Page 36 of Bitten Vampire

“Yes, yes, I know, you are abused,” I tell him. “House and I are the worst, utter meanies for locking you out.”

He sneezes.

“We will cuddle on the sofa in a few minutes, buddy. You will survive.”

I turn back to my task. Three lovely dresses lie on thebed. I’d love to claim I bought them, but I forgot the wedding was this weekend.

House procured them.

“I hope you didn’t steal these,” I say, eyeing the first option—a blood-red dress.

Don’t be silly. I can manifest clothing.

“It is a beautiful colour—dark red, very elegant,” I admit, “but not wedding-appropriate. I’m sure I read somewhere that red implies you have slept with the groom.”

Which I have, obviously. We were together ten years. Everyone at the wedding will know, I don’t need to underline it with crimson satin. Even if I do hate the groom and his mother, it’s still not appropriate.

I turn to the second dress, a pale lemon. Lovely shape, great neckline, but… “Too pale. Under the wrong light it could look white. That’s a whole other nightmare I don’t need.”

Then I examine the third dress and know instantly it’s perfect.

Deep navy, with a high neckline and half-sleeves that reach the elbow, the fabric has enough weight to drape to a graceful midi length. The matching belt will cinch my waist, and the high neck will hide the scar tissue on my throat. I also have a couple of chunky bracelets that will cover my clan mark.

“This is the one,” I murmur, picking it up. “Thank you, House, it’s perfect.”

You are welcome. It won’t be awful.

I think she might be right.

“I have been thinking about your new name,” I tease as I try on the dress. This has become a running joke betweenus. “Hannah, Harper, or Helen? You would definitely suit Harper. It’s such a lovely name.”

It is indeed,but considering only you and other soul-touched objects can hear me, I fail to see the point.

“I’m sorry, House.”

Don’t be. That dress fits as though it were made for you.

I straighten the sleeves and twist to see it in the mirror. House is right, it fits me perfectly, as though it were made for me—seamless, effortless, unfairly perfect.

Thanks to my vampire condition, I no longer need shapewear. All those little lumps and bumps I used to fret over? Gone—smoothed away as if they had never existed. My body has been… corrected,edited—a before-and-after photo without the diet, the effort, or the choice.

I should be thrilled; it’s what I always wanted, isn’t it?

Instead, I feel oddly hollow, as though the dress is hanging on someone else’s body, a version of me who never had to fight for self-acceptance. A stranger in the mirror.

See? I told you it would be perfect.

“It is,” I murmur, smoothing the fabric over my hips. “Thank you, House.”

Tomorrow I will help with your hair and makeup. It’ll take me seconds to make you presentable.

“Are you sure you can do that?” I grin. “I don’t want to look like a Victorian ghost.”

I know fashion. I know makeup. I’ll make you look beautiful.

“Thanks. I appreciate it. If I do my makeup tomorrow, I’ll no doubt poke my eye out. I’ll be nervous. Frightened to death.”

Oh, I know. But you will be fine.