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It takes a few seconds for me to drag my eyes from the prospective client’s email to look at the vampire in confusion. One of the people from the kitchen, a young man close to my age that doesn’t have a hint of gold in his eyes, is carrying a tray with more than just my requested toast. In fact, I don’t even see any toast.
“Huh?” I ask and then Joséphine reaches over and closes my laptop before collecting both and setting them beside the tea set on the sideboard. The young man sets the tray down before unloading it in front of me.
“If I do not allow Sire Ambrose to work while he eats, then I will not allow you either,” Joséphine says in a tone that brooks no argument. “Work is not good for the digestion. When I am satisfied you have eaten enough, you may have your laptops back and not a moment sooner.”
“I’d think it’s kind of hard to work and suck blood at the same time,” I mutter, looking at the food in front of me. The young man snorts, and we share a grin while Joséphine sighs like an irritated schoolmistress.
“Vampires require sustenance beyond blood, Ms. Morse. You clearly have much to learn. Now eat; you’re like a little kit and need to put more meat on those bones.”
I stare at the retreating woman’s back. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say I need to gain weight, and I don’t know how I feel about it. Is she like the evil witch in the gingerbread house, fattening up the kids on sweets so they taste better when she finally cooks them? Is she fattening me up for Ambrose?
When I went to Noir last night, I could never have predicted how quickly my life would change.
Rather than the requested toast, I’d been served poached eggs, grilled butternut squash, fruit, bacon and sausage, as well as a golden fluffy croissant and bright red raspberry jam. There’s no way I’m finishing all of this, but the snide voice of one of my foster parents scolding me for wasting their food has me picking up a fork. The food is simple, but I close my eyes in enjoyment. The spices must have worked a miracle on my appetite, as it’s not long before I find myself soaking up the little bit of yolk left on the empty plate with the last bite of the croissant.
“Good, you’re finished eating.”
I whip around, eyes wide as Ambrose strolls in and selects his own teacup before taking a seat beside me at the head of the table. I grab the cloth napkin, hastily wiping my mouth free of any jam or yolk, scowling down at the red drop on my shirt. It’s impossible for me to not spill anything when I’m eating, and compared to how pristine Ambrose’s white button-down is, I feel like an utter slob.
He fills his teacup, and looks at me as he takes a sip.
“Can I help you?” I ask when the silence stretches out between us. I refill my tea, waiting for his answer.
“My tailor is on his way,” he answers, keeping his fingers loosely around the teacup after he sets it down in front of him. “After that, your time is your own until this evening.”
From his tone, Ambrose isn’t going to explain any further. He doesn’t get back up, but he does seem to settle in like he’s waiting for his own breakfast to be served. His blasé attitude has me bristling.
“Are you going to bother telling me what you expect me to do this evening?” I perfected my saccharine sweet fuck-you voice at my first customer service job in high school. If Ambrose expects me to be at his beck and call without any explanations, I’ve got to correct him right now.
Ambrose gives me a bland look that makes him look like a statue and it only makes me glare at him. “Our bargain does not include explanations, Eloise. And I have not had to explain myself or my demands for centuries. I see no reason to start now.”
I swear he’s being an ass on purpose. My skin heats with irritation at his unquestioned authority. It makes me want to pour my tea on his lap and stain that crisp white shirt. I grew up with too many people trying to control me. The look he’s giving me now has me grinding my teeth and refusing out of sheer obstinance.
Pressing my hands flat on the table to keep myself from acting on that desire, I meet his gaze. “We’re going to have a really unpleasant three months if you expect me to just do whatever you say, whenever you say it, without being told beforehand.”
Ambrose holds my gaze, unblinking, and I don’t break eye contact. Last night I was the terrified rabbit in front of the beast, but now in the light of day, I won’t bend. I’ve got my own claws, and the sooner he accepts it, the better.
“We are having dinner with someone.”
I’m sort of surprised he actually told me. I cock my head, interested. “Who?”
Ambrose finishes his tea and stands, holding out a hand as if to help me up. “No one of importance to you. Come, the tailor has arrived.”
I ignore his hand and don’t miss the flash of irritation in his eyes. Smirking, I step around him and collect the laptops, holding them against my chest with one arm as I sweep the other hand out in an after-you gesture. Ambrose’s eyebrows pinch, but he says nothing as he strides out of the room, his regal nonchalance cloaking his shoulders once more.
Irritating Ambrose d’Vil might just become my new favorite hobby.
I follow the vampire through the maze of rooms on the lower level until we’re in an open room sparsely decorated. In fact, I think this room had couches in it last night. Now it’s been redecorated to look like one of those fancy fitting rooms with a pedestal in the middle of three full-length gilded mirrors. The curtains are closed, but they’re white and thin enough that late morning light makes them glow and fills the room with the soft natural light.
Two people are waiting for us, and they bow when Ambrose enters the room. I roll my eyes at the display, but make sure no one sees it. Ambrose turns back, gesturing towards me with his hand.
“Mr. Carter, this is Eloise Morse, whom you will be outfitting,” Ambrose introduces me before plucking the laptops from my grasp despite my protests.
“A pleasure, Ms. Morse,” the man says politely, who by his eyes isn’t a vampire but he doesn’t feel human. Wary, I give a forced smile, which seems to be good enough for the tailor. He gestures to the woman at his side. “My assistant, Tara. She will be taking your measurements today. If you would?” Another gesture has him pointing to the stand.
Unable to avoid it, I step onto it, keeping my arms at my side and feeling incredibly awkward. It’s impossible to avoid my reflection, seeing as there are three mirrors in front of me. There’s no way I can escape how much of a couch potato I look like compared to the other three people in the room.
Tara, a willowy young woman with pale blonde hair and fair skin, steps up beside me, offering a genuine smile as she unrolls a tape measure.
