Blood Debt: A Reverse Harem Vampire Romance (Kingdom of Blood Book 1) by Callie Rose (sites to read books for free TXT) 📗

olive color. My bedroom is just as monochromatic, though the furniture is a little nicer. My captain’s bed doubles as a weapons locker. So does the cedar chest at the foot of it. Nathan’s old room is a gym now, but once I get him back here, I’ll turn it back into a bedroom for him. I still have all his stuff stashed in a storage locker. Well, everything but the bongs, pipes, and syringes. I smashed the hell out of those.

Shoving my thoughts away from my struggles and failures as a sister, I gaze up at the dress again, sizing it up like I might do with a new weapon. Evaluating its usefulness for its intended purpose.

Then I pluck it down from the curtain rod and get to work, spending the next several hours making a few key alterations to the garment. Between modifying the dress and doing some additional research on the vamps’ underground palace, the day flies by. It seems like all I do is blink, and suddenly, it’s dark outside.

Time to get this show on the road.

Stripping out of my faded jeans and tee, I step into the dress and lace up the corset, then turn to look at myself in my bedroom mirror.

This gown is unlike anything I’ve ever had in my closet; it’s brazen and eye-catching and absolutely gorgeous. The bodice is a corset, and the skirt flares out at the hip, with enough fabric for me to hide weapons inside it. Above the corset, my breasts are cupped in a semi-transparent halter which lets just enough of my nipples show to tease the eye. Below, the skirt and petticoats fall to my ankles, with a slit up to my hip on one side. I’ve sewn weapons between the layers of the skirt—just my two favorite knives, although I wish I could bring a whole fucking armory with me.

I do a practice spin in front of the mirror to make sure I’ve balanced it all properly and that the knives are truly undetectable. I think they are, but I can’t be entirely sure since I can’t really see how the back spins. I know I’ll be dead if I’m caught smuggling weapons in there, but there’s no way I’m leaving them at home.

I try to evaluate the odds in my head, but there are too many unknown variables. I know I look and smell good. I know that my weapons aren’t strictly visible. I just don’t know if I’m too obviously fit from fighting and training, or if any of them will recognize my face. I don’t think I’ve ever left a witness after a kill, but there’s really no way to be certain of that.

“Only one way to find out,” I tell my reflection, grimacing slightly

Blowing out my cheeks, I slide my feet into the new stilettos I bought this morning. They’re comfortable enough for what they are, but I can feel my anxiety start to increase as I straighten up. I can walk just fine, I’m light on my feet and have good balance. But there’s no fucking way I could run or climb in these—not without breaking a leg or two.

That’s the whole point, really. If I showed up in my black tactical gear and combat boots, they’d kill me before I could even get in the door. These shoes send a different kind of message.

And that message is: prey on me, I can’t get away if I change my mind.

“I can’t believe people actually do this shit for the thrill of it,” I mutter. I may have a personal vendetta against vampires, but even if I didn’t, I can’t imagine myself voluntarily choosing to throw myself into their clutches as a blood tribute. As a fucking groupie.

Shaking off the impulse to check and double check my weapons, I lock my feet in with the thin straps on the shoes, tuck a bejeweled comb in my dark hair, slip a pair of blood-drop earrings in my ears, and turn around in front of the mirror again to look at the final result.

My sharp features look almost model-like when combined with the stunning getup and the makeup I applied before getting dressed. My blue eyes look even brighter next to the red of the earrings and the scarlet color of my lips.

Good enough.

Passable, anyway, assuming I can get rid of this scowl.

I try on a few bubble-headed smiles and settle on wide-eyed awe.

That’ll work. Let’s do this.

I throw on a ratty trench coat so I can get downtown without too much hassle. This dress would have me stopped for solicitation in a heartbeat. Not without cause, I suppose, considering what I’m about to go do.

The cab I hail only takes me three-quarters of the way there before I stop the driver and tell him to pull over. It’s not so much because I’m afraid of being followed or traced, but because I really need to settle my nerves before I walk in there. Knowing that I’m going to be around dozens of vampires is making me itch to fight. I need to find softness somewhere inside of me, some sort of doe-eyed naivete, something to hold on to so that I can present the right face to these vermin.

The walk helps—a little, at least. Every time I feel my fingers curling into fists or my shoulders bunching up, I force myself to take a deep breath, hold it, and then release it.

When I finally arrive at my destination, I almost think I’m in the wrong place at first. The bar is fairly quiet, playing some soft-rock bullshit while middle-aged people sit around communing with their drinks. There’s a subtle black door in the back beyond the bathrooms. The bartender catches my eye, glances down at my feet, and nods his head that way.

Perfect, thanks dude.

At least I look the part enough to fool the human bartender. It’s not much, but it’s a start, and I’ll take it.

I follow his silent directions, heading