In the past, I never had to open my mouth. Women usually came to me. They smiled before I even spoke and giggled like I'd said something funny before I'd even remembered what I came to say. But that Eleanor challenged me with every sideways glance she could manage. Didn't even take my hand.
I should've hated that. Instead, I was halfway through contract negotiation for the very club where she'd ignored me—just so I could be here again in case she came back.
She didn't chase, didn't care, there was no heat between us—and somehow, that undid me more than any lover of mine ever had. For the first time in centuries, I was made to realize that all my defenses were tailored for seduction and none for indifference.
I was used to being wanted, being desired. That had been the point. Sex, unlike blood, gave me just enough pleasure to forget what I innately and so desperately craved. It was a temporary cure for a permanent condition.
We once tried going vegan by consuming animal blood only. We had thought discipline, accountability, and a strict feeding schedule like monks was a form of cleansing. Needless to say, that didn't last. The cravings were always there—specifically for the untouched. Me and my brothers learned to dull it in other ways.
For me, that meant relationships. Affairs. A plethora of it. Always with women who had known others before me, always with a sinful desire that burned hot enough to blur my instincts.
There was the woman in Bath in the early 1800s. She was married to a lord whose riding accident had left him incapable of bedding her. I'd just moved into the estate next door, and piqued her curiosity.
I never pursued her, she simply drifted towards me is how I'd put it. It started with walks. Then words. Then hands. It peaked in hushed, ungodly noise behind the doors of her dressing room—while her husband slept, dulled by medication.
It ended the day I stood by her husband's grave, watching her pretend not to weep for him while clutching my arm tight and just above where her corset pressed up her bust. An hour later, she asked me if I loved her even once. I didn't answer. I never did for anyone.
Then there was Eden in 1985. She worked out of one of my private venues as a high-end escort. That woman was business-savvy, sharp-tongued, and had legs that stopped men in their tracks. Unsurprisingly, I managed to stop her in hers. She wanted me badly.
It worked for a while until I found the pregnancy test in her purse. She hadn't asked me about children, she'd just assumed she could make it happen. Unfortunately for her, my kind don't get anyone pregnant. But it didn't matter. It was the lie—the attempt to trap me in the fantasy of a future—that ended it that night. I never saw her again.
There was also Claude. One of Dom's assistants who was fresh out of undergrad and was maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. He was polite, observant, a little too careful with his words. That's how I remember him when we met at the university Dom was lecturing at.
I didn't have access to the library as a visiting guest without credentials, so Dom handed Claude the problem of babysitting me while I searched for something specific in occult literature. The library was near-empty that night, the lights were humming above our heads. Claude didn't say much, so I read into him to break the ice.
"You like him," I said, low, in one of the back aisles.
Claude hesitated. "Excuse me?"
I gave him a slow smile. "You like my brother. You don't have to be shy about it. I could help, if you wanted."
He shook his head fast, embarrassed. "It's not like that."
So I changed the subject. Sort of. Ten minutes later, we were against the back wall of the restricted archives. I didn't know what I was doing until I was doing it. I just knew he didn't stop me. He was there, his pants on the floor. He didn't ask why. I didn't ask how.
It was strange at first, but liberating. Like breaking a taboo by overwhelming it with another. Same-sex? What was I thinking? For once, it wasn't my curse or the hunger. That was the only thing that mattered. It didn't matter how much I questioned my sexuality. What mattered was that, for the first time, it wasn't tangled in shame or survival.
Claude never asked questions. He let me disappear when I needed to. He never demanded affection nor did he ever ask where I was going. He never pressed for answers I didn't want to give. It lasted a few weeks or maybe a month that way. Then one night, he asked me where I'd been. And that was all it took. He never saw me again from that night, I never returned any of his messages.
Because once someone starts wondering, they start looking. And people who go looking never find anything they like, do they?
Every time feelings got involved, I packed up. Emotions make people irrational. And irrational people are impossible to read. When they started imagining futures, naming things, holding on tighter than they should… it became a risk. I couldn't afford risk. So I learned to disappear the moment affection clouded their judgment.
But Eleanor—she wasn't clouded. She wasn't even curious. She was uninterested. Ironically, doesn't that make her more dangerous? Because what does it mean when someone doesn't want anything from you? Not your money. Not your name. Not your attention.
What if she just wants the truth? And what if I'm the one who can't handle giving it? That's the real dilemma, isn't it?
I'm afraid deciding what to do next won't come easy—
My phone buzzed at that moment. I glanced at the screen to find Dom calling me.
I picked up. "What now, Dominus?"
"They said yes," he said without preamble.
I frowned. "To what?"
"To you auditing that business class. All thanks to that hefty donation to the cultural history research program, you're officially a guest auditor at Golden Cross from Monday next week."
"Perfect," I said. "That's decided, then."
I ended the call, then loosened the top button of my shirt to let the tension ease from my collar.
If this woman was going to test me, I'd make sure she knew exactly who she was playing with.