An Acquired Taste (The Valentine Society)

Chapter Sixteen

W hen the door to the library opens again, I sit up, thinking for a confused moment that Sebastian has turned around and come back. Instead, it’s Ellen peering in at me. I frown, rubbing my eyes. Then the events of the night rush back, and I swallow hard and tug my nightgown down.

I can only imagine what a rumpled harlot I must look like, but Ellen’s eyes are focused on my wrist as I approach. The puncture wounds are gone, but there’s still a smear of dried blood. I resist the urge to cover it. This is my job, after all, and getting intimate with one’s patron is par for the course, from my understanding.

I’m pretty sure most valentines don’t get dumped in an armchair and abandoned after their fun… but maybe that’s just the romantic in me. It’s not like I was promised a relationship out of this, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by him not treating it as one.

Still, I refuse to be embarrassed. Or to think too hard about my concern that Sebastian is using me, just like Declan did. Only pain lies that way.

“Hi,” I chirp instead, forcing cheer. “You’re here.”

“Yes,” Ellen says, hesitantly entering the library once I’ve made myself semi-decent. “Sorry for my absence earlier this evening. I saw that you barely touched your breakfast and skipped tea, so I wanted to make sure you’re alright…”

I guess we’re just going to ignore the fact I’m sleeping in Sebastian’s favorite armchair in the library. Has she been searching the house for me? Or did Sebastian tell her where to find me and why? God, I’m not sure which option is more embarrassing.

“Thank you,” I say, and stretch out in the chair in my best attempt to act normal. “I’ll take it here.”

When she sets the tray on the small table beside me, I notice that it not only has a fresh cup of coffee and my usual breakfast, but a side I don’t recognize and a few pills.

I have a sinking feeling these are the same type that Benjamin always pushed on me, but I ask anyway. “What’s this?”

“A spinach and prosciutto salad, and some extra supplements,” she says without pause. “Bridget was told that you may have given more blood than usual this evening, and recommended this for recovery.”

“Oh, lovely,” I grumble, picking up my toast and tearing off a piece with more violence than necessary. I chew angrily and then eye Ellen. So Sebastian definitely clued the staff in about biting me, but… “Did our lord leave any messages for me, by chance?”

Her brow furrows. “He did not. Were you expecting one?”

I sigh, cram the rest of my toast into my mouth, and shake my head.

* * *

I spend the rest of the night trying to scrub off my mistakes in the tub and resting in bed. I almost want to decline dinner, but Ellen might have a breakdown over it; she’s already dropped by twice to try to force extra food on me. When I show up in the dining room, Sebastian’s seat is empty, and it remains so.

I guess this is how things are going to be, then. We’re going to go back to ignoring each other like he didn’t drink from my wrist or admit my blood makes him horny or give me a mind-blowing orgasm. Whatever. Fine with me. Everything is back to normal. My lonely, lonely normal.

And this time, when I climb into bed with my laptop, the words start flowing.

I have no plan, just a fire in my chest that demands to be expressed. After months of being stopped up, the words finally erupt from me like a dam’s been broken. I never thought of myself as a nonfiction writer. I never thought my life was interesting enough. But what emerges on the screen is more of a diary entry than anything else.

I write about my experience at the Valentine’s Day Ball, and my offer of patronage, and pulling up to the gate to the estate for the first time. I write about wandering the halls at night like a ghost, how painful it was to think Sebastian didn’t want my blood, and how much more painful it is to realize he only wants my blood.

When I finally stop, my fingers and eyes are aching. I blink, look at the window, and realize that the sun is up. This is more daylight than I’ve seen since I arrived here; usually I get barely a glance at the sunrise before slipping into bed. I’m exhausted as I set the laptop aside and slide under my silk sheets. Writing has drained me—but it also leaves me feeling less alone, somehow.

I fall asleep with more words running through my head, written on the inside of my eyelids, whispering through my dreams. And I feel, for the first time in a very long while, that I have an awful lot to say, and it might be worth reading.

* * *

The next evening, I wake up and prepare for the usual routine. But when Ellen knocks on my door and enters, she comes bearing only the breakfast tray, and not the usual syringe.

“No blood today?” I ask, nibbling at the edge of a buttery mini quiche.

She shakes her head. “Before you ask, he didn’t explain. You’ll have to ask him yourself when you next see him.”

I roll my eyes. “Right. Assuming he ever decides to stop avoiding me.”

She bites her lip. It looks like she wants to say something, so I sip my coffee and wait, letting the silence simmer until she’s ready. “He’s been avoiding everyone,” she says finally. “It was such a nice change having him at dinner, but now…”

It’s as close to a critique of Sebastian as I’ve heard from anyone in the household. I sip my coffee again, trying to think of how to respond. Before I can, she asks, “Did something happen between you two?”

