Page 70 of Bleed

I flash him a smile that’s all teeth. “Isn’t that my job as a research assistant?”

He eyes me skeptically, clearly not buying it.

Damn vampires and their unnervingly good lie detectors.

“Come on,” I coax, batting my lashes as I step closer. “Help a girl out.”

His expression doesn’t budge, lips pressed together in a hard line.

“You can even earn brownie points from our boss by filling a couple blood bags for him,” I suggest as I hook my arm through his and start steering him toward the lounge.

Albert plants his feet for half a second before reluctantly allowing himself to be dragged along.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he mutters.

“Sure it is.” I grin over at him. “You said he likes it fresh, right?”

“Well yeah, but there’s an order to these things,” he grumbles, dragging his feet.

“It’s just blood,” I say flippantly.

“It’s protocol.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

He blinks. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Absolutely nothing.” I beam. “I thought we were just saying words that didn’t matter.”

He heaves a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are exhausting.”

“I’ve been called worse,” I quip, smirking. “Loosen the fuck up, Albie. I’m here to be a blood donor. Drawing my blood is literally part of your job description.”

With another resigned sigh, he follows me into the lounge. He still doesn’t seem convinced that this is a good idea, but apparently decides arguing with me is the greater of two evils, pausing at the supply chest for the briefest moment before pulling open the top drawer.

“Have a seat,” he mutters, already reaching for a pair of latex gloves.

I flop onto the cushy sofa, draping an elbow over the armrest while Albert lays out his supplies on the coffee table with practiced efficiency.

Alcohol wipe. Tourniquet. Needle. Two empty blood bags.

Everything has a place, each movement so precise that it almost reminds me of watching Elliott work in the lab. Maybe vampires share traits with their offspring– or maybe Albert’s just been around Elliott so long that he’s picked up the doctor’s habits. Either way, I kinda hate that I even notice.

Albert crouches beside me, extending a hand. “Arm.”

“Bossy,” I cluck, offering it to him.

He gives me a withering look, but proceeds nonetheless– and to his credit, he wasn’t lying when he said he’s good at poking people. I barely feel the needle slide into my vein. A ribbon of crimson immediately snakes through the clear tubing, flowing into the waiting pouch. He keeps his attention fixed on his work, occasionally adjusting the tubing or checking the flow.

Once the first bag is full, he clamps the line with a practiced flick of his wrist before swapping in the second pouch. It’s all professional and efficient… at least at first.

Somewhere during the second bag, I notice the change.

Albert’s breathing deepens, his pupils widening. His gaze lingers on my blood as it pools inside the pouch, a crease forming between his brows like he’s fighting some internal battle with himself.

When the second bag is finally full, he blindly reaches for the cap, accidentally knocking it off the coffee table.

“Shit,” he mutters as it bounces off the rug and rolls across the floor.