Beckham raised an eyebrow. “So, eager to leave already?”

“No,” she said, taking a step backward at his look. “I just wanted to know if I was permitted to leave.”


She needed to see her brothers as soon as possible, but didn’t want to break any rules on the first day of her new…job.

“You are not my prisoner. You may come and go as you please, but as my house guest I do like to know where you are at all times. Just text me when you come and go.”

“Oh.” She breathed out softly.

“I’m paying a lot of money for you to be here. I don’t want to waste my investment,” he said plainly.

She shuddered at the word. It made her feel as cheap as the term whore. She was here as a feeder and nothing more. He didn’t even have the decency to hide the underlying humiliation of her purpose.

“Investment,” she repeated hollowly.

“Yes, Miss Carpenter. You are a very, very expensive investment,” he repeated harshly.

“I see. So, are we going to do this, then?” she spat.

Her anger flared and intensified immediately. She yanked her shirt aside at her throat and bared her neck. This was what she was here for, right? Forget the fancy penthouse, new cellphone, a refrigerator with enough food to feed her entire apartment complex back in the warehouses, her own room, or a butler. Plain and simple. She was food. She sustained him. If she was here to do a job, then she wanted to remind herself exactly why she was here. She couldn’t be blinded by the fancy place she had walked into. None of this was hers. She was here at the mercy of a vampire who could send her away for a replacement as easily as he could drain her dry. She refused to forget that again.

Her hands trembled as fear pricked at her. And she waited, refusing to back down, even when Beckham made no move toward her.

Beckham cocked his head to the side, simply watching her. “I’m not hungry and you should…” He looked her up and down. “Freshen up.”

And with that he walked down the hall, into a room, and slammed the door.

She righted herself slowly. Her breathing was uneven, and she couldn’t believe what had just happened. He had rejected her. Completely and utterly rejected her.

Somehow that damn man made her feel even more insulted in his absence.

Chapter 5

Reyna jolted out of sleep and bolted upright in bed. She slapped her hand to her heaving chest. Her heart rate was through the roof, and for a moment she couldn’t remember where she was or why she was there. She breathed out twice heavily as she took in her surroundings.

Visage.

Beckham.

Penthouse.

Large fluffy white bed, white plush carpet, long hanging curtains in the softest green. She had an empty walk-in closet that she was sure she would never have occasion to fill, and her own bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub and a large waterfall shower.

She had spent more than a half hour last night under the showerhead, scrubbing every inch of her body in the boiling water. She hadn’t even realized how dirty she was. It was as if she had entirely new skin. And her dark hair, which had always been dull and flat, had fallen in soft, shiny tresses down her back due to the expensive shampoo and conditioner treatment.

But now she had to get back to reality. It was her first real day on the job. She was sure that Beckham was going to want to feed. She needed to prepare herself for when that time came…which meant breakfast. A big hearty breakfast to keep her from feeling light-headed due to the blood loss.

She shuddered. Blood loss.

Reyna hopped out of bed and looked around for the clothes she had left at the foot of her bed. She had gone to bed in an oversized white T-shirt she had found in one of her drawers. It had been a better alternative to getting back in her dirty clothes last night.

But now that she was ready to face the day, she needed her old clothes. And they were nowhere to be found.

She walked into the closet, and her mouth dropped wide open. A quarter of the space was already stocked full of clothes. Dresses upon gorgeous dresses in every color imaginable. Hanging skirts, sheer tops, slick slacks that would surely hug her figure. So many clothes. More than she could have ever dreamed of back at home. She ran her fingers over the expensive materials—satin, lace, silk—and then quickly pulled herself back. What are they doing here?

She checked the tags and saw they were all brand new and in her size. But how does anyone know my size?

Though the clothes were beautiful, they didn’t feel like her clothes. They felt like playing dress-up with a doll. As if someone had picked out clothes haphazardly with no care for the person in mind.

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