I twirl another perfect forkful of spaghetti, watching the steam rise from the plate of gourmet meatballs swimming in rich tomato sauce. My stomach growls in appreciation as I take another bite, savoring the explosion of flavors. Whoever this chef is, they deserve a Michelin star or three.
"Holy shit, this is incredible," I mumble through a mouthful of pasta, not even caring that I probably look like an idiot.
Maeve sits beside me at the massive kitchen island, her cool hand resting on the back of my neck. Every few seconds, her fingers trail down my spine or across my shoulder, casual touches that somehow feel both territorial and intimate. Each time she makes contact, a little shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with her supernatural coldness.
The kitchen itself is bustling with activity. Maeve rang some fancy little bell about fifteen minutes ago, and suddenly people appeared from everywhere, setting the table, bringing wine, making sure everything was perfect. They move with practiced efficiency, eyes downcast, almost like they're afraid to look directly at us.
"Are they all vampires?" I ask, gesturing with my fork at the servants scurrying around.
Maeve's lips curl into that predatory smile I'm quickly becoming addicted to. "Only the chef and Emily," she replies, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm now.
"Hmmm."
Emily sits across from us, picking at her own plate of pasta. She hasn't said much since we sat down, but I can feel her eyes on me, assessing, calculating. She's wearing casual clothes now, just a simple black t-shirt, but somehow she still looks like she could kill someone with her bare hands if necessary.
"So, Vincent is... what, exactly?" Emily finally asks, setting down her fork with deliberate care.
The question hangs in the air between us.
Maeve's lips curve into that slow, dangerous smile that makes my stomach do somersaults. "Well..." she drawls, sliding her arm around my waist and pulling me closer until I'm practically falling off my chair, "he's my pet. For now."
Her fingers trace up my spine as she adds, "And he's a very bold one at that."
I can't help myself. "What can I say?" I shrug, meeting Emily's incredulous stare across the table. "When I see something I like, I'm going to try to lock it down."
Emily's eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into her hairline. She looks between us like she's watching some bizarre nature documentary where the prey is hitting on the predator.
Maeve's laugh echoes through the kitchen, rich and genuine. "See how he talks?" She sounds almost proud, like I'm a dog that's learned a particularly impressive trick. "So confident..."
"And you're just... letting him live?" Emily asks, her fork suspended halfway to her mouth. There's genuine confusion in her voice. "I've seen dozens of people fall for you. Even high-ranking houses. You laughed in their faces."
Maeve's fingers tighten possessively on my hip. "But this idiot right here is special," she says, her voice dropping to that dangerous purr that makes my skin tingle.
"How could a chef be a vampire?" I ask through a mouthful of food as the thought manifests itself in my mind. "Or do vampires eat food?"
"We don't have to eat food, but we can if we want to," Maeve explains. "It's usually pointless, though. Most mortal delights do very little for us..."
She leans in suddenly, her cool tongue tracing a path up the side of my neck that makes me nearly drop my fork. My body responds instantly, a shiver running from my neck all the way down to my toes.
"Emily has to eat because she's a half-blood, right?" I manage to say, proud that my voice only wavers slightly.
"Yes, very good, Vincent," Maeve says, her tone dripping with mock praise. "Look at you go." The patronizing edge in her voice somehow only makes me want her more. I'm definitely developing some questionable kinks in this relationship.
Emily puts down her fork with a loud clatter that makes one of the servants flinch. Her eyes narrow as she looks between Maeve and me.
"So do I have to listen to him now?" Emily asks, not even trying to hide the annoyance in her voice.
"Let's play it by ear," Maeve finally says, her voice casual but with that undercurrent of authority that seems to make everyone around her stand a little straighter. "But I will say this… The only rule is no one lays a fucking finger on him or his blood besides me."
Emily nods. "Understood."
The moment the words leave Maeve's mouth, something shifts in Emily's demeanor. It's like watching someone flip a switch, one second she's all irritation and eye rolls, the next she's all business. Her posture straightens, her eyes sharpen, and suddenly she looks like the competent right-hand woman she obviously is.
"I checked in with the squad I assembled last night," Emily says, her voice dropping to a more professional tone. "No news yet on the hunter who killed that married couple."
Maeve's fingers stop their playful tracing along my neck, and I feel her body tense beside me. "I do not like knowing there's a hunter anywhere near my city," she says, her voice suddenly ice-cold.
Emily nods again, grimly. "I thought hunters were extinct," she says, sounding genuinely confused. "All the reports said…"
"That's what those idiots in New York want everyone to believe," Maeve cuts in, contempt dripping from every word. "They spread that nonsense to avoid mass hysteria among our kind." Her hand tightens on my shoulder. "I want this taken care of swiftly."
I keep eating my pasta, trying to act like this is totally normal dinner conversation.
Emily leans forward slightly. "Do you want me to handle it myself?"
"No," Maeve says firmly. "You have bigger fish to fry right now."
"Yes."
"How is the new club faring?" Maeve asks.
"Quite well," Emily replies, looking pleased for the first time since we sat down. "It should be sustainable even without the laundering operation within a few months."
"That's good," Maeve nods approvingly.
"You're a club owner?"
Maeve turns to me, her crimson eyes sparkling with amusement. "I'm many, many things, Vincent."
"Like what?"
Maeve waves her hand dismissively. "Too much to discuss right now."
Her attention shifts completely to Emily. "Did Valentina and Victoria see Vincent last night?"
"Yes."
"How close did they get?" Maeve's fingers tighten on my neck, her nails digging in just enough to make me wince.
"They both smelled me," I offer, remembering how Valentina had practically buried her nose against my skin.
"FUCK!" Maeve slams her fist down on the marble countertop, and I swear I hear something crack. The servants around us freeze like startled deer, eyes wide with terror. "Did they get a taste?" she demands.
Emily shakes her head quickly. "No. Absolutely not. I wouldn't have allowed that."
The tension in Maeve's shoulders eases just slightly, though her hand remains possessively clamped on my neck.
She turns to me suddenly, those crimson eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. "You're staying awake until I go to bed tomorrow morning," she declares, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We're fixing your sleep schedule tonight."
"Fair enough."