Page 40 of Bite Me

I try to keep my chest out and shoulders back to hide the fact that I want to melt into his jacket. It has to be because he’s warm and my back is drenched, but there’s something nice about it.

I never want to hide, but right now, I’m thankful to be partially hidden at Dacre’s side. I’m not alone.

“You don’t move from my side for the rest of the evening. Do you understand?” The heat of Dacre’s words on my neck makes me sit up straighter. He’s saying it to me, but he’s staring at Luther.

“Say it.”

“I understand,” I say as I dig my fingernails into his thigh.

“Nice to see you haven’t become a tyrannical leader, always taking exactly what you want,” Luther says.

It’s sarcasm. Luther’s demeanor has gradually curdled the drunker he’s gotten.

I’ve never wanted to go home more in my entire life, and I mean home, far away in the seclusion of the trees of Groveshire. My bedroom with my sisters was the safest I’ve ever felt, and I haven’t thought of it once since I left. Now all I want to do is crawl under my bedspread and never come out.

Doxlothia isn’t a place for dreams. It’s a place full of blood, sweat, and tears. Secret deals and coercion. I think I finally understand. I’ve been playing checkers, and everyone here is playing chess.

“So, Emma, this must be the wildest night you’ve had, huh? You and your sisters don’t strike me as the partying type,” Luther asks.

“We didn’t drink much in Groveshire. My dad hated alcohol. He’d freak out if I brought home wine to cook with.”

“Oh, Professor Osborne? He’s on my schedule for next semester. Everyone thought he’d never come back, and he’d turned into a Donor-Program-hating hermit.”

A little harsh, but accurate. I can’t fault him for that, I guess.

“He had no one else to blame when my mother died.” I grip the table when I feel myself tilting.

He still blames the Donor Program; he’s just less vocal about it. I think if I joined it would break his heart. Loss makes everything more precious. Even our blood.

“Right. It’s easy to blame others for a tragedy.”

I bite down. Hard.

Luther rests his chin in one hand and swirls the remnants of his wine in the other. “Death is just part of life. No need to . . . go on placing unnecessary blame.”

My foot taps against what I think is the chair until Dacre’s leg adjusts beneath mine, and his thumb rubs along my thigh.

Calm finds me unexpectedly in the midst of the inferno. I focus on the rhythm. His thumb moves side to side and then in circles. It’s not sensual; it’s a signal. An anchor that I grab onto for dear life.

“Don’t listen to them. You’re almost done.”

“They’re talking about my mother.”

“Come on, Em. Deep breath in through your nose.”

I do it because I want to, not because I’m being told, and it helps a little.

I hate these people. I hate that Dacre was right. I hate that, for the first time in my life, I want to give up, leave this room, and never set foot in this terrible place again. And I hate the woman I was an hour ago—the woman fueled by a little girl’s dream and nothing else. No way I can reach for the safety of optimism again—it isn’t there.

“He’s right. It’s not really fair to your family. You’d be so rich if you used your blood for bartering, like it was intended,” Verity says.

My hand slips from the table to Dacre’s hand, which is resting on my thigh, and I dig my fingers into his skin. He lets me, saying nothing. Never once stopping his soft caress on my thigh.

Is that really how these elite families view blood?

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“If your mother were smart, she’d have taken the deal.”