Page 147 of Bleed

By the time he pulls his wrist away from my mouth, the punctures from his fangs have already reduced to tiny pinpricks, his skin knitting itself back together right before my eyes. I marvel at it, then his hand wraps around my throat and he starts fucking me even harder, that pulsing energy in me building and building until it explodes. The next thing I know, I’m coming again, so hard I see stars.

He follows me right over the edge of bliss, filling my ass with his release as a low groan rattles from his chest. He keeps thrusting until he’s emptied, then gently pulls out and collapses next to me on the bed, slinging an arm around my waist and dragging me on top of him.

We’re both panting, trembling with aftershocks as he cradles me against his chest, holding me close like I’m something precious.

“You did so well,” he praises, sweeping loose strands of hair off my sticky forehead with his fingertips, then pressing a kiss to the crown of my head.

I nuzzle into him, too exhausted to speak, and just let him hold me until the world stops spinning. There’s blood on my lips, sweat cooling on my skin, and a strange new power thrumming through my veins.

I’ve never felt more alive.

He strokes my hair until my breathing slows, then I lift my head to gaze up at him. For the first time, I see Elliott Faulkner completely undone.

His mouth is smeared red, eyes so dark they’re almost black, hair deliciously disheveled. He looks… wild. Haunted. Beautiful. He stares back at me like he can’t believe I’m alive; that I even exist. It’s the way every woman dreams of being looked at by a man, and to have that aimed at me…

An ache blooms beneath my ribs, my throat tightening.

If this is what being possessed feels like, maybe I don’t mind being a little less free.

Elliott reaches up, cups my face in his hand, and just holds it there. Then he tucks me under the blankets and wraps himself around me, like a shield against the rest of the world.

My last thought before I drift off is that maybe this is what my version of happy looks like. Messy, violent, a little fucked up, but real.

And finally, finally, mine.

Chapter

Thirty-One

ELLIOTT

The wine pours from the bottle in a thin stream of garnet, catching the pendant lights above the kitchen island as it splashes against the curved glass of the decanter. I rotate my wrist slowly as I empty it, careful not to disturb the sediment collected at the bottom.

A 1971 Romanée-Conti.

I’ve had it for more than half a century.

There have been occasions over the years when I considered opening it. Awards, scientific breakthroughs, the Nobel. Each time, I decided against it. The bottle felt too rare, too valuable, too difficult to replace for an accomplishment that ultimately felt trivial.

Tonight feels different.

For the first time, I woke beside my bonded.

Beatrix is down the hall, relaxing in the bath– or she was until approximately twenty minutes ago, when I heard the water drain and her bare feet begin their restless pacing across her bedroom floor.

A smile threatens the corner of my mouth as I set the empty bottle aside.

I can think of no better occasion to finally enjoy it.

The door to her bedroom swings open, and Beatrix emerges from the hall a few seconds later, finger-combing her short dark hair away from her face. She’s wearing a loose t-shirt that falls halfway down her thighs, her legs bare beneath it, skin still slightly flushed from the bath. There’s a distinct vitality to her movements– she practically vibrates with energy as she struts toward me.

“How was the bath?” I ask.

“Good,” she breathes, fingers still raking absently through the damp ends of her hair.

“Did it relax you?”

“A little.” She stops at the opposite end of the kitchen island, rocking onto the balls of her feet, then back onto her heels. “I don’t know. I just have this weird energy.”