Page 21 of Bleed

“I’m kidding.” Mostly. “This is fine. Everything is fine. My life is just taking a fun little detour into gothic nonsense.”

James watches me, eyes narrowing. “You use humor when you’re frightened,” he observes.

I level him with a glare. “And you use ultimatums when you’re being an asshole, yet here we are.”

“Bex,” Taylor warns, giving me a hard look.

“What?” I scoff. “He started it with the psychoanalysis.”

James doesn’t rise to the bait– which is irritating, because baiting him is one of my few remaining hobbies. Instead, he leans forward to set his glass down, then rests his hand on Taylor’s hip. Not possessive in the performative way some men are, or for my benefit. Instinctive, like part of him always needs to be touching her to ensure she’s safe.

The gesture does something strange to my chest, softening it a little around the edges. Because for all the reasons I don’t particularly like James Devereaux, there’s never been any question as to how he feels about Taylor. He looks at my bestie like she hung the damn moon; like his entire world begins and ends with her heartbeat.

It’s disgustingly romantic.

Taylor relaxes against him, one hand absently smoothing over the front of his black button-down as if loving a bloodthirsty immortal is the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is, for her. And maybe that’s the part I’m still getting used to.

Not the mansion or the vampire king bullshit, but the fact that somehow, against all odds, Taylor found actual love. She found genuine happiness outside of the grimy little bubble we built for ourselves, and the bitch is thriving.

Getting close to vampires always seems to come with a cost, though. She’s forever bonded to James, but she’ll never be safe.

And I’m starting to realize that since we’re connected, neither will I.

Chapter

Six

Ishould’ve known James would work fast. Money always does.

He provides an overnight security detail to keep watch over my apartment building, and before noon even rolls around the following day, I receive an invitation for a meeting at Bite. Or a summons, depending on how you look at it. They give me a whole hour’s notice, but I spend most of it flopping around in bed, putting off showering until the last possible second and then hating myself for it as I rush through getting dressed and ready.

The apartment’s quiet when I emerge from my room, Devin and Alaia evidently still snoozing. I didn’t hear them come in last night, but the aftermath of their return is everywhere. Their shoes are abandoned on the living room rug, Dev’s shirt is draped over the back of the couch, and Alaia’s purse is dumped across the coffee table like she was digging through it while absolutely obliterated. Alcohol, drugs, post-orgasm haze… honestly, your guess is as good as mine.

I lock up behind me and step out onto the street, finding a black car idling at the curb.

Punctual as always.

The driver barely even glances at me when I slide into the back seat, and he doesn’t respond when I greet him, either. He’s one I recognize, but I’ve never managed to get more than three words out of the guy. Apparently, today’s not the one when he finally cracks. Even though I chatter to him all the way downtown, he stays silent the whole time, hands fixed at ten and two like he’s chauffeuring a mob boss rather than a part-time blood donor.

He drops me off in front of the Steele Holdings building– also known as Bite headquarters.

The exterior is all polished glass and towering pillars, designed to intimidate people before they even step inside. The lobby’s even more off-putting with its gleaming tile floors and chrome accents, so spotless that touching anything feels wrong. The whole atmosphere feels like a corporate nightmare, providing a perfectly unassuming cover for the illegal blood agency operating within its walls.

I give my name at the security desk, then ride the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, stepping out into Bite’s pristine white lobby. The receptionist greets me with unnerving cheerfulness before escorting me back to the office of Francesca Fox.

Fran runs things around here, and she looks every bit the part of a bitchy corporate executive. Model tall and rail-thin, with a perfect tan and glossy dark hair that never falls out of place. Her suits are always impeccably tailored, her red-bottom heels ridiculously high. The woman radiates boss bitch energy, and I both hate and envy her for it.

I enter the office to find her seated behind the minimalist glass desk, her expression smoothing into practiced professionalism the second she sees me.

“Miss Hamilton,” she greets politely, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. “Please, have a seat.”

I drop into the chair while the receptionist closes the door behind her with a soft click, sealing me inside with Blood Agency Barbie.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” I say, glancing around as I cross one leg over the other.

It’s been a while since I’ve had a meeting with Fran, but absolutely nothing about her office has changed. It’s still stark white and aggressively impersonal, as if the woman’s allergic to color and clutter.

She doesn’t acknowledge my comment. Instead, she gets right down to business, swiveling her chair toward me with a tight-lipped smile and folding her hands neatly atop the desk.