Page 105 of Bleed

“It’s Bex,” I whisper.

Something that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle rumbles through his chest. “I know.”

I don’t remember much after that. Just the soft press of his lips to my forehead, and warmth of him cradling me against his chest as the world slowly fades out.

Chapter

Twenty-Three

ELLIOTT

She moves differently around me now.

It’s subtle, but I see it in the looseness of her posture, the slow roll of her hips when she walks, the way she lingers in doorways as though deliberately giving me time to stare. Whenever she catches me looking, she simply smirks, every inch the victorious little minx who finally got her way.

I suppose she did, in a sense.

But so did I.

My world has always been meticulously controlled, every variable accounted for and every potential threat neutralized before it can disrupt the system. Beatrix, however, is an unpredictable element; a free radical who seems determined to destabilize everything around her. Endlessly frustrating, and undeniably addictive.

For so long, I’ve simply watched her. Wanted her. Convinced myself I couldn’t have her, and that if I allowed myself to indulge, I’d lose control and break her.

I didn’t. She’s far stronger than she appears.

What I failed to anticipate was that having her would only make the fascination worse.

It’s been a week since she signed the addendum to our contract. In that time, we’ve spent more hours in the playroom than we have in the laboratory– a ratio I’m well aware is becoming problematic. I’ve told myself it’s a temporary shift, a phase that will naturally taper once the novelty wears off.

So far, the opposite has occurred. Every encounter leaves me sated for a few hours at most. Then the hunger returns, sharper than before.

I’ve caught her examining the bruises blooming across her thighs, the fading impressions of my fingers on her hips, the faint shadow around her throat from where my hand closed around it two nights ago. She makes no attempt to hide her satisfaction in being marked.

Neither do I.

There’s something deeply gratifying about seeing evidence of myself left behind on her skin; something primitive and possessive that I have no interest in examining too closely. But there’s still one mark she wants that I refuse to give her.

My bite.

On that point, I haven’t wavered. I may trust myself with her body now, but her blood is another matter entirely. Sex is an appetite I can control. Bloodlust is something far more primitive, and I know better than most what happens when it overrides reason. Which is why I’ve resolved to keep my fangs out of her, regardless of how frequently she tries to tempt me otherwise.

Tonight, fortunately, she seems content to torment me in other ways.

She’s sitting across the laboratory behind the computer, swaying her sock-clad feet beneath the stool as she enters data from the open notebook beside her. I’m working through a fresh batch of samples, though my attention keeps drifting from the task at hand to her.

If I make it through the evening without abandoning my research to carry her off to the playroom, it’ll be a miracle.

She hums to herself, stretching her arms over her head until her sweater rides up to expose a strip of bare midriff. Then she glances back over her shoulder as if she already knows she’ll find me watching, a smirk curling her lips.

“You’re staring again,” she says, voice lilting as she draws out the words.

I don’t bother denying it. “You’re naturally distracting.”

She rolls her eyes, sliding off the stool and padding across the room toward me. She’s wearing shorts and an oversized sweater that slouches off one shoulder, exposing the ink that drifts from her neck down the curve of her collarbone. I clock the fresh bruise on the crest of her thigh– my handprint, already fading, but still present. The sight makes my fangs ache, a hot pulse of need sparking low in my abdomen.

“You could at least try to act like you enjoy having me here,” she teases, pausing to watch as I pipette a sample from a slender glass tube.

I glance at her over the rim of my glasses. “Who says I don’t?”