The Vampire King's Mate

Chapter 11

Ivory POV

I was still struggling to untangle myself from Daniel’s lap…..my heart performing a frantic tap dance against my ribs when the bell above the door shrieked.

"Daniel!"

The voice was like a serrated blade wrapped in silk. I froze, my hands still pressed against Daniel’s chest. For the first time in my life, I was actually relieved to see the reigning queen of my nightmares. Stella.

She looked like she’d stepped off a runway and straight into a vat of aggression. Her blonde hair was a fresh, blinding platinum that caught the flickering fluorescent light, and her lips were painted a shade of red so bright it looked like a warning sign.

She sashayed toward the booth, her hips swinging with practiced grace, completely oblivious at first to the fact that I was currently anchored to her "casual lover’s" thighs.

She leaned over the table, ignoring the atmosphere, and whispered with a flirtatious pout, "Guess what’s new?"

She batted her lashes, practically vibrating with the need for him to notice the fresh dye job and the razor-sharp manicure. I held my breath, waiting for the explosion.

Daniel didn't even blink. He looked at her with a blank, almost bored expression, his grip on my waist not loosening even a fraction of an inch.

"You stalked me?" he blurted out.

The words were so blunt, so utterly clueless, that a snort of laughter escaped me before I could choke it back. It started as a giggle and turned into a full-on burst of bolts, the absurdity of the "Perfect Golden Boy" being that oblivious finally breaking my fear.

Stella’s head whipped around. Her eyes, cold and blue as a glacier, finally landed on me. The realization of where I was sitting hit her like a physical slap. For a heartbeat, the diner went dead silent.

"And what," she hissed, her voice trembling with raw, radiating waves of fury, "is she doing here? Why is she on your lap, Daniel?"

"She’s at work, obviously," Daniel said, his voice maddeningly calm. He finally let go of my waist, allowing me to scramble to my feet, though he didn't look bothered at all.

"Can’t you see?"

Stella’s face went through a spectrum of colors before settling on a deadly, porcelain white. She didn't scream. Instead, a slow, venomous smirk curled her red lips. She saw the apron. She saw the notepad. She saw the power dynamic shift back into her favor.

"At work? Oh, of course," Stella purred, sliding into the opposite side of the booth. "My mistake. I forgot that some people actually have to serve to survive."

She looked at me like I was a stain on the floor. "Well, don't just stand there, 'Kitten.' I'm parched."

She grabbed the glass of expensive red wine Daniel had apparently ordered before I arrived and took a dainty sip. Then, with a flicker of her wrist that was entirely too fast to be an accident, she tilted the glass.

The dark red liquid splashed across the front of my white uniform, soaking through the fabric and stinging the raw scratches on my chest from yesterday. I gasped, the coldness of the wine making me flinch.

"Oops," Stella giggled, though her eyes were narrowed into predatory slits. "My hand slipped. You’re just so... distracting. Go clean that up and bring me a Cobb salad. No onions. No croutons. And make sure the dressing is on the side."

I gritted my teeth, my hands curling into fists. "Fine."

I retreated to the kitchen, changed my shirt in record time, and brought out the salad. I barely set it down before she pushed it back so hard the plate nearly flew off the table.

"I said no onions," she snapped, pointing at a microscopic sliver of green. "Are you illiterate as well as pathetic? Take it back. And bring me a sparkling water. With exactly three ice cubes. Not four. Not two. Three."

For the next twenty minutes, she turned the diner into her personal torture chamber. The steak was "too tough." The water was "too warm." The napkins weren't "crisp enough."

Each time, I had to walk back and forth, my ribs screaming with every step, while Daniel sat there, silent, watching the two of us like he was observing a fascinating experiment.

"Actually," Stella said, her voice dripping with a mock thoughtfulness that made my skin crawl.

She pushed her third untouched plate of greasy fries toward the edge of the table with a manicured nail.

"I have changed my mind. This all looks... unhygienic. I want a black coffee. In a clean mug, if that’s even possible in this dump. And Ivory? Do try to be quick. Daniel and I have actual plans."

She leaned back, looking at Daniel for a sign of alliance, a smirk playing on her red lips.

But Daniel wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking at the menu. His gaze was fixed on the red wine stain still visible on my collar....the stain she had put there. He sat there like a spectator at a gladiator match, silent, lethal, and entirely unbothered by the cruelty unfolding in front of him.

I stood there, the heavy plastic tray shaking in my hands. The twenty minutes of being her personal footstool walking back and forth on bruised ribs, enduring the "oops" wine spill, and watching Daniel play the silent judge finally hit a wall.

Something in my chest didn't just hurt anymore. It burned.

It was a dark, searing heat that traveled from the soles of my feet to my throat.

It was the "whispers" finally turning into a roar. I realized in that moment that to Daniel, I was just a toy. To Stella, I was a footstool.

I was done being both.

I didn't turn toward the kitchen. I didn't go get the coffee.

Instead, I took the tray and slammed it down onto the Formica tabletop with a thunderous CRACK that echoed off the grease stained walls like a gunshot.

The salt and pepper shakers toppled over, and the half empty glass of water Stella was so proud of rattled violently.

The entire diner went dead silent. Mr. Clover froze at the register. Gav poked his head out from the kitchen, his jaw dropping.

I leaned over the table, my shadow eclipsing Stella’s bright, platinum hair. I didn't care about the job. I didn't care about the consequences. I just wanted the poison out.

"What exactly do you want from me, Miss Stella?"

My voice wasn't high or shaky. It was low, vibrating with a primal power that made the air in the booth feel heavy. Stella flinched, her eyes widening as she pressed her back against the vinyl seat.

"Excuse me?" she stammered, her "Queen Bee" mask flickering.

"You want the food? You want the service? Or do you just want to see how much more you can kick me before I stop standing back up?" I leaned in closer, my face inches from hers. I could smell her expensive perfume, and it nauseated me.

"Because I’m done. The kitchen is closed for you. Pick up your own trash and get out of my sight."

I shifted my gaze to Daniel. He was leaning back now, his green eyes blown wide, his nostrils flaring as he took in the sight of me finally standing my ground. There was no pity in his expression—only a dark, terrifying fascination.

"And you," I hissed, looking him dead in the eye. "If you wanted a show, you should’ve gone to the movies. Stop looking for me, Daniel. Stop calling me Kitten. Because I am not yours, and I am definitely not her playing toy too."

I stood up straight, my heart drumming a war beat against my ribs. I felt tall. I felt dangerous.

"I'm going on my break," I announced to the silent room.

I turned on my heel and walked toward the back, leaving the "Golden Boy" and his "Queen" sitting in the ruins of their own game. Stella thought she was the hunter, but for the first time, she looked like the one afraid of being bitten.