Page 25 of Bleed

This place is the nicest.

My mouth falls open before I can stop it as I step inside, my boots sinking into a rug so soft it feels illegal to walk on. My head swivels slowly while I try to take everything in at once.

It’s all clean lines and monochromatic tones, modern furniture and polished marble and expensive minimalism. The kind of place that looks professionally staged for a magazine, not like anybody actually lives here. Nothing is out of place and there’s absolutely no clutter– or personality, for that matter.

It’s gorgeous.

And also somehow a little unsettling.

My pulse ticks in my throat as I look back and forth, again and again, unable to process the fact that I get to live here now.

Well, temporarily, at least.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls me out of my spiral, and I turn toward the floating staircase near the center of the room just as a man starts descending it.

Not Dr. Faulkner.

The guy appears to be around my age– though with vampires it’s impossible to tell, and he’s got that look about him that’s distinctly immortal. Dressed in fitted slacks and a baby blue polo that matches his eyes, his blonde hair is styled in the artfully messy way that’s meant to look casual but probably takes at least forty-five minutes of commitment. Average height. Average build. Above-average face.

Unfortunately, he opens his mouth almost immediately and ruins the effect.

“Beatrix Hamilton?” he asks, his upper lip curling back from his teeth like he already disapproves of me on principle alone. “You’re late.”

I arch a brow, already unimpressed by his attitude. “I wasn’t aware we were on a schedule,” I scoff, cocking a hip. “And it’s Bex.”

He reaches the bottom step and pauses there, giving me a long once-over, his eyes lingering on my ink. “Of course it is,” he mutters.

I blink. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

His gaze flicks lazily back to mine. “Oh, nothing,” he says in a tone that absolutely implies something.

Already annoyed, I fold my arms. “And who the fuck are you?”

He straightens, lifting his chin arrogantly. “I’m Albert Greene,” he announces. “Dr. Faulkner’s personal assistant.”

“Well, Albie,” I say sweetly, “assist yourself the hell out of my way if you’re gonna be a dick.”

His mouth drops open, and for one glorious second, he looks genuinely offended. Then his eyes narrow slightly as they flick over me again, reassessing, and he fucking smiles.

“Ooh,” he muses, the corner of his mouth ticking into a smirk. “You’re gonna be fun.”

The shift is so abrupt it almost gives me whiplash. One second, he’s acting like a pretentious asshole, and the next he’s practically vibrating with golden retriever energy.

Albert rushes toward me, hooking his arm through mine like we’re sorority sisters instead of complete strangers.

“C’mon,” he chirps. “I’ll give you the tour.”

I’m so thrown by the personality switch that I actually let him drag me forward, blinking at him while he barks instructions over his shoulder to the relocation team.

“Last room down that hallway– hanging clothes in the closet, the rest in the dressers,” he rattles off. “Leave the plant in here by the window, it clearly needs the sun.”

Against my better judgment, I can already tell I like Albert. He’s bossy in the same adorably annoying way I am.

The movers disappear down the hall in the direction he indicated, and the second they’re gone, he comes to a stop and pivots dramatically toward me, blue eyes bright with enthusiasm.

“So,” he announces grandly, sweeping an arm around us. “This is the kitchen.”

I stare back at him blankly. “No shit.”