Page 1 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter One

The front door slams, and my heart jolts. A sharp blend of dread and anticipation twists in my chest. I drop the tea towel on the counter and rush into the hallway.

“Perfect timing! Dinner’s nearly ready. I made your favourite.”

Jay shrugs off his snow-dusted coat. “Hi, babe.” He kisses my cheek, and as he squeezes past, clips my collarbone with his bony elbow.

I gasp and rebound off the wall.

“You okay down there, shorty?”

“It’s all right. My fault.” I wince and rub the throbbing spot.

He’s never had good spatial awareness. He’s all elbows and knees, and I ought to know better than to greet him in the narrow hallway. Besides, he’s always extra clumsy after working late.

He vanishes into the kitchen, the smell of Chinese food wafting from the brown bag he’s carrying.

Oh no. I hurry after him.

“I—I cooked. I said I’d cook.” The once-cosy kitchen suddenly feels stifling.

He waves me off. “Yeah, yeah, but I don’t fancy your cooking tonight.

I wanted a takeaway.” Without even looking at me, he dumps the bag, tears it open, and yanks out a plastic carton.

Sauce splatters the spotless white countertop as he lifts the lid.

He doesn’t wipe it—doesn’t even notice—just snatches a fork and strides into the living room with his prize.

Jay slumps in the recliner and kicks up his feet, the television droning while he shovels food into his mouth as though he hasn’t eaten in days.

My hands clench at my sides. Hours. I spent hours perfecting a Beef Wellington, yet he couldn’t be bothered to text and say he had other plans. I grind my teeth when a blob of orange sauce splashes onto his shirt. He curses, pinches the fabric to his lips, and licks the stain away.

I average fourteen-hour days. On my single day off, I scrubbed the house until it gleamed, ironed his shirts, and cooked his favourite meal. The least he could do was eat it.

But arguing changes nothing.

Over the past year he has been busy—entertaining mysterious clients, coming home at all hours—and through it all I’ve supported him and the family business.

I handle the marketing, yet somehow I have become the office dogsbody: accounts, payroll, even coffee runs.

I do so much that there are never enough hours in the day, but we are supposed to be working towards something—our future.

I force my shoulders to drop, unclench my fists, and flex my fingers. No reason to lose my temper. He means nothing by it. Fighting with him just shuts him down further. I can count on my fingers how many times I have managed to win an argument.

Besides, there’s something more important we need to discuss tonight.

I watch him, silently rehearsing the speech I have run through my head a thousand times. I have listened to countless motivational podcasts to work up my nerve. I deserve to ask for what I want.

We have been together ten years. In that time, we have celebrated everyone else’s engagements and weddings. Never ours.

In the Human Sector, marriage isn’t merely romantic; it’s protection from being snatched off the street and turned into a creature’s plaything. Being human is dangerous in a world of monsters. Long-term relationships without marriage count for little in our laws and theirs.

But Jay doesn’t see it that way.

I never wanted to beg for a ‘shut-up ring,’ to nag for commitment. Jay’s a free spirit—marriage isn’t for him, and for years I pretended I was fine with that. But I’m not.

Mum’s voice still echoes: “Why would a man buy the cow if he’s getting the milk for free?” I detest that saying. Yet perhaps she wasn’t entirely wrong. I thought time would change his mind.

Ten years. Deep down, I cringe. I thought I was doing right by him, putting his needs before mine.

But I’m forty now. Each birthday gnaws at me; friends’ pitying looks pile up, and my doubts grow louder.

What’s wrong with me? Why doesn’t the man I love want to marry me?

Each special occasion, I hold my breath, thinking, Is today the day? And every time, nothing.

The disappointment chips away at me until I barely recognise myself.

No more. I’ve invested too much to leave without a fight. I hope he will meet me halfway, catch me when I leap from that proverbial cliff, admit he’s been a fool and is finally ready to commit.

Together we could have a happy and safe life.

I reach for the remote and switch off the television.

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 instincts scream 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 facade. 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.

I hunch against the kitchen counter and let reality settle. A sob traps in my throat, and my arms fall to my sides, lifeless. That went exactly as I feared. I barely managed two sentences before he shut me down.

I’m disappointed in him, but… I’m more disappointed in myself.

I’m embarrassed.

Embarrassed I dared to hope. Dared to want more, dared to believe I was worth loving. Worth fighting for.

I feel so ashamed.

I press a trembling hand to my mouth, tears slipping down my cheeks as the sad reality burns my throat.

Deep down I always knew I wasn’t enough for him—or at least not in his eyes.

He shows me in a hundred small ways: every dismissive comment, every selfish choice.

Even tonight he brought food only for himself.

Yet I clung to him, pretending not to notice, numbing myself because admitting the truth meant leaving, and I wasn’t ready.

I wasn’t ready until now.

I’m still not ready.

Winifred, do you want to be loved like this for the rest of your life?

A hollow, bitter laugh escapes through my hand. I have been so in love, so befuddled by hope, that I overlooked the glaring red flags, like bunting wrapped around him, chaining us both.

Mum would have hated Jay. Hated how he treated me.

I met him just after she died, when I was broken with grief and utterly vulnerable.

She had been caught in the crossfire of a magical skirmish—a spell had misfired into a crowd of onlookers and killed her instantly.

Old, familiar pain carves another hole in my chest. It was my fault.

If only I hadn’t asked her to pick up that parcel.

Perhaps that’s why I let Jay in.

Why I pursued a relationship I would never have tolerated if she had been alive. Even in the early days, Jay was dismissive of my feelings.

I wipe my face as something shifts inside. Even the kindest souls have limits, and Jay is about to learn that he does not get unlimited chances. He had two choices tonight: commit or watch me walk away .

I’m done.

Staying will only hurt me now.

I stare at the Beef Wellington resting on its wire rack, at its golden-crusted puff pastry encasing savoury mushroom duxelles and perfectly medium-rare beef tenderloin.

I stamp on the pedal-operated bin; its lid flips open.

Snatching the Wellington from the rack—burning my fingers, flakes of pastry lodging under my nails—I drop it inside.

The dauphinoise potatoes and green beans follow.

He’s not getting anything nice from me again.

I will need somewhere to live and a new job. His mother will make my life hell. It’s going to be a nightmare. I have no family; there is no safety net. But the rose-coloured glasses are off, and I cannot stay.

I won’t.