Page 45 of Bite Me

“I’ve got to go. Be ready when the class starts. We won’t wait for you.” A tug on my sleeve stops me.

“Wait, before we go back to that, I have a question. I asked my friend about donations, but don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone about our arrangement. I was just wondering because I didn’t hear from you after I signed your contract and put it under your door, and that was kind of confusing because I thought for sure you would say something . . .”

She continues her wordy rant.

The reason I didn’t feed on Emma is that I can’t, in good conscience, go through with it. I could never actually coerce her into being my source. I was just trying to scare her, and clearly, that backfired. Now that she’s in the club and gaining more attention, keeping her out without any cause will only piss her and everyone else off, including my grandfather.

“Emma.”

She stops, nearly out of breath.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

The door clicks, and in walk Luther and Verity, and we separate. Their friendship is completely platonic and unlikely. They don’t have much in common other than what we all have in common, overbearing parents who have big plans for them. But that brought them together and only added to our division. That, and I’m pretty sure they have hearts made of stone. Those two bring out the mean in each other.

I never let them get close to me, partly because I’m their leader and they’re beneath me, but mostly because growing up in my grandfather’s circle of “friends” taught me that you can’t trust anyone. Not even the people you think would take a bullet for you.

I clear my throat, and Emma straightens as if she understands. Sadly, my time being nice is up, and that leaves a sick disappointment in my stomach that I’m not sure where to place.

“Now that you’re part of the culinary club, I have authority over you in this room. This club covers everything, not just your specialty.”

“That won’t be a problem. I actually want to study all of it . . . I mean, I love baking and pastry, but who knows? Maybe there’s more out there I’ll enjoy.”

Emma continues on another excited rant about cooking and how excited she is to be here. It’s not working. My usual scowl isn’t budging that smile on her face. I’m losing my edge.

“Why are you smiling so much?”

“Because I’m happy. You should try it.” She licks her lips as if she’s choosing her words carefully.

“When you’re here and you’re learning under me, you call me Chef.”

She turns her chin up, still smiling. There’s something different about her—the softness of her shoulders, the fact that she isn’t looking at me as if she wants to kill me. Her feet are nearly touching mine.

“Yes, Chef.”

Her compliance sends shivers down my spine. As if I don’t have enough problems, my dick decides it likes that look in her eyes.

It likes it when she listens. Emma never listens, but here, she has to.

“Good. Just because you’re in doesn’t mean I can’t kick you out.”

“Yes, Chef.” There it is again.

This has to be her scent getting into my head, making me think about scenarios where she does exactly what I tell her to.

“I’m going to make you regret that sarcasm.”

She keeps smiling. Emma is about to get a taste of the Vviveren culinary world in a way she never has before. Growing up in a secluded area gave her the time to hone her talent, for sure. But you need more than talent to work in the city. You need discipline.

I get the whole room started on their first task, which is working with starches and prepping dough for pasta. I’m not always the teacher; we plan out a schedule in which Luther and Verity teach their specialties, and we have guest celebrity chefs come in a couple of times a month as well. I can teach everything else in between. Since I’m never late or sick, it works out well.

“Can I talk to you for a second, boss?” Luther flags me as I’m making rounds at each station.

His ingredients sit untouched on his cutting board. He only participates if he is interested in a lesson, and I couldn’t give less of a shit whether he does or not. Sometimes, I make him participate if I feel like ruining his day, and today, he’s walking on thin ice.

“You’re a dick.” He sits on the counter across from me as we settle at the empty stations on the far end of the room. I try not to notice him dirtying my counter while he plays with the spices sitting at the fringe of the cabinet.

“What did I do today?”