Thrall (A Vampire Romance) by Abigail Graham

back in the envelope.
    “I was waiting for this. I’m going. You stay here.”
    “There is work to be done. The union negotiation,” she said.
    “Whatever,” Vincent snapped. “Deal with it.”
    “Very well.” She shrugs, and leaves.
    He tapped the letter against the back of his hand.
    “That will do nicely. Black. It brings out your eyes.” He laughed softly to himself, again entirely for my benefit. “Shoes.”
    I found myself relishing the little freedom he gave me to pick my own shoes. I skipped the ankle-breaking stiletto heels he seemed to prefer and put on a pair of ballet flats.
    Vincent had a whole closet full of shoes, in all sizes, men’s and women’s. When I picked the flats off the shelf I felt a crushing wave of horror as I recognized Andi’s Reeboks on the same shelf. I almost dropped the shoes, trembling.
    There had to be two hundred pairs in there. More.
    I pushed it out of my head. I dropped the shoes on the floor and slipped into them, and fell forward when he slapped me, and almost tripped, leaning on the dresser.
    “Careful with the shoes.”
    I swallowed against my dry throat. The cold in my middle was growing, spreading into my limbs. I stood up and held still, keeping my back straight, my posture perfect, trying not to think of balancing a book on my head lest he decide to make me actually do it and torture me if I drop the book. I stood still while he finished changing his clothes and putting on new shoes. The old might as well have come from a mannequin, they were so clean. He changed anyway.
    When he walked out of the room I rushed to follow. I was beyond needing that simple level of instruction by now. I did as I was meant to do or faced a sharp correction. I walked behind him, swaying my hips and strutting in a parody of a model’s runway gait, all five foot two of me. I ran ahead of him only to push the button and open the elevator doors, rest my hand on the inside to keep the doors from closing, and step inside after him.
    He took the key from the panel and put it in his pocket. I wasn’t allowed to touch it.
    I rode the elevator down in silence, standing beside him. I kept my hands from the rail and my eyes on the floor. When the doors opened he walked out again without glancing at me and I rushed to follow. There were gaps in my memory, like he’d eaten bits and pieces. I didn’t know if I’d been with him a week, a month, longer. It felt longer. I followed behind, and felt eyes on me. Gamblers at the tables stopped and looked up as I walked past. Looked at my legs, my butt, my breasts pressed under the fabric of my dress.
    Putting myself on display that way made me feel sick. I felt a lightness on my hand, like something was supposed to be there.
    It scurried in my throat, scratching me with sharp little legs. It was the hollow in my belly. When I glanced over and looked one of those gamblers in the eyes the scratchy thing whispered secrets in my ear. Showed me things. It told me his name was Salvatore Giamatti and he was from Los Angeles. It told me he knew his wife was cheating so for revenge he took their retirement fund and told her he was on a work trip to the Great Lakes and went to Las Vegas instead. He’d already put eight hundred on the hard six and last night he paid a doe-eyed streetwalker who said her name was Crystal to ride him.
    I hated him. The thing inside me hated him, too. It whispered nasty things in my ear.
    Like, he doesn’t deserve to live .
    I wanted it to shut up. I didn’t want to know things in people’s eyes. So I stared at Vincent’s back as he walked through the casino. The crowd parted around him. He never said ‘excuse me’ or sidestepped. He cut through the people like a knife. They looked his way without looking at him and moved, changed course to avoid him without ever so much as glancing as his direction, shied away. An old woman mindlessly churning a one-armed bandit shuddered as we passed and crossed herself, but as soon as we