Page 55 of Bleed

And just like that, it’s over. The argument, the fallout, whatever weird vampire dominance contest just played out right in front of me. Taylor takes a sip of her wine. James reaches for his fork. Elliott picks up his napkin again.

The world resumes turning.

Meanwhile, I’m left staring down at my plate with absolutely no idea what to do with the fact that Elliott Faulkner just broke a wine glass defending me. And I hate how good it felt.

The rest of the dinner passes more quietly after that. Taylor and I finish most of our meals while the vampires continue their collective mission to move food around their plates without actually eating it. Conversation drifts to safer topics, and by the time dessert comes and goes, the tension has mostly faded.

Afterward, Taylor drags me off to the study under the pretense that it’s where James keeps the good whiskey. The excuse is about as subtle as a brick through a window, but the guys respect it, and I appreciate the chance to finally talk one-on-one.

The study is warm and dimly lit, lined with built-in bookshelves and furnished with leather sofas that look even more expensive than the one Alaia bought.

“So, what’s really going on with you?” Taylor asks once we’re settled in on the sofa with fresh drinks in hand.

I stare down at the amber liquid in my glass, swirling it slowly. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” she snorts. “I’ve known you long enough to recognize when something’s wrong.”

I roll my eyes, lifting my glass with one hand and flipping her the bird with the other. The whiskey coats my tongue, blazing a path down my throat and settling warm in my belly.

“Bex,” she presses, bumping her knee into mine.

The movement jostles my hand, whiskey splashing against my lips. I cut her a glare as I lower my glass, licking it away.

“You want the truth?” I ask, knowing full well how ridiculous it’ll sound once I say it out loud, but fuck it– maybe I need to get it off my chest.

She arches a brow expectantly, waiting for me to continue.

“I’m bored out of my fucking mind, Tay,” I groan. “Every day’s the same. I wake up, wander around the penthouse all day, and at night I have to work in the stupid lab, transferring stupid data to a stupid spreadsheet. I could handle it if I was getting some hot vampire sex out of the deal, but the dude’s got zero interest in anything other than science bullshit. Pretty sure he thinks I’m a complete idiot since I don’t understand any of it.”

I sit up straighter, gesturing to myself. “I mean, I’m hot, right? Other vamps have paid a small fortune to fuck me, but he looks at me like I’m furniture. Unless I’m drinking his wine, which I keep doing just to piss him off because then I at least get some sort of reaction out of him. The man’s a total robot. I could walk around naked and he probably wouldn’t even notice.”

Taylor blinks at me, evidently caught off guard by my tirade.

“And he won’t bite me,” I add, throwing up a hand dramatically. “That’s like, the base urge of vampires, but apparently even drinking my blood is beneath him.”

“There’s gotta be more to the biting thing,” she murmurs, furrowing her brow.

“No, I think it’s pretty damn clear.” I take a long pull from my whiskey glass even though I’m now well past buzzed and firmly in drunk territory.

She clucks her tongue, shaking her head. “I’m also not buying the part about him looking at you like you’re furniture. I mean, maybe that’s how it seems to you, but from an outsider’s perspective…” she trails off, shifting toward me on the sofa. “He actually looks at you, Bex. Like, full eye contact. I’ve known Elliott for months, and he barely makes eye contact with anyone. Half the time I can’t tell whether he even realizes other people are in the room, but when you’re there, he’s always watching.”

I pause to consider that for a moment, thinking back to dinner. To the way his eyes kept finding mine. To the way they always seem to find mine.

He doesn’t just make eye contact, he practically assaults me with it. That stare of his is uncomfortable, intense, and impossible to ignore, but I’ve always interpreted it as him looking through me, not at me.

“Trust me,” she continues. “He never looks at anyone, but he looks at you.”

I frown down into my whiskey glass, finding her perception of things even more frustrating than my own. Because if he’s rejecting me, at least I understand the rules. But if he’s not…

Then I have absolutely no idea what to do with that.

“That doesn’t explain the whole not biting me thing,” I grumble.

“No, it doesn’t.” She chews on her lower lip. “But I don’t think it has anything to do with you.”

“So what is it, then?”

“Don’t know,” she replies, tipping her head in contemplation. “There must be something we’re missing.”