Chapter 95: Filthy Rich Vampire

Chapter 95: Filthy Rich Vampire CLARE – POV I don’t know how, but I eventually fell asleep on Blaze’s back. Yeah. I know. Slept. On. A vampire. While bleeding. My twisted ankle throbbed, my muscles ached from all the running, and don’t even get me started on the cramps. But somehow, somewhere between clinging to his back and him zipping like a myth through the forest, exhaustion won. I passed out cold. When I woke up, I was no longer in the woods. I blinked once. Then twice. Fuck. This was not my room. My eyes darted around as I sat up slowly, trying to make sense of where I was. The bed I’d been laid on was massive—no, not massive, obnoxiously huge—with sheets so soft I might’ve shed a tear if I wasn’t too busy internally panicking. The silk duvet had blood stains smeared near the foot of the bed. My blood. Shit. I glanced down—yup, still in Blaze’s shirt. It was way too big on me, hung off one shoulder and down to my thighs like an accidental nightgown. And... yeah, also stained. I’d definitely bled on him. Ruined the shirt. Probably the sheets too. Kill me now. But more importantly— Where the hell was I?! This wasn’t a dungeon. Or some underground crypt. No chains. No torches. No... bats. Where the hell was I? Because this sure as shit wasn’t my room. Or any cheap vampire dungeon like I half-expected. No coffin. No bats. No gothic gargoyles perched on headboards. Nope. This room looked like a presidential suite from a billionaire’s fever dream. A stupidly large four-poster bed draped in dark silk and velvet stood in the center. The walls were navy blue, sleek and smooth, accented with gold trim. Abstract paintings—like the kind you’d find in a private museum—hung perfectly centered in gilded frames. A ridiculously majestic window stretched from floor to ceiling, its sheer curtains fluttering in the breeze, revealing a breathtaking view of a moonlit cityscape. In the far corner sat a velvet sofa the color of crushed wine, beside a black marble fireplace that wasn’t even on and still managed to radiate power. The scent of pine, smoke, and something rich—leather, maybe?—lingered in the air. Holy fuck. Was Blaze stupidly rich? I mean... obviously. Right? Vampires live forever. Probably invest in some startup in the 1800s and now own like half of New York or something. And here I was—some blood-smeared human with an attitude problem—sitting in his bougie murder-den thinking about real estate and inheritance tax. Only a stupid human like me would fixate on wealth in the middle of a breakdown. Still sitting in bed, I looked down at the ruined sheets and cursed under my breath. "Stupid, stupid... vampire hotel suite..." I slid off the edge, limping slightly as I tried to pull off the sheets, thinking I could at least save him the trouble before finding a bathroom. Maybe I could clean myself up, pretend I hadn’t turned into a literal blood-print on his 900-thread count luxury linens. That’s when the door opened. Of course it did. And there he was. Blaze. Smug. Tall. Annoyingly hot. Blaze strolled in like he owned the place—which, let’s be honest, he probably did—carrying a couple of bags in one hand and that signature smirk that made my blood pressure spike for entirely the wrong reasons. "You’re up," he said, eyes dragging over me slowly. Too slowly. Like I wasn’t wearing anything at all. Goosebumps broke out across my skin. Great. I should’ve felt creeped out. But I didn’t. Far from it. His eyes ran down my body slowly—too slowly—and the second they met mine again, a wave of heat flushed over me. Nope. Not because I was embarrassed. Nope. Not because I was wearing his shirt with nothing underneath, and definitely not because I suddenly became hyperaware of that fact. Okay. Maybe a little. "Did I tell you," he began, voice husky and way too smooth, "how fucking beautiful you look in my shirt?" Only a deranged vampire could look at a girl who’s bled through half his bed and say that like it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. I turned away quickly, flushing, silently praying he hadn’t seen the stains—until I remembered: yeah, he totally did. I was facing away from him when he walked in. My entire back was a mess. "I... I’m... I need to shower," I stammered, avoiding his gaze as if that would make him forget the very obvious bloody mess on me. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply like some creep on a perfume ad, and when he opened them again—oh gods. That wasn’t fair. Dark. Hungry. Lustful. My breath caught. "Now I won’t be able to sleep in this room again without smelling your divine scent," he said with a lazy grin that exposed his fangs. Right. Fangs. Reality check: this man—vampire—thing, literally lived off blood and here he was saying I smelled divine after leaking like a gutted deer. Oh, that wasn’t creepy at all. Right. Because blood’s a delicacy for him. And here I am, basically a leaking juice box. I took a step back. Then another, as he walked toward me. "Aah, come on Clare. You’re not scared of me, are you?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. No. I wasn’t scared—not in the way I used to be when we first met. But "unsettled"? "Emotionally unraveled"? Yeah, we were getting there. "I need to wash up," I said quickly, too quickly, my eyes darting around like I was plotting my escape route. He stopped. Shook his head like shaking off some spell, then lifted the bags he was holding. "I’ve brought you some food and other necessities. Why don’t you eat something while I draw you a bath?" Before I could protest, He zoomed over to the sleek black table in the corner, set the bags down, and unwrapped one, gracefully placing everything down like a Michelin-star waiter. He opened a bag, pulled out a takeout container, and the scent hit me like a freight train. Fries. Chicken. My stomach growled, full-on betrayal-mode. Loud enough to make him laugh. "Come eat, Clare," he said, turning to me again. There it was again. The way he said my name. Like it mattered. Like it wasn’t just some average name scribbled on birth certificates, but a spell. A promise. I crept toward the table, sniffing like a starving stray. The fries were golden. Crispy. The chicken looked like it was sent straight from heaven’s own delivery service. Blaze took out a plate and a fork, arranging everything with surprising care. My hand reached out instinctively, but slap!