Help, My Stalker Is A Vampire: A Dark Vampire Romance by Storm Song

Author:Storm Song [Song, Storm]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Celeste

Iblinked awake, my lashes brushing against a pillow that felt like it was stolen from the clouds themselves. The room was a damn palace, all plush and golden hues – if you could ignore the cold metal cuff clamped around my ankle. Panic clawed up my throat, and I choked on it. Shock and horror battled for dominance.

Great. Just what I always wanted: a luxury suite with complimentary bondage accessories.

My eyes darted around, taking in the opulence that surrounded me. Whoever had taken me had taste, I'd give them that. But then my gaze landed on something that made my blood run cold – satin pajamas that hugged my body, whispering against my skin. And there, embroidered over my heart, was my nickname: CeCe. A shiver ran down my spine as the reality sunk in. Some creep had undressed me, bathed me, and put me to bed like I was a goddamn doll.

The fact that someone had seen me, touched me while I was unconscious... It sent a tidal wave of revulsion crashing into me. All the walls I’d built, all the guards I’d placed around myself since my best friend's death, they crumbled in an instant, leaving me exposed. It wasn’t just the betrayal that stung, it was the meticulous care he had taken. There was a twisted intimacy in the way the fabric caressed me, one I hadn’t felt since...

"Fuck this," I hissed, pulling at the shackle, knowing full well it wouldn't budge. I was trapped in this gilded cage, courtesy of a phantom who fancied himself my savior or tormentor – maybe both.

"Whoever you are," I called out, hoping the bastard would hear me through whatever high-tech surveillance he had set up, "when I get out of here, I'm going to kick your ass so hard you'll taste the polish from my toenails."

There was no answer, just the echo of my own threats hanging in the air. I was alone, left to stew in a mix of fear, anger, and, yeah, a screwed-up kind of longing I refused to acknowledge.

The scent of coffee wafted to my nose, a cruel reminder that even in captivity, some bastard had the decency to brew a decent pot. My stomach growled, its complaints louder than the buzz of anger that had settled into my every thought. It had been—what? Days? Weeks?—since I'd last eaten something that didn't come out of a vending machine.

I shifted on the bed, the shackle clinking like a mocking applause. And that was when I noticed the tray of breakfast laid out with almost surgical precision: eggs cooked just shy of runny, bacon crisp but not burnt, and toast buttered to perfection. I scoffed, but the saliva pooling in my mouth betrayed my hunger. It was my favorite breakfast.

"Guess Hannibal Lecter's hosting brunch today," I muttered, begrudgingly acknowledging the pang of gratitude for the meal. But as I reached for the silverware, a shiver crawled up my spine. The same hands that had prepared this spread were the ones that undressed me.

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