Page 24 of Bleed

“Great,” I say, flashing her another fake smile.

She returns it perfunctorily, tipping her head. “Congratulations, Miss Hamilton.”

It takes everything in me not to laugh. “Thanks,” I mutter, tossing her a wave before heading for the door.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

If only my racing pulse would get the memo.

Chapter

Seven

Bite’s drivers are annoyingly punctual, and their relocation team is no exception. I was told they’d be here at four, and a knock comes at exactly 3:59 p.m., throwing my apartment into chaos.

Alaia hides in her room the whole time, being a Bitter Betty. Not because I’m moving out, but because I scored an exclusive donor contract, and she can’t fathom how or why I’d be offered one over her.

Shallow, but honest.

Good riddance.

Devin at least has the decency to look genuinely sad that I’m leaving, seeing me off with a subtle dig about my ratty old hoodie and a warm hug. Probably only because he still has to see me at work, but whatever. Ronnie’s keeping me on the schedule at the tattoo shop so long as I can figure out the commute and balance it with my new gig as Dr. Faulkner’s ‘research assistant’... which still sounds fake as hell every time I think about it.

My entire life is packed away in under an hour, reduced to a few cardboard boxes, two duffel bags, and my sad-looking houseplant. One of the movers eyes it like he’s debating whether it’s already dead.

Rude.

I’ve almost killed the thing at least half a dozen times, but somehow it always bounces back, its droopy leaves perking up again a few days later like it’s too stubborn to die. Guess we have that in common.

The movers haul the last of my boxes out while I linger in the doorway for a second longer, staring back into the apartment. This place feels strangely distant already. The drafty windows, the tiny kitchen. The narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms I’ve spent the past year crammed into with my roommates.

I should probably feel sentimental, but mostly, I just feel restless.

A black car waits at the curb downstairs, glossy enough to nearly blind me with the sun’s reflection bouncing off the hood. One of the relocation guys opens the back door for me, and I slip inside while the moving truck pulls out behind us.

For once, I don’t try to chat up the driver. The movers lead us through city traffic, the view outside my window slowly changing the farther we go. The neighborhoods get cleaner, the buildings larger. By the time we pull into an underground parking garage beneath a massive high-rise in the heart of downtown, my stomach’s twisting with nervous energy.

The relocation team loads my belongings onto a pair of hand carts, then leads me toward a private elevator tucked behind a marble-lined wall, one of them swiping a key fob before pressing the button labeled PH.

Penthouse.

My pulse does a stupid little stutter.

Jackpot.

I’ve daydreamed about living in a downtown penthouse more times than I can count– typically while leaving Bite engagements in ridiculous luxury apartments late at night, still wearing some obscenely expensive dress a vampire paid to peel off me. This is a little sooner than expected– and technically, the place isn’t mine– but who the hell am I to argue with luxury living?

When the elevator doors slide open on the top floor, I briefly wonder if I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Afternoon sunlight floods the entire penthouse in a blinding wash of gold, pouring in through a massive wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. For a second, all I can see is the endless blue sky and glittering glass towers stretching out in every direction below us.

Jesus Christ.

The entire rear wall of the apartment is glass. Actual fucking glass. The skyline sprawls beneath it like a living painting, sunlight flashing off distant buildings hard enough to make my eyes ache.

I’ve seen a lot of nice places since signing up as a donor for Bite. Lavish condos, historic mansions, and luxury hotel suites with bathtubs bigger than my old bedroom.

But this?