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I glance at the bed, at the reminder I’m here as more than blood donor. All part of my father’s grand plan to bring the vampire race back to supremacy or some bullshit. He never asked me what I want, but then a bastard magic-less dhampir is more tool to be utilized than actual person from where he’s standing. I clench my fists.
The house will be watched. My father is too smart to leave anything to chance. He figures if he throws me in this place, it’s only a matter of time before Malachi either knocks me up or kills me. Either will suit his purposes. If I do get pregnant, I suspect I won’t live past the live birth. It won’t matter if my child manages to inherit powers or if they are born without magic like their mother. I’ll have served my role.
Fuck that.
I’ll find a way out of here, even if I have to carve my way through Malachi and every vampire guarding this house. I need to bide my time and wait for the right opportunity. I doubt I can kill them, but I should be able to find a way to incapacitate them long enough to get the hell out of dodge.
First thing’s first; I won’t be worth a damn while I’m dizzy and exhausted.
I glance at the bed again and shake my head. Even without the sheer amount of dust and moth-eaten fabric, there’s no reason to make it easier on the vampire. No reason to tempt myself, either. I won’t be sleeping there.
I dig a power bar out of my suitcase. I only stashed a handful, which means I do need to figure out food at some point. Starving to death is not on my agenda. A faint sliver of light trickles through the window. I push wearily to my feet and move to look outside. Dawn is here. And I’m on the second floor. I try to open the window, but it’s been painted shut. Great. Not that I expected much else. If this house has been updated since it was built, I haven’t seen any evidence of it.
Now I’m stalling.
I grit my teeth and open the bedroom door. Nothing happens. Just like nothing happens when I step out into the hallway. It looks just like the entranceway and the bedroom—old and dusty and threadbare. The carpet beneath my shoes is black or purple or maybe gray. It’s hard to determine in the low light and with age fading it. The walls are equally faded, though I can tell they were originally green. Paintings line them, but I ignore the art for now. Getting caught up in curiosity isn’t an option.
I find the front stairs easily enough. This place seems laid out logically, which is a relief in a way. Not that I know what I’m supposed to do with that information. For all my dreams of running, there are several harsh realities standing in my way.
First and most insurmountable is the vampires themselves. They’re faster than me. Stronger than me. And all of them, from Malachi to my father to the guards no doubt lingering at the edges of the property, have a vested interest in me staying trapped exactly where I am.
But it’s more than that. The only things I know about human society are what I’ve gleaned from the few servants my father keeps and the books my mother somehow managed to smuggle into the colony. It might be enough to whet my appetite for freedom, but I’m not naive enough to think I’m anywhere near prepared to slip into their world.
Knowing all that won’t stop me looking for an escape, but it’s enough to keep me from doing something truly reckless. Like trying to flee right now, this morning.
The kitchen is slightly more updated than the rest of the house. The appliances look like things I recognize, and there’s power when I flip on the lights. I study the dusty hanging lights. “So the bloodsucker likes a little modern convenience after all.” Apparently he has some way to order in resources, which is useful knowledge to have.
“Such charm you have, little dhampir.”
I startle like a cat, straight up into the air and over a good six feet. The vampire doesn’t move from where he’s standing against the doorframe I just walked through. He looks…amused. And healthier. There’s a flush to his pale skin from my blood.
The thought sends a pulse through my body, directly to my core. I didn’t hate being his snack as much as I want to, and even as I tell myself I’ll fight him to a standstill before I let him bite me again, part of me wants it, and wants it now.
Part of me wants more.
I glare, hating that now my face is flushed. “If you drink any more from me, you’ll kill me and my father will probably make you wait another twenty-five years before he sends a replacement.”
