Chapter 4: Whispers of Sunlight
The market’s fluorescent lights were a brutal shock to her system, bleaching everything into a stark, unreal clarity. She grabbed a bottle of orange juice and a packaged muffin, her hands noticeably steady. The cashier, a kid with tired eyes, didn’t look at her twice as he scanned the items.
“Long night?” he mumbled, out of routine more than curiosity.
“Something like that,” Rey said, her voice her own again.
Back in the car, she sipped the sickly-sweet juice and watched the city scroll past. The glucose hit her bloodstream, sharpening the edges of everything. The floating bliss hardened into a clear, cold knot of understanding in her gut. This was a problem. He was a problem. The money was a lifeline, but the hook felt like it was already buried deep.
Her phone vibrated on the leather seat. Not a bank alert. An unknown number, again. The message was longer this time: Your vitals from tonight’s session show remarkable resilience. We’d like to schedule a full panel. Compensation is triple the standard rate. It was followed by a link to a sleek, professional-looking portal.
It wasn’t from him. The agency. They’d been monitoring her. Of course they had. She deleted the message, her throat tight. Then she opened her contacts and stared at the only other entry related to this world: Rose Tico, Liaison. She’d programmed it in after the first screening, a perfunctory gesture.
Her thumb hovered. She hit call.
It rang five times. A voice answered, muffled by noise. “Tico. This better be good.”
“It’s Rey. The donor. We met—”
“Rey! I know.” The background noise faded, as if a door had shut. Rose’s voice became clearer, warmer but edged with caution. “You’re calling late. Session just end?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re not happy-dancing over your bank account. So, talk.”
The casual permission undid her. “He said I taste like sunlight.”
The line was silent for a beat too long. “Oh, kid.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re in over your head.” Rose sighed, and Rey heard the creak of a chair. “It’s a metaphor, but for us, it’s… literal. It means your blood isn’t just sustenance. It’s an experience. It’s nostalgia for something we can’t have.”
Rey leaned her head against the cool window. “He said it makes it harder to let me leave.”
“I bet he did.” Rose’s tone shifted, turning brisk and professional. “Listen, I shouldn’t be telling you this. But you’ve got a kind face, and this world eats kind faces for breakfast. He’s not the only one who’s noticed you.”
The knot in Rey’s stomach tightened. “What?”
“Your profile in the donor pool. It’s attracted attention. There’s a bid.”
“A bid for what?”
“For your exclusive contract. Post your six sessions with Ren.” Rose paused. “It’s a blind bid, but the amount is aggressive. Personal, even.”
The car glided to a stop outside her apartment building. Rey didn’t move. “Who?”
“I don’t know. The system masks it. But the pattern of the bid… it’s someone with a grudge against Kylo Ren. They’re not just buying a donor. They’re taking something they think he wants.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Technically, yes.” Rose’s voice softened. “You can walk away after your sixth session. Take your money and vanish. But these aren’t people who like being told no. And Kylo…” She trailed off. “He doesn’t share. Ever.”
Rey looked down at her wrist. The puncture marks were already fading into faint, pink bruises. “What should I do?”
“Finish your obligation. Keep your head down. And for god’s sake, stop tasting your own blood in front of him.” Rose’s laugh was short, humorless. “That’s like ringing a dinner bell for a wolf.”
The call ended. Rey sat in the idle car, the engine a quiet purr. The driver waited, impassive. Her sanctuary of paid bills and quiet rooms waited upstairs. It all felt flimsy now, a cardboard set about to be blown over.
She got out and walked inside, each step feeling heavier. The craving wasn’t just for the dizzying release of the bite. It was for the terrifying clarity that followed. For the first time in years, she wasn’t just surviving the void. She was poised on the edge of something, and the drop was a thousand years deep.
Upstairs, she didn’t sleep. She pulled out her laptop, the glow lighting her tired face. She typed a new search, her fingers cold on the keys: vampire familial structures, territorial behavior, blood-binding myths. The academic in her needed a framework, a taxonomy for the nightmare. The woman in her needed to know what, exactly, she had stepped into.
Sunlight began to bleed around the edges of her blinds. She finally shut the laptop. Down in the street, a dark car she hadn’t noticed before pulled smoothly away from the curb. It might have been there all night. She had no way to know.
Her phone lit up with a third message. This one was from the saved number. Kylo. Only two words: Until Friday.