Page 2 of Bitten Vampire

Jay glares. “Football’s on in a bit, babe.”

“I know.” My pulse hammers. I perch on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. “We need to talk.”

He rolls his eyes, crams another piece of chicken into his mouth, and gestures vaguely with his fork. “Go on, then. Spit it out. If you’re pissed about the food, put mine in the fridge. We’ve got Tupperware, haven’t we?”

Be brave, Winifred.

I lean closer. “Jay, I know this isn’t your favourite topic, but it is important to me?—”

He’s barely listening, more focused on chasing a stray slice of carrot around the carton. “Go on,” he mutters.

I reach over and brush his hand, but he shakes me off as though I were a nuisance.Dismissed. Dismissed, again. No, like he always says, I’m overreacting. Being too sensitive. I pull back and toy with the remote.

“Jay,” I begin once more, inhaling sharply. My instinctsscream to let it drop, but I can’t. Not this time. “I want to talk about us.”

He raises a finger for silence. The pause stretches, thick and tense. His expression shifts: blank, annoyed, then something else entirely.

Then he laughs.

He laughs.

Not a nervous or surprised laugh—a mean, sharp one that pricks my skin. A knife slicing through my brave façade. Slicing through my confidence yet again.

Jay drops the fork into the carton and reclines, a nasty grin spreading. “Us,” he repeats. Then his voice hardens. “Oh, I get it. This again. You don’t know when to leave things alone. Come on, babe. Don’t you have everything you want? Nice house, nice cars. Why slap a label on it?” He grabs the fork in his fist and stabs another chunk of chicken.

I swallow, my throat tight. “It’s not a label. It is safety.”

He sighs through his nose. “Not this again. No vampires are dragging you out of bed. No shifters are humping your leg. You’re perfectly safe. Stop being so dramatic. And you wonder why I don’t want to marry you.”

“Jay—”

“No.” Flat. Final.

“But… I—I want us to?—”

“No.”

That’s it. No discussion.

Good enough to share his bed, not good enough to be his wife.

Dread knots my stomach. “If I’m not good enough to marry?—”

He cuts me off with another short laugh. “Don’t do this, Winifred. You know you love looking after me. The house is in my name. You leave, you lose everything. And your job? Think my parents will keep you on if you’re not my girl? Walk out that door, and you’re dead to them. Dead to all of us.”

Dead.

I stare, numb.

“Thought so. Now stop being silly and get me a beer.” He snatches the remote and turns the television back on.

Right.

Right. Okay.

My hand shakes as I tuck a strand of blonde hair behind my ear. My chest is tight, disappointment pressing in, but autopilot takes over. I fetch a beer, set it in his waiting hand, collect the empty carton, and wipe the sticky mess in the kitchen.

My mind whirls.