Forbidden Appetites

Forbidden Appetites 

THEY arrived at one of the most expensive restaurants in the city, the kind that glittered even from the sidewalk, all glass and gold and quiet power. Elena walked in front, her steps measured, her back straight despite the tremor in her knees. Eamon followed behind her, unhurried, as though the world parted naturally for him.

They were a study in contrast, sharp contrast.

Elena wore a crisp twenty-dollar shirt tucked neatly into a simple skirt, the fabric clean but tired, the kind of outfit that screamed ‘trying to survive’. Cheap, short heels clicked softly beneath her feet. She was thirty-six— every inch of her carried experience, restraint, resilience— and yes, still hot in a way that came from endurance rather than indulgence.

Behind her walked Eamon.

His suit alone could probably pay three months of her rent. Perfectly tailored. His shoes polished to a mirror shine. Twenty-eight —undeniably twenty-eight— with the kind of beauty that felt unfair and unnatural. Youthful and lethal. He didn’t walk so much as ‘occupy space’.

As they moved toward the entrance, Elena’s eyes darted everywhere.

Faces. Hands. Staff. Security cameras. Anyone.

‘Please,’ she begged silently. ‘Anyone.’

The waiter at the door greeted them with a bright, professional smile. 

“Good afternoon, welcome—”

Elena studied his face desperately. He was a young, clean, human.

‘No,’ she decided immediately. ‘He couldn’t help.’

They walked inside.

The restaurant was alive— soft music humming, silverware clinking, low laughter drifting between tables. Couples leaned close. Businessmen spoke in hushed tones. A woman raised a glass mid-laugh. It was full of life. Normal life.

Elena’s heart hammered painfully against her ribs.

She tried again.

She searched faces as they passed, her gaze pleading, frantic. She slowed her steps slightly, hoping— hoping someone would notice the fear etched into her eyes.

Eamon moved closer, his shoulder nearly brushing hers.

He leaned in, his lips barely grazing her ear.

“None of them will help you,” he whispered calmly. “Don’t bother searching.”

Elena winced. Her stomach dropped.

‘Did he just—?’

No. He couldn’t have read her mind.

Before she could think further—

Snap.

The sound was sharp. Final.

Every single person in the restaurant stood up at once.

Elena froze.

They turned in unison, faces blank, eyes empty, all of them staring straight at her and Eamon. The room felt wrong now— too quiet, too synchronized, like a nightmare stitched together too perfectly.

Another snap.

And just like that, they began to walk away.

Men, women, couples— chairs scraping softly as they moved. Some headed for the exits. Others slipped into side halls. It was swift and unnatural. There was no panic. No questions. Just obedience.

Elena’s breath came in short, shaky gasps as she watched them leave. It felt like watching a mother abandon her child to a fire.

“No… no, no…” she whispered helplessly.

Eamon wasn’t done.

Snap.

The chairs and tables began to move.

Elena stared in horror as heavy oak furniture slid effortlessly across the floor, clearing away from the center of the restaurant as if guided by invisible hands. In seconds, only one table remained, perfectly positioned under the chandelier’s glow.

“Sit,” Eamon said simply, pulling out a chair for her.

Her legs moved before her courage could object. She sat.

He reached for a bottle of champagne resting on a nearby stand and pulled out the chair opposite her with a deliberate, mocking courtesy. He uncorked it smoothly, poured pale wine into her glass, then his own— his eyes never leaving her face.

Her hands trembled slightly as she looked at the bottle.

*EST 1926.*

Her brows furrowed.

“1926?” she asked, squinting at it. “This wine is like… what? Younger than you?”

A slow smile curved his lips.

“By about a hundred years.”

She scoffed despite herself, lifting her gaze to meet his. 

“So that is about two hundred years of being an almighty jerk,” she snapped. “Isn’t it tiring?” she turned to look at him.

“It was easy,” he replied smoothly.

Then he added, quieter, colder, “Until I met you.”

The words landed like poison.

Elena looked away.

For a moment, so did he.

He rested his hand casually on the table without looking— and instantly, a sharp sizzle filled the air.

He hissed under his breath.

Smoke curled faintly where his skin had brushed the silver cutlery. He jerked his hand back, staring at it in disbelief before shoving it into his pocket, jaw tightening.