My mind flashes to my ass on his lap, his teeth on my wrist, his fingers against my clit. I nearly choke on my drink. “No,” I say. “Well, yes, but…” I stumble over my words in my haste. Part of me is tempted to talk to her just so I have someone to vent to, but it doesn’t feel appropriate to tell one of his employees. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Right. Well…” She takes a breath, pushing her hair behind her ear. “If anyone can draw him out of this solitude, it’s you.”

I almost laugh. It’s a ridiculous thought, that I could have any influence on the man. Just getting him to spend time with me is like pulling teeth. I had to ask him for the simple act of joining us at dinner, and again to give me a tour of the grounds, and once more to take my blood himself. I’m not going to embarrass myself by groveling to him again, begging for his attention. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to give it to me. I believe him now when he says he enjoys the taste of my blood—it’s hard to deny after our encounter in the library—but that only makes his refusal of me today feel like even more of a snub.

“Look, I appreciate that you and the rest of the staff treat me like I’m some sort of… lady of the house or whatever,” I say, “but I’m not. This is just a job to me. And Sebastian is just my employer, the same as he is to you. I’m not going to try to convince him to socialize. He can stay holed up in the library all he wants.”

Ellen looks taken aback. She blinks at me and then nods, her expression shuttering. “I understand,” she says. “I won’t bring it up again.”

Guilt hits me as soon as she speaks in that formal tone. I must have sounded pretty harsh, and she doesn’t deserve it. It’s not her that I’m mad at. “Wait, Ellen, I didn’t mean…”

“No, please. I overstepped. I apologize,” she says, and is out the door before I can stop her.

I spend the next hour marinating in my guilt and loneliness and annoyance at Sebastian. I post some passive-aggressive song lyrics I’m not proud about on my social media, and take a bath. When I emerge, a message from Alexander waits on my phone.

Everything alright ?

I bite my lip, staring at the screen. I shouldn’t respond. But my room feels lonelier than ever right now. I’ve even managed to drive Ellen away.

I need someone to talk to… but I won’t stoop to talking badly about Sebastian. Just bored , I type.

Shall I entertain you?

I tap my finger against my phone. He’s toeing the line of flirtation again… but I’m probably overthinking it. He’s a hot vampire with a busy social life, not some desperate incel who’s going to send me a dick pic the second I show interest. He knows Sebastian is my patron, anyway. His interest in me is obvious, but he struck me as too much of a gentleman to truly overstep. Still, I try to play it safe: How would you do that?

A few minutes pass, and I fear he’s lost interest already. But then, to my surprise, a video pops up in response. When I open it, my heart beats double at the sight of his face. Then he brings a violin into the camera’s view and begins to play.

My jaw drops. Even through my tinny phone speaker, and to my untrained ears, the sound is gorgeous. Slow and sweet and sad. And the look on his face as he plays, his eyes closed and his mouth moving as he focuses, is almost more beautiful.

I text the second it’s done: WOW. Not what I expected. That was amazing!! Thank you for the show! Insert several clapping emojis.

My pleasure. I hope I’ve made your night less dull.

He has. But soon, I find myself turning to my laptop instead. Nothing is quite as satisfying as pouring all of my loneliness and anger and shame out onto the page.

I can’t talk to anyone about the way that I’m feeling. Alexander is off-limits. Sebastian is avoiding me again. The staff is kind, but I can’t badmouth their beloved employer in front of them. My sister still doesn’t know that I’m a valentine; I haven’t even managed to admit that Declan and I broke up. I keep telling myself I’ll tell her everything in person when she moves out to California in a few months, but every time I lie to her, I dig my hole deeper.

I have always found solace in words, and right now, the empty page is the only person I can tell about everything I’m experiencing. So I pour it all out, regurgitating my feelings in a way that feels almost violent.

It gives me an outlet for all of the things I can’t say. But pouring these words onto the page isn’t the same as feeling heard , and it doesn’t help with my loneliness.

It makes me think about the valentine gossip columns and TV shows, the “tell-all” memoirs that never seem to have moments where anyone feels like I do right now. For so long, I read those stories as an escape from my day-to-day life. Now it’s become my day-to-day life, and it isn’t anything like what I thought it would be. But there have to be other valentines out there who feel like this.

I’m hit with a sudden, reckless need to tell somebody, anybody, the truth. I know I could potentially save this material and publish it later, probably snag a book deal that kicks off the writing career I’ve always dreamed of… but I’m not sure that’s what I want to be known for. And it won’t give me the acknowledgment I’m yearning for right now.

So on a whim, I quickly read through what I’ve written, scrub out any identifying details about me or Sebastian, and search out a popular blogging site. I designate myself as Confessions of an Anonymous Valentine and upload a few posts detailing my experiences. I spend some time lurking on similar blogs and social media pages and post links to my own work in an effort to make some connections. I hadn’t thought about making friends with fellow valentines online, but it does have a certain appeal. There must be others like me, who aren’t living the high life that all of the famous valentines seem to be enjoying.

Once it starts to get hard to keep my eyes open, and the sun is rising, I shut my laptop, crawl into bed, and quickly forget all about the confessional blog I threw onto the internet.