pause. It’s so brief. A widening of the whites of his eyes, a twitch of his furrowed brow. I avert my gaze from the older man, and they both disappear into the next room without another word. It’s a few degrees warmer once they’re out of sight.

“Who was that?”

“Dacre’s grandfather. He owns the culinary club.”

Of course. Dacre would call my lack of research “negligence,” but there are no photos of any of Doxlothia’s board of directors online or of the council members, either. Doxlothia may regularly have reporters on campus, but they’re very selective with what they share.

He didn’t look very friendly, and now I see where Dacre gets all that glowing charm and charisma.

My head tips back as a sneeze builds up, and I try to hide it with my elbow. Blood spews from my nose, painting my arm and the stainless steel countertop with a vivid gush of red. Oh no. The dry air this time of year always gives me nose bleeds.

“I’m so sorry.” I cover the wetness on my nose with my hand. It’s bad. It’s so bad and mortifying. Literally the worst timing ever. “I’ll clean it.”

I fumble for a towel, but the whole counter is free of clutter. Nothing is out of place, and there are no paper towels in sight. I’m leaving marks with every attempt at finding something.

“Here.” Luther’s hand reaches for the back of my head, and he places a rag in my hand, guiding my head back.

“I’m so sorry,” I start, then stop when I see his eyes are trained on my blood on the counter. Then on me.

“Don’t worry about it,” Luther says. “You know, Em, you aren’t in the Donor Program, right?”

Luther’s face is close to mine. He’s all in my space, actually, pulling me in while my head rests in his hand. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s not necessarily comfort in it either. I’m in a strange place with a strange person. Bleeding.

I cough, feeling blood trickle down my throat.

“I’m not.”

“Aren’t you worried you might get hurt?”

“No. Not really. It doesn’t happen that much.”

“But you know it is dangerous, right? And you should be really careful who you trust . . . Blood like this—”

“What the fuck?” I manage a glance at Dacre, who has emerged from the other room and is walking toward us.

Yep. Blood is still coming. Luther pulls my head back again.

“Just a nosebleed.”

“Here.” Dacre hands me a new towel and grips my forearm to take me from Luther’s grasp. “Let’s go to the bathroom.”

Huh?

“I’ve got it handled.” Luther’s voice deepens.

“Clean this up.”