Page 30 of The Feeder Legacy

He baked lamingtons? Like… homemade? Any thought of terminating my contract flees from my brain.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Chapter 15

Turns out, four lamingtons (definitely need to get some gym equipment) and another one of Clive’s perfect coffees go a long way toward helping me forget how freaky that meeting was. Sure, Tristan got a bit… intense… but he was trying to protect me from whatever horrible thing happened to his past feeder. Which I really need to find out more about.

Anna’s phone rings as we’re midway through planning my new workout routine. She seems to think that since I’m going to be up at six to feed Tristan anyway, we should follow it up with a run. The idea of not having breakfast and going back to bed for a couple of hours appals me, and I’m making the case for a run at nine or nine thirty, when all the crazy people who exercise before work will be safely at their jobs.

“We’ll lose half the day that way,” she complains, glancing at her phone. “I need to take this, but we’re not done with this conversation.”

“Ooh, I love a take-charge woman,” I tease. I’ve pretty much given up on trying to be professional. I just don’t have it in me. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to care, rolling her eyes as she gets up from her padded armchair and heads out through the double doors to the patio. The minute she’s gone, Clive also stands and, without saying a word to me, strides across the living room and disappears into the butler’s pantry. He seems determined to stay pissed at me for forgetting to eat yesterday. Or maybe he just doesn’t like me. Whatever, he barely talks to me, and apparently if Anna’s not here to be a buffer, he won’t even stay in the same room as me.

I heave a huge sigh and wonder how much I care. I probably should make an effort to bond with him, right? But on the flip side, he’s gonna make lamingtons and hash browns and gourmet coffee for me even if he hates me. Does it make me a bad person if I don’t want to put in the work to change his mind about me? It’s eleven thirty on a weekday and I’m sitting on a cushy sofa in a fucking half turret, eating homemade cake. I can live with someone not liking me.

The question takes up so much of my focus that by the time I notice the sound of raised voices, they’re in full flight. I cock my head and try to make out the words, but it’s a big house, and if the voices are coming from Tristan’s office or the dining room like I think, they’ve got two closed doors and a corridor to travel down.

But what kind of meeting leads to people yelling at each other? I mean, sure, I’m not professional, but Tristan definitely is.

I get up and take a few steps toward the door to the hallway, then stop and glance at the patio through the windows. Anna’s still on the phone, pacing back and forth, not looking my way at all. A quick glance toward the butler’s pantry shows the door half-closed. I doubt Clive will come out until Anna’s back—he’s probably standing around in there, staring at the shelves and plotting ways to show how much he disapproves of me without endangering his job.

Quietly, I cross the room and take hold of the doorknob, easing it open so I can peer down the hallway. There’s nothing to see. I have a clear view straight up the corridor to the entryway, but whoever’s yelling, they’re still in one of the rooms. The voices are louder with the door open, but not enough for me to understand what’s being said.

With a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure Anna’s not coming back yet, I slip through the doorway and pull the door almost all the way closed, then creep forward to the corner where the main corridor meets the one leading to Anna’s and Clive’s rooms. I’m a lot closer to the dining room now, but I figure the corner will give me some cover if I need to pretend I’m not eavesdropping.

I can hear a little better from here. Not everything, but the occasional word. Hopefully enough to guess what the drama’s about and who the drama llama is.

“… imprisoned… suffering…” Ooh, that doesn’t sound good. “… refuse… if you don’t… regret…” Hang on, was that a threat? I don’t know who this guy is, but he must have balls of fucking steel to threaten Tristan.

I lean around the corner a bit more and mentally debate whether it’s worth trying to get closer and potentially giving away my nosy habits if someone happens to come out.

“… slaughter and⁠—”

The crash vibrates through the house, startling a tiny yelp from me. What the fuck? That sounded like the time one of my roommates accidentally bashed a cricket bat through a wall—only worse.

The dining room door slams open before I can consider the implications of that thought, and a man flies through the doorway and collides with the wall opposite, then slides to the floor amidst a haze of plaster dust. From this angle, I can’t see him clearly, but I have a fucking brilliant view of Tristan storming through the dining room door, his face a mask of cold determination that sends chills down my spine. He reaches down with one hand and grabs the man, hoisting him up… and up…

Slowly, I lean a bit farther out into the corridor. Whatever this scene is, it’s so intense that I doubt they’ll notice my head and should⁠—

Fuck me, Tristan’s holding this guy nearly a foot off the ground! By the throat!

Lesson of the day: Vampires are super strong, and they do not fuck around.

“This is the last warning I will give you,” Tristan says, his voice low and vicious. “You will go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and cease your idiotic threats, or I will annihilate you. Is that understood?”

The other vampire hisses, a contemptuous sound that makes Tristan fully fucking growl. I can see his arm tensing through his suit jacket as he tightens his grip. “I’ll rip your throat out right now and save myself the trouble of ever needing to deal with you again,” he threatens. “Say you understand.”

“Come now, Tristan,” another voice says, and my gaze jerks back to the dining room doorway. The vampire standing there is so smoking hot, I think I might have forgotten to breathe for a second. Jesus fucking Christ, I’m not even into blonds usually, but if this guy wasn’t undead or whatever, I’d be inviting him upstairs in a heartbeat. “There’s no need for such an overreaction.” He dusts some specks of plaster off the front of his vintage Nirvana T-shirt, and I wonder if vampires trawl through op shops like the rest of us, or if he’s just older than he looks and actually bought the thing at a concert.

“Your opinion has not been asked for, Misha.” Tristan doesn’t take his eyes off the vampire he’s choking.

Blondie—Misha—sniffs. “How rude.”

“You’re already on shaky ground for bringing him here. Do not push your luck.” The vampire he’s holding makes a snarling sound, but Tristan doesn’t flinch.

Misha, on the other hand, scoffs. “Put him down, will you? You’ve made your point.”

“Not until he acknowledges it. Hurry up, Geoffrey, before I get impatient and use your spinal fluid to fertilise my camellias.”