Page 155 of Bleed

“Hey, Huxley!” I chirp, practically bouncing past him.

His granite face doesn’t so much as twitch as I waltz inside. Eli follows behind me, and Huxley gives him a respectful nod that he returns with equal solemnity, like two soldiers acknowledging each other across enemy lines.

Fucking weird.

“Which way?” I ask eagerly, pausing in the foyer just long enough to take in the familiar opulence.

I’ve been here enough times that the place shouldn’t impress me anymore, but it still does. Vaulted ceilings soar overhead, gold gleams from every available surface, and the massive chandelier above us scatters light across the marble floor. Thankfully, the urge to swing from it like a circus monkey has faded.

Mostly.

Huxley closes the door behind us with a soft click, then gestures silently toward the hall on the right.

I glance up at Elliott, whose expression is so deadpan he almost makes Huxley look animated. His hand comes to the small of my back, steering me in the indicated direction.

“You could at least pretend you want to be here,” I whisper, elbowing him in the side.

“I do want to be here,” he murmurs.

“Don’t lie to me.”

His gaze drops, dark eyes meeting mine through the lenses of his glasses. “I’d never lie to you, Beatrix.”

I huff and roll my eyes, but a reluctant little smile tugs at my mouth.

I’ve given up trying to correct him on the name thing. It’s always Beatrix with Elliott. Never Bex.

Coming from anyone else, my full name makes me feel like I’m either in trouble or filling out government paperwork. From him, though, I swear it sounds different. Maybe it’s the way he says it, every syllable deliberate in that deep, rich voice of his. Or maybe it’s because no one else calls me that, so hearing it from him feels weirdly intimate, like something that belongs to just us.

Whatever the reason, I stopped minding somewhere along the way.

And though I’d never admit it to him, I even kinda like it.

The farther we venture down the hall, the more obvious our destination becomes. Sounds drift toward us– the low pulse of music, the oft murmur of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter. I shift closer to Elliott on instinct, anticipation winding tighter in my belly with every step.

I’ve been hassling Taylor about inviting me to one of these ‘parties’ for months. I’m a little offended it’s taken this long, but at least we’re here now.

Elliott guides me toward a set of double doors near the end of the dark hallway, one cracked open just enough to spill a sliver of amber light across the floor. He pushes it wider with one hand, and I’m hit in the face with a flood of horny energy.

Holy shit.

The entire lounge drips with decadence. The lights are low, sultry music humming beneath the murmur of voices. The air is warm and heavy with incense, expensive perfume, and sex. A fully stocked bar occupies one corner, and an enormous bed takes up the center of the room, the remaining space filled with low sofas, velvet chairs, and sprawling cushions.

Bodies are everywhere– all shapes, sizes, and complexions. Humans and vampires mingle in various stages of undress, some drinking and talking casually as if this were any other cocktail party, while others are very clearly here for the carnal pleasures. My gaze catches on the five-way currently taking place on the bed, and my brows shoot up.

Okay, so Taylor definitely wasn’t exaggerating.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think we’d crashed the world’s most expensive brothel, but apparently this is just how the vampire elite let their hair down.

I try not to look as impressed as I feel while I take it all in.

James is easy to spot. He’s lounging on a black leather sofa near the door with Taylor sprawled across his lap, dressed in his usual black-on-black while she wears a green silk dress that molds to her curves like a second skin. Her chestnut hair spills loose around her shoulders, and she’s scanning the room with the same wide-eyed fascination I’m trying considerably harder to conceal. James, meanwhile, looks bored with everyone except the woman curled up against him.

Elliott steers us toward them, his hand never leaving the small of my back. I get the sense he’s using me as a shield against socializing, which is fine. I’m using him as a shield against feeling wildly out of place in a room full of people who probably spend more on a bottle of wine than I used to make in a year.

“Glad you could make it,” James says, his voice low but carrying easily over the music.

Elliott inclines his chin in greeting. “Beatrix insisted.”