Page 46 of Bleed

I may not give a damn about my own well-being most days, but I won’t gamble with hers.

By the time Saturday rolls around, I’m practically itching for a change of scenery. Turns out there’s only so long a person can spend soaking in the bath, flopping around in bed, and toiling away in a mad scientist’s laboratory before boredom starts chewing holes through their skull.

The only saving grace has been reconnecting with my art.

I finished the client piece days ago, and now I’ve filled half a sketchbook with drawings of veiny hands, haunted stares, and broad shoulders that definitely don’t belong to anyone I know. Turns out, my pent-up sexual frustration hasn’t just led to me touching myself way more often than usual. It’s also done wonders for unlocking my creativity.

Not that any of those sketches will ever see the light of day.

They’re purely a release– a way to get the forbidden images out of my head before they can evolve into something worse. Because I’m absolutely not having full-on fantasies about the elusive vampire upstairs. The one who won’t touch me, no matter how hard I try to tempt him.

It’s humiliating.

Not because I actually expect Elliott to throw me over his shoulder and drag me off to bed every time I flirt with him.

Okay, maybe a little.

But mostly because I’ve never had this problem before.

Working for Bite taught me a lot of things about myself– some of them good, some of them probably concerning. But if there’s one thing every engagement reinforced, it’s that vampires want blood. And they want me.

Maybe that’s arrogant. Maybe it’s unhealthy. Maybe Francesca would have a field day unpacking it in a Bite-funded therapy program.

I don’t really care.

I liked walking into a room and knowing I had the upper hand. I liked being wanted. Liked being the thing powerful creatures couldn’t resist.

Then Elliott came along and looked right through me.

Now, I feel less like a temptation and more like a damn houseplant– though I swear even that thing’s getting more attention from him than I am. He’s been watering it. Rotating it on the windowsill so the leaves don’t get scorched. Meanwhile, I’ve spent the better part of a week practically throwing myself at him and getting nothing but lectures about lab protocols in return.

Fuck, am I actually jealous of a plant right now?

This is exactly why I’m crashing Elliott’s little check-in dinner with Taylor and James tonight. Seeing my bestie will surely pull me out of this funk and remind me who I am outside of these walls.

I spent an hour getting dolled up for the occasion, my signature black liner winged thick around my eyes and my lips painted blood red. My backless dress is criminally short, my inked thighs on full display and my heels high enough to qualify as a hazard. I look like trouble– which is exactly what I was going for.

If I at least look like myself, maybe Taylor won’t notice how badly I’m floundering. The last thing I want is for her to feel guilty about any of this. And if dressing the part doesn’t do the trick, the wine buzz should help.

I’m on my third glass, dancing around the living room to an old rock song one of my foster parents used to play on repeat. He was a shitty father figure with an unfortunate habit of putting his hands where they didn’t belong, but his taste in music didn’t suck.

Right as the second chorus swells, the sound of a throat clearing cuts through the song.

I glance toward the staircase… and my mouth instantly runs dry.

Elliott’s standing at the top landing in a suit, one hand resting lightly on the railing.

I’ve grown so accustomed to seeing him in t-shirts and sweats that the sight of him dressed up again is genuinely arresting. His black-on-black suit is perfectly tailored, fitted enough to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and the narrow line of his waist. No tie, and the top button on his shirt is casually undone, a glimpse of his bare chest peeking through.

His gaze drifts over me slowly, and heat unfurls low in my belly, my pulse skipping.

Goddamn.

He starts down the stairs, and I force myself to snap out of whatever spell he put me under, raising my wine glass in a mock toast.

“Hey, look who’s finally awake!”

His eyes immediately flick to my glass, his mouth turning down. “Are you incapable of following simple instructions?”