His expression darkened. He was pissed.

“Replace these damn silver utensils at once,” he ordered, his voice sharp and commanding, echoing through the emptied restaurant.

Elena stared at him in open awe. For a second, she forgot where she was, forgot what he was. A small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips as she looked away.

“Well,” she said softly, almost amused, “who would have thought? Me and silver utensils are your two greatest enemies.”

His gaze snapped to her.

“Don’t test my patience,” he warned.

She inhaled shakily, then seized the fragile opening his irritation had created.

“Please,” she whispered, leaning forward slightly. “Please just let me go. Nobody would know about this. I won’t tell— ever. I promise.” Her eyes glistened, fear and hope tangling together. “You would never, ever see me again.”

Eamon didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he crouched slowly until he was at her eye level, his presence suddenly overwhelming. His gaze locked onto hers, unblinking, searching, dangerous.

“I can’t,” he said quietly.

Her throat tightened.

“Because you are my only weakness.”

The words landed heavily.

She swallowed hard. 

“What… what are you talking about?”

His eyes drifted from her face to her neck, lingering there. His fangs slid out slowly, then retracted, as if testing his restraint.

“You are my forbidden fruit,” he said, voice low and thick. “Intriguing and irritating at the same time.” He leaned forward abruptly, as though he might pounce.

Elena flinched.

He circled her chair instead, slowly and deliberately. She felt his breath ghost across her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms.

“I don’t know what you would taste like, Elena,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Sweet? Poisonous? Bland?” His tone darkened. “It is driving me crazy…”

“Stop,” she breathed, panic threading her voice. “Please— stop looking at me like that.”

He paused.

She straightened, forcing strength into her trembling spine. 

“You have to keep those… predatory appetites in check. I’m not your meal.”

Something flickered in his eyes— surprise, perhaps respect.

Slowly, he stepped back and returned to his seat.

“Fair,” he said coolly. “For now.”

They sat in tense silence for a moment before he spoke again.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Really.”

She frowned. “I’m Elena.”

“That is not what I meant.” His eyes sharpened. “Your parents. Your bloodline. Where are you from?”

She hesitated, then answered honestly. 

“My parents were ordinary people. Teachers. Nothing special, no secrets. I grew up poor, worked harder than most, married wrong.” A bitter smile touched her lips. “That is all there is.”

He studied her intently, as though searching for a crack in the truth— but found none.

Interesting.

At that moment, a waitress appeared, eyes lowered, movements mechanical. She placed their meals carefully on the table, replacing the silver utensils before Eamon with elegant gold ones.

Elena blinked at her plate.

“What… is this?” she asked.

Before her sat something she had never seen— thin slices of seared venison arranged over a dark berry reduction, garnished with edible gold flakes and herbs she couldn’t name.

“I don’t know how to eat this,” she admitted quietly.

“I will teach you,” Eamon said.

She stiffened. 

“But don’t touch me,” he finished.

A faint smile curved her lips. “Deal.”

He moved closer, careful, deliberate. His arm hovered near hers, guiding her hand without contact.

“Like this,” he instructed, demonstrating with her utensil, occasionally lifting a bite to her lips himself, feeding her while ensuring their skin never brushed.

Each near-touch sent electricity through her.

She found herself watching him, the sharp lines of his face, the dark intensity of his eyes softened now by patience. For those moments, the monster seemed… almost human.

‘Twenty-eight,’ she thought. ‘A vampire CEO teaching me how to eat.’

She fought the urge to reach out, to touch that smooth, radiant skin.

Then she noticed his plate, it had been untouched.

“You are not eating,” she said.

He leaned back. 

“I haven’t had a taste for food in over a hundred years.”

“Then what do you eat?”

His gaze darkened. “Blood.”

She sighed, staring at her plate. 

“So… what would you have for lunch?” She glanced at him pointedly. “I mean, it is obviously not me now.”

He leaned back further, thoughtful.

“Hmm,” he murmured. “You are right.”

His eyes lifted slowly, locking onto hers with something unreadable swirling within them.

“But lunchtime isn’t over yet.”

And Elena suddenly wasn’t sure what frightened her more— what he was thinking… or what she might be about to agree to.