Chapter 2 Cherished Prey

Eleanor's POV

"Two months ‘til you're eighteen," he said, his voice a sultry drawl as his hand slid down, fingers grazing my lower body, pressing against me with bold intent. "Soon I won't just taste your blood—I'll taste you."

I froze, terror spiking as my legs trembled harder, a violent shudder rattling through me. His smirk widened, magnetic and menacing, as he watched me quake. "I've made an offer for you," he continued, his touch lingering, teasing. "Your parents seem quite amenable."

The room spun, blood loss and dread crashing over me. Seven years of this. Ten years as prey. Now, the threat of forever—and more—loomed, his gaze promising it all.

Donovan's lips curled into that smile I'd come to dread, fangs still glistening with my blood. "Think about it," he murmured, his breath cold against my ear. "A life of luxury. Protected. Cherished."

Protected. What a mockery of the word. I knew what being his meant.

With a final, possessive stroke of my cheek, he straightened his jacket and slipped his sunglasses back on. The door opened, and my mother's voice drifted in from the hallway, business-like and pleased.

"I trust everything was satisfactory, Mr. Benedict?"

"Exquisite as always," he replied, his voice returning to that polished, public tone. "We'll discuss the arrangements soon."

I barely registered their conversation as I slumped against the desk, my neck throbbing, the world tilting dangerously. My fingers found the wound—deeper than usual, ragged. He'd been rough, hadn't bothered to seal it properly.

Somehow I made it back to my room in the basement, collapsing onto my narrow bed. The ceiling spun above me, darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision. Exhaustion and blood loss pulled me under, my last conscious thought a desperate wish that Aurora would never know this fate.

"Aurora," I whispered to myself. She'd be bursting to tell me more about her date. The thought of her happiness gave me strength to push myself upright. I needed to be there for her, to share in her joy, even as my own future darkened.

Checking my phone—the one luxury my parents allowed, so they could always reach me—I saw it was nearly noon. I'd slept through breakfast, through morning chores. Panic fluttered in my chest until I saw my mother's terse message: "Rest today. Client took too much."

Even they recognized Donovan had been excessive. The thought brought no comfort.

I changed the bandage on my neck, hiding the angry wound beneath a high-necked sweater despite the warm autumn day. After brushing my hair and securing it in a simple braid, I made my way upstairs, each step requiring concentration.

"Eleanor!" Aurora's voice rang out the moment I appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was perched on a stool at the counter, still in her pajamas, hair tousled. Her face glowed with happiness, but her expression faltered when she saw me. "Are you okay? You look terrible."

I forced a smile. "Just tired. Tell me more about yesterday."

Her eyes lingered on my face a moment longer before excitement overcame her concern. "It was magical, Eleanor. Absolutely magical." She slid off her stool and took my hands, pulling me to sit beside her. "Max was such a gentleman. He held doors, asked what I wanted to see first at the museum..."

As she spoke, her words tumbling over each other in her enthusiasm, I let her joy wash over me. This was what I lived for—these moments where I could forget my own existence and bask in the light of my siblings' happiness.

"...and when he kissed me," she continued, her voice dropping to a reverent whisper, "I felt it, Eleanor. That spark everyone talks about. Like electricity but warm. I knew right then he was the one."

I squeezed her hands. "I'm so happy for you, Aurora. He sounds perfect."

"He is," she nodded, then her expression grew serious. "But enough about me. What happened last night? You never sleep this late."

I shrugged, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through my neck. "Nothing unusual. Just didn't sleep well."

Before she could press further, Olive bounded into the kitchen, rescuing me from her scrutiny.

"There you are, sleeping beauty," he teased, ruffling my hair as he passed. "I had to make my own breakfast. Nearly burned the house down."

The normalcy of his teasing, of Aurora's excited chatter as she resumed telling us about Max's favorite paintings and how he'd known all the scientific names of the plants in the botanical garden—it was a lifeline. For a few precious hours, I could pretend I was just a normal girl with a normal family, not merchandise to be sold to the highest bidder.

Later, as I prepared dinner—roast chicken with herbs from our garden—I caught snippets of my parents' conversation from the living room.

"...good offer, considering," my father was saying.

"Better than we expected for damaged goods," my mother replied, her voice cold.

Damaged goods. That's all I was to them. A commodity, and not even a premium one.

I clutched the counter, suddenly dizzy again. Donovan Benedict wanted to own me. To use me in ways that made even feeding seem merciful by comparison. And my parents were negotiating my sale like I was a used car with high mileage.

The following weeks passed in a strange haze. Donovan didn't return for his usual appointments, which should have been a relief but only intensified my dread. It meant negotiations were serious. Preparations were being made.

Aurora floated through the days, texting constantly with Max, spending weekends with him. Olive was busy with basketball practice and his own social life. I maintained my routine of chores, cooking, and studying alone in my basement room, all while the sword of Damocles hung over my head.

Then, one Saturday morning as I was preparing breakfast, my mother entered the kitchen, her expression unusually animated.

"Eleanor," she said, inspecting my work with critical eyes, "finish quickly. You have a new client tonight. Very old, very wealthy."

My hands trembled slightly as I cracked eggs into the skillet. "What about Mr. Benedict?"

"That's no longer your concern," she replied, a hint of smugness in her voice. "This is a much better arrangement. For all of us."