Page 15 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter Fifteen

Three Weeks Later

It has been three weeks since the Vampire Sector debacle, and I have managed to avoid further fanged problems. I glance at my wrist. The raven’s mark stares back. I suppose I shall always be tied to him, whether I like it or not.

I miss Valdarr, which is ridiculous. He’s a stranger.

I wish I’d stayed longer, got to know him, learned more about the vampire part of me that still itches beneath the skin. I wonder what might have happened if I had asked questions, if I’d let him help instead of running.

Shamefully, I conducted some online stalking, ‘research,’ I told myself, on Valdarr and his clan.

It turns out I have been more of a shut-in than I realised, because in vampire circles, Valdarr is a celebrity—an ancient one.

Records place him founding the clan between 800 and 1050 CE.

Over a thousand years old. My worry about being a ‘cougar’ is laughable; it is the other way around. He is practically prehistoric.

His father? Older still. And looking into their bloody and violent history, I do not want their attention—now or ever.

Still, I think about him far more than I should.

I’m certain there was a spark between us, yet it may be his enormous amount of power and nothing more than wishful thinking. After all, he is a beautiful thousand-year-old vampire, and if I’m honest, someone like me—someone not even good enough for Jay—could never be enough for Valdarr.

Yet he remembered me. Helped me. That counts for something, doesn’t it?

Yet my intuition—the little voice that grows louder by the day—warns me that it is dangerous, and I believe it. His father, the Grand Master, killed me once; if he discovers I’m still walking around, what then?

My overactive imagination supplies lurid daydreams—vivid, brutal scenes in which he realises what I have become and ensures that my second death is permanent.

No bins. No miracles. Only pain.

It is almost as though I can see the future, a precognition that should be impossible. Every time it happens, I shut it down. I ought to speak to House about it, but it is easier to blame my misfiring brain, an effect of getting no proper rest.

I worry that my head will pop off from lack of sleep, but I’ve adapted. Two months into this vampire business and I have found a new normal. I’ve been working, head down on deliveries in the Human Sector, then knuckling down to my online job at night. For once everything seems to be going… well.

I have even started a modest nest egg and feel more in control than I have for years.

I drink blood every other day, and we have discovered that 250 ml is the magic amount to keep my weight stable.

It isn’t about calories; if it were, I’d need litres of the stuff.

It’s about balance, about keeping the magic animating my undead body steady and strong.

My bones are now covered in the perfect amount of lean muscle.

Today’s problem? What to wear to the wedding.

You would think being turned into a creature of the night would excuse my absence. But no. I have to go. I need to rebuild my career. I need to show Theresa and her smug son that they didn’t break me. That I’m still standing.

It’s a win–win, provided I can scuttle out before sunset and avoid transforming during the family photos or worse, eating the guests.

From the hall, the giver of fur, filthy paws, and excessive slobbery kisses watches me with betrayal in his eyes. “Aroo, awww, awooo,” Baylor lets out a series of long, theatrical howls from behind the warded door.

“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 the bed. 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 between us. “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 .

“I wish you could come with me. I could take Baylor, put a bow on his collar?”

Absolutely not. You are not taking the pup. A pause. Besides, it’s going to be a gorgeous day. I’ve set up a paddling pool for him.

Baylor loves water, so I can already picture it, and when House says paddling pool, she means swimming pool. The dog will have the time of his life, and honestly, it makes me want to stay home, sit in the shade, and watch him splash.

Sometimes doing the right thing really sucks.

But I need to attend this wedding. Jay doesn’t get to rewrite the story and stroll away clean, and neither does his mother. I’m going, and I will clear my name.

I lounge on the sofa, my fingers buried in fluffy fur as I scroll through short video reels set to flashy music. Time slips, my vision blurs, the screen stutters—and… suddenly, I’m standing in the middle of a street.