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“You aremine, Eloise,” Ambrose says, the possession in his words intoxicating. “I forbid you to think of yourself as livestock. If I thought of you as such, there would be no mistaking it. For now, you should rest.”
Ambrose drops his lips to my neck, just before it meets my shoulder and I hold my breath, waiting for the sharp pain of his fangs. I don’t know if I’m afraid he’ll bite me, or afraid that he won’t.
The room grows cooler and I know I’m alone, even if Ambrose didn’t say anything. I turn, just to be sure, and then I keep turning until I can sink onto the bed and bury my face in my hands.
With a heavy groan, I flop onto my back, ignoring the pile of clothes I’d laid out, and stare up at the ceiling. The mind games have begun, and I have to survive three more months of Ambrose and the temptations he promises.
A part of me wonders if it would be easier to just give in to these new cravings.
Chapter Seven
Eloise
When I wake, the other side of the bed is still as neat as it was the night before. When Ambrose said I’d be sleeping in his bed, I thought he’d be sleeping in it too. My phone buzzes again and I flop my hand out for it, turning the alarm off by memory alone. In spite of my late night, I’m well rested and I give full credit to the glorious bed and buttery soft sheets spoiling me. If I can convince myself to think of this as a working vacation, I can go back to my tiny apartment and cheap twin mattress without too much heartache.
A chirp has me picking up the phone with one hand and rubbing the sleep out of my right eye with the other. Opening it, I pull up my task list for the day, calculating how much time I’ll need to wrap up the project for the boutique in Newgate. They are one of my biggest clients, and I hadn’t finished the project because I realized Deidre was gone. The deadline is tomorrow, so at least I can wrap it up today. Rolling out of the bed, I trudge into the bathroom, eyes still bleary with sleep. I need caffeine, whether it be tea or soda or maybe even a drink that’s more sugar than liquid.
Ambrose’s bathroom is as simple yet ostentatious as the bedroom, but in my current state, I don’t frankly care about the marble counters and massive freestanding claw-foot tub. All I care about is the toilet, hidden behind a half wall, and then the shower stall dominating the corner. Before sleeping, I’d set all of my toiletries in the shower and put away my clothes in the empty drawers of the dresser. Half of the drawers were filled with neatly folded t-shirts, something I have trouble picturing the clean-cut Ambrose wearing.
Shucking my clothes, I leave them in a pile before stepping into the gratuitously large marble shower. It has one of those rainfall shower heads in the ceiling as well as three shower heads in a straight line on one wall, making sure whoever is in here has to make an effort to avoid the water.
Thoroughly soaked in warm water, I bend down to grab my shampoo only to see a different bottle in its place. Frowning, I open the glass door, looking for any sign of my stuff. Rolling my eyes at Ambrose, who no doubt must think my ten-dollar shampoo is too plebeian, I pop the lid of the shampoo that I’m pretty sure is Swedish. Okay, I have to give him credit. It’s at least the same scent as mine, just a more natural and less chemical smelling version of lavender.
Heisa vampire, after all, I muse as I lather my hair. My shampoo probably smells different to him. Satisfied with the mental justifications instead of just thinking he’s a controlling asshole, I finish my shower with my habitual efficiency. I towel off my hair before putting it up in a still-damp bun and peek into the bedroom to make sure I’m still alone. A few minutes later and I’m dressed in my most professional freelancer-who-works-from-home style: black leggings, comfy socks, and a white and pink striped tee shirt. Setting my glasses on my nose, I give myself a smirk in the mirror above the dresser.
If Ambrose thinks I spend my days dressed up and ready to club, he’s in for a real treat. The only reason why I’m wearing a bra right now is because I’m not at home. Hell, knowing me, I’ll be abandoning the boob prison in less than a month. Who am I kidding, I’ll be amazed if I make it two weeks before saying screw it and freeing my tatas. Snagging my laptop and Deidre’s from the drawer I’d tucked it into, I metaphorically pull up my big-girl panties and head downstairs.
This morning the house doesn’t feel nearly as empty, though I don’t see anyone yet. I do, however, smell something delicious and I set the laptops on the massive dining table and head into the kitchen. To my surprise, there are three different people in there, all of them looking at me when I walk in. Face burning, I come to a stop and raise a hand in an awkward wave.
“Hi. I’m Eloise?” I sound like I don’t even know if that’s my name or not. Superb. “I’m staying here for a while. Total human, by the way.”
Shit, do they know Ambrose is a vampire?
A woman who looks old enough to be my mother gives me a welcoming grin, and I want to swipe my hand across my forehead as I see the golden gleam of her eyes.
“Welcome, Ms. Morse,” she says, her voice heavily French accented. “Sire Ambrose has informed us of your stay. I am Joséphine. Do you want breakfast? We have beignets, fresh eggs, and bacon or sausage if you prefer? If you want something else, do not hesitate to ask.”
“Uh. You can just call me Eloise,” I mumble, feeling awkward as hell.
The matronly vampire walks towards me, waving a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. You are the sire’s guest and will be addressed with respect.”
She’s nothing like the vampires I’ve met before. They are all lean lines, sharp edges, their youth preserved for eternity. This woman has the curves of a mother of many, and like me, enjoys food, let alone her slightly wrinkled face and neatly braided silver hair. I find myself ushered out of the kitchen and suddenly sitting in front of my laptops near the end of the dining table.
“Do you prefer tea or coffee?” she asks briskly and I’m hapless except to go along with her.
“Uh, tea, please, black,” I answer, then rush out, “You don’t need to get it for me. I can.”
“Nonsense,” she replies tartly, giving me a sharp look. “You are the sire’s guest. Now, here is the tea. Have you thought of what you would like to eat?”
The teacup she hands me is delicate porcelain that I’m terrified of drinking out of. They don’t make this style anymore, and it screams antique. I realize Joséphine is still waiting for an answer and I carefully set the teacup down, waiting for it to shatter as it touches the table.
“Toast is fine?” I answer sheepishly. I’m not a big breakfast person, really. Deidre is, but budgets being tight as they are, we both prioritized caffeine over real food in the morning.
The woman hums, her thin eyebrows narrowing in what I suspect is disapproval, but she returns to the kitchen and I brave the porcelain teacup to take a sip of the much-needed hot caffeine. If I’m to make it through the next three months, I can’t be sleepyheaded.
It’s pretty damn good and I quickly drink it down, relishing the warm burn filling my stomach. I get up to bring the matching teapot over to my spot and top myself off before setting up my laptop. Tucking a foot under my butt and tea in one hand, I let myself fall into my normal routine of checking emails and social media sites.
“Oh, no, Ms. Morse, this will not do.”
