Page 136 of Bleed

She rolls her eyes, but smiles despite herself, all the sharp edges gone soft. “I’m gonna shower, then head out. Don’t wait up.”

I nod, though I have absolutely no intention of complying with that particular directive.

After watching her disappear into the hall, I flop back onto the bed, folding my arms behind my head. The room smells like sex and her, and for the first time in over a century, I feel almost content.

I stare at the ceiling as my thoughts drift over the last few days. The taste of her blood, the way her body responds to mine. The way she looked at me last night, like she still wanted me more than she feared me.

Then there’s the bond.

The possibilities.

A barrage of questions buzz through my head, each one branching into a hundred more. I’m desperate to get back to my research, to analyze the data and unravel the mysteries of what makes us compatible. To discern what, exactly, is happening between us on a biological level.

Under any other circumstances, those questions would command my full attention– but for once, something else consumes me more. Her.

Where she’s going, who she’ll be with, when she’ll be back. I want to hear her laugh and debate something inconsequential. I want her sprawled across my furniture and leaving her things where they don’t belong. I want her in my bed again.

There is one conclusion, at least, that requires no further analysis: I’ll never stop wanting her.

I lie there for another moment, staring at the ceiling.

Then, inevitably, my mind returns to my research, cataloguing what I’ll require.

Blood samples. Controls. Protocols. Variables.

All necessary to understand precisely how the impossible became possible.

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

BEX

The familiar jingle of the bell greets me like an old friend as I push through the door of the tattoo shop, a wave of warmth hitting me as I step inside. Music pulses low from the speakers, machines buzzing and the air smelling of disinfectant and fresh ink.

It immediately feels like home.

Devin’s at his station, hunched over a beefy dude’s arm with his tattoo gun firmly in his grip. The guy looks barely conscious, which is probably just as well given the full-color demon sleeve taking shape on his bicep. Ronnie’s perched on a stool at his own station, lining up a row of fresh ink pots. He glances up as I enter, the bright overhead lights reflecting off his bald head.

“There she is,” he calls, whistling at me.

Devin looks up, a grin splitting his face. “Look what the cat dragged in. I thought you were, like, dead or something.”

The joke hits a little closer to home than he realizes.

“Not yet,” I quip, heading straight for my station.

It’s been a while, but everything’s exactly where I left it. My stools, my supplies, my sketches taped to the wall around my mirror. A strange little pang hits me at the sight of it, equal parts nostalgia and relief.

Before I can dwell on it, Ronnie rises from his stool, stretches, and jerks his head toward the curtain at the back of the shop. “Bex, come chat with me for a sec.”

His tone is casual, but my stomach still does a nervous little swoop, like I’m being called to the principal’s office.

I glance at Devin, and he winks at me over his client’s shoulder, mouthing ‘good luck’.

I flip him off, then follow Ronnie through the curtain separating the main floor from the back of the shop, where the tidy aesthetic out front gives way to organized chaos. Shelves line the walls, stacked with boxes of supplies, the chemical tang of soap and bleach even stronger back here.

Ronnie gestures to a battered metal stool, then moves to lean against the shelf opposite it, folding his inked arms across his chest.