Page 27

That doesn’t sound weird and prison-y at all.

The sound of a door opening distracts me, and I look up to see Tristan walking in, his leather-bound notebook or diary or whatever in his hand. Pierce is right behind him, and he smiles at me, flashing fang. How the hell have vampires not been discovered before this? Do they just not smile in public?

“Thank you for making time for this,” Tristan says as they take a seat across from me and Anna, and I nod.

“Oh, uh, sure. Of course. I haven’t exactly worked out how I’m going to fill my days now.” The words hang awkwardly between us, and I wish I could take them back. He doesn’t give a crap about me filling my days. It probably sounded like I was complaining, and how fucking stupid would that be? Complaining about the sweet setup I’ve got here?

“You’ve only just started the job,” Pierce says. “I’m sure you’ll rearrange your life in no time.”

Yeah. Sure. I’m definitely the kind of person who arranges their life, rather than just letting shit happen.

“So the first thing we’ll do is give you access to the house calendar,” he continues. “That might help you sort things out. I put all Tristan’s travel plans there, and I’ll add you to them too so you get a notification and can see what’s coming up.”

“Okay. That sounds good.” It’s a relief that they don’t expect me to keep track of everything in a paper diary. If I can download an app for it on my phone, I’m golden.

“I’ll need your email address,” he prompts, tapping on the screen of a tablet he pulled from… somewhere. His suit jacket, maybe? His suit doesn’t look as stuffy and formal as Tristan’s, but it’s still a fucking suit.

I give him my email. His hand jerks a bit as I say it, and I wince as Anna smothers a laugh. I was thirteen when I set up the account, and thirteen-year-old boys aren’t exactly mature. I should probably set up an account with just my name or something to use for official stuff, but who can be bothered keeping track of more than one email account?

“Thank you,” Pierce says when he looks up, and my phone vibrates in my pocket. “I’ve sent the invite. Feel free to poke around in the calendar. Every entry includes details or links to documents like airline confirmations. You don’t have administrator permission, so you can’t accidentally delete anything.”

“Good, because that’s a nightmare I don’t need unlocked.”

He chuckles, and I make myself relax. This isn’t so bad.

“Is there anything I need to be aware of when making travel arrangements?” he adds. “Are you a vegetarian or have any other dietary restrictions?”

“Nope to both.” I’ve been on a plane exactly two times in my life. The first was with my parents on a holiday to Cairns when I was nine, and the second was on a boys’ trip to Bali when I was at uni. Both times I ate what I was given by the airline.

Pierce makes a note. “Wonderful. We usually fly charter, but occasionally we need to go commercial. If you have a frequent flyer number, email it to me and I’ll make sure it gets added to all your reservations.”

“Sure.” I don’t have one, but it can’t hurt to set them up, right? I’ve heard people talking about points and getting free flights with them. Free anything sounds good to me. Also, charter? Does that mean a private plane?

“That’s mostly all from me for now. We can talk about formal events another time.”

Formal events? Well, fuck.

Chapter 14

“Security,” Anna declares before I can ask a follow-up question about formal events. Probably a good thing, since I don’t think “what the fuck?” is considered appropriate in this kind of workplace setting. Shame. “You have two options. The first is that I or another bodyguard goes with you whenever you leave the house and stays within three metres of you at all times.”

Uh, let me think about that… “That’s a fuck no.” Oops. So much for appropriate workplace language. “What’s option two?”

“We track you electronically.”

I’m not a fan of that either. “You mean like I share my phone’s location with you? I thought you were going to drive me places anyway.”

“I am.” Gone is the friendly, chatty woman from this morning. This Anna is focused and serious—she kind of looks like she could rip out my spleen with her bare hands if she wanted to. Which is a weird thought, since I don’t even know where my spleen is exactly, and ripping out organs with bare hands is impossible.

Right?

“This is an additional precaution,” she’s saying, and I make myself concentrate before I agree to something without fully understanding it. I’ve done enough of that lately. “But no, you wouldn’t share your phone’s location. We’d prefer a tracking chip.”

Should I point out what a waste of money it is to buy extra tech to track my phone when it already has that functionality built in? Not to mention there’s gotta be a dozen apps that share location that would be cheaper than a tracking chip. Which sounds made-up. I didn’t know those things even existed outside movies. “Is it like an AirTag? Or do you need to, like, put it in the guts of my phone? I’m definitely not okay with anything that’s going to void my warranty.”

“It’s got nothing to do with your phone,” she explains patiently. “It goes under your skin—the incision is tiny and only needs a single stitch. It’ll be healed in a week, and…”

Whatever she’s saying fades away as my mind grapples with under your skin, stitch, and healed. I push back my chair and stand.