Tonight, the hunger finally forces me out of bed and downstairs as the smell of garlic and onions wafts upstairs.
I’ll have to face him, but his offer of making a bargain has been tugging at my mind, making me wonder what he could possibly want from me. I have nothing to offer except my soul, and that’s already damned, I’m sure.
The stairs creak under my feet, and I pause once I reach the landing to take in the space.
To my right is the living room. A brick fireplace flickers with low flames, surrounded by plush armchairs and a leather sofa, and a massive picture window stretches along the facade wall. Beyond that is another room with an open door, though I can’t see what’s inside from here, and there’s a hallway parallel to the staircase leading toward the back of the house.
To my left is a small dining room with a simple circular table. I take a deep breath and walk that way, toward the sound of something sizzling in a pan. The kitchen is to my left, in the same space as the dining room, though there’s an L-shaped countertop that serves as a partial separator for the rooms.
He—I still don’t know his name—stands at the stove, stirring something in a pan. As soon as I step into view, he glances up.
“I was wondering when hunger would finally drive youdownstairs,” he says casually, as if I haven’t been wasting away in that bedroom for days.
I remain still, uncertain whether to advance or retreat. My heart pounds in the same way it would when I was confronting Joel, but at least I knew what to expect from Joel. This man is a complete mystery.
“Your food’s going to get cold if you stand there all night.”
I realize he’s plating food for both of us, and I’m still frozen in place.
“Why would you cook for me?” I ask.
“People are generally easier to deal with when they’re not starving.”
I want to ask him why it matters if I’m starving or not, but when he brings the two plates from the kitchen to the dining room table, I can’t help but salivate.
“Sit,” he says.
I hate myself for obeying.
But the plate of pasta with a thick, red sauce is too tempting to refuse. I stare at it for a moment with suspicion as he walks back to the kitchen and returns with a glass of water for me.
“It's not poisoned,” he says, seemingly reading my thoughts. “That would rather defeat the purpose of keeping you around.”
I lift the fork but hesitate. His lips quirk into that unsettling half-smile. “Don’t worry. If I wanted you dead, I would’ve killed you already.”
Asshole.
I take a tentative bite. The flavors are incredible, a combination of basil, garlic, onion, and a handful of Italian spices that I can’t quite identify. Before I know it, I'm devouring the food, barely pausing between bites.
I don’t know if it tastes so amazing because I’m so hungry, or if he really is that good of a cook.
He eats as well, sitting across the table from me and studying me with curiosity. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m grateful for proof that he’s not some blood-drinking vampire.
“My name is Ambrose, by the way,” he says suddenly.
I look up from my nearly empty plate, stare at him for a second, then take a sip of water. I’d tell him my name, but he obviously already knows it. He probably knows everything about me.
“I’m sure you have some questions,” he says when I don’t respond.
I nod.
“Ask away.” He waves his hand casually, as if he’s preparing to tell me about his favorite color and what his hobbies are.
Questions whirl through my mind, but one sticks out above the rest.
My pulse hammers through my veins.
“You said you’d let me live if we made a deal. Have you decided what you want?”