—he smacked it away. "Ouch! What the hell was that for?" I glared, cradling my offended hand. "Germs, Clare," he said, like a disappointed schoolteacher. "Use a fork." "Since when do vampires care about a little germ?" I shot back, narrowing my eyes. He burst out laughing—actual, genuine laughter that lit up his whole face. "Oh Clare, I’m not scared of germs for me. But your body should be. I don’t want you falling sick." Okay. Pause. What?! First hypothermia. Now germs? Was Blaze turning into some vampire-human hybrid doctor overnight? I stared at him, stunned. "You do realize I’ve been held hostage in like four different hellholes, right? And now you’re worried about me catching gems from fries?" He only shrugged. I huffed, but picked up the fork. Whatever. He was feeding me. He was drawing me a bath. He hadn’t bitten me in the last twenty-four hours. All in all? A weirdly romantic start to vampireholm Syndrome if such a thing existed. He left me eating and walked toward a part of the wall I hadn’t even realized was a door until it melted open like some luxury hotel illusion. Seamless. Hidden. Classy. Of course. It had to be the bathroom, and yeah, it made sense it was camouflaged into the wall — wouldn’t want to ruin the aesthetic of "absurdly expensive vampire palace suite." I didn’t sit down. There was no way I was risking getting blood on the beautiful velvet upholstery or whatever ridiculously high-end brand his decor came from. Instead, I hovered by the table, trying to be a responsible blood-stained human guest. Then I took a bite of the chicken. And holy fuck. I moaned. Like — actual, eyes-rolling, full-body moan. Good lord. If food was sex, this was a five-star session with a Michelin-starred chef whispering sweet nothings in my mouth. The fries were crispy perfection. The chicken? Juicy, seasoned like it had been blessed by every culinary god in the universe. If I could marry the chef responsible for this dish, I’d sign the prenup right now — no questions asked — as long as they promised to cook for me for life. So yeah, I was busy. Busy moaning and chomping like a food-deprived gremlin finally given her last meal, when— I felt it. Breath. On my neck. Goosebumps. I froze. And then turned slightly to see a familiar pale, smirking devil standing behind me like a damn shadow, silently stalking me like a predator who had all the time in the world. Did I scream? No. Did I faint? Still no. I choked. Yep. Full on, wheezing, throat-closed, eye-watering choked. Blaze went whiter than his usual "I-sleep-in-coffins" complexion, his eyes widening in sheer panic like I’d just started melting in front of him. He pat my back — not that gentle, reassuring pat either — full-on panic slaps. When that didn’t work, he grabbed a bottle of water, opened it in one smooth motion, and shoved it at me. I gulped it down and finally managed to swallow the rogue fry like it was a live grenade. He exhaled. "Are you okay?" he asked for probably the tenth time in thirty seconds. "I’m fine," I wheezed. "Jesus." He stared at me like I was made of glass and he was two seconds from bubble-wrapping me. Then the shift. His eyes narrowed. Tone? Not so panicked anymore. "Why the fuck are you eating while standing?" he growled. "I didn’t save you from mutts and bloodthirsty traitors for you to come here and die choking on fries." Oh. No. Nope. That was it. "WHO," I said, voice rising like a righteous fury, "IN THEIR SANE MIND sneaks up on someone while they’re eating?!" His brow twitched. "You were the one moaning over fries. What did you expect?" Oh no he didn’t. "Excuse me if I have the audacity to appreciate a meal that doesn’t taste like sand and fear," I shot back, glaring at him. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was trying very hard not to break something. Something human-shaped. "Humans," he muttered under his breath. "So damn fragile." Then his voice shifted back to his usual velvet-and-void tone. "Your bath is ready." That was a fast switch. From yelling to brooding in 0.5 seconds. Classic Blaze. I nodded quickly — too quickly — and dashed toward the bathroom like my life depended on it. Which, knowing him, probably wasn’t far off. And sweet hells above— This wasn’t a bathroom. It was a temple. The size alone was bigger than my entire apartment. One side held the toilet, sleek and modern, beside a vanity with a marble countertop and a mirror that looked enchanted. The other side had a glass-walled rainfall shower so large you could host a party inside it. But the centerpiece? The bathtub. Sunken into the floor like some kind of ancient goddess relic, the tub was filled to the brim with bubble-drenched water. Warm mist curled up from the surface, filling the room with a relaxing lavender scent. The lighting was soft and dim, candles flickering from floating shelves like a scene out of a high-budget romance movie. The edges of the tub had little gold-rimmed trays holding oils, salts, and — was that wine? I stared. A vampire had drawn me a better bath than any spa on earth. I peeled off Blaze’s now-dry-but-definitely-bloody shirt, and with aching muscles and slightly trembling hands, lowered myself into the bath. Perfect. It was like being wrapped in a silky, warm cocoon. Every part of me softened. The pain, the fear, the exhaustion. I closed my eyes for a moment and let myself believe I was somewhere safe. Not in a vampire’s mansion. Not in some supernatural power struggle. Just... floating. Of course, because my luck is trash— The door creaked open. I froze. My eyes snapped open. Shitshitshit. Why didn’t I lock the damn door?! I sank further into the tub, bubbles thankfully still covering me, but not enough to ease the sudden surge of panic burning through me. And there he was. Blaze.