Page 30 of Bleed

One dark brow arches. His gaze drifts over me slowly, assessing me in a way that almost feels clinical.

I fold my arms as I await his response, my skin prickling as his dark eyes comb over every inch of exposed skin– a lot, since I threw on a tiny pair of lounge shorts and a cropped tank top after my bath– but he doesn’t say a word. He just… stares.

And I might stare back a little.

Because holy hell, I forgot how good Elliott Faulkner looks up close.

He’s even taller than I remember. Six and a half feet, give or take, making me feel puny by comparison. The white t-shirt he’s wearing stretches taut over his thick shoulders and broad chest, clinging to his toned physique, and his gray sweatpants are riding so low on his hips it borders on indecent. Seeing him in a tailored suit at the gala was one thing, but seeing him like this is disarming.

Casual. Barefoot. His chestnut hair is still mussed from sleep, his glasses sitting slightly askew on the bridge of his nose like he shoved them on in a hurry before creeping downstairs to prowl up on me.

Shit, I think I might suddenly have a thing for hot nerds with slutty glasses.

Except he still hasn’t explained himself, and this weird staring contest is getting real awkward, real fast.

“Well?” I scoff, cocking a hip.

His gaze snaps up to lock with mine. “Did you ask a question?”

“I…” I trail off, frowning as I try to remember what the hell even left my mouth after he snuck up and scared the crap out of me. The wine definitely isn’t helping my mental recall. “No,” I finally admit. “But most people apologize when they almost give someone a damn heart attack.”

His eyes drift down to my chest– not in a pervy way, but hyper-focused. Like he’s tracking the rapid rise and fall of my breathing beneath my threadbare tank top.

“Your pulse is elevated,” he murmurs, “but you don’t appear to be experiencing shortness of breath or other symptoms consistent with myocardial infarction.” His gaze sharpens behind the lenses of his glasses. “Do you have chest pain or discomfort? Nausea? Dizziness?”

I stare at him. “No,” I say flatly. “I didn’t mean a literal heart attack, I…” I huff out a breath and wave a hand. “You know what I mean.”

He tilts his head again, dark eyes fixed on me with unnerving intensity. “You’re upset.”

“No, I’m annoyed,” I fire back defensively. “Can you just, like, not sneak up on me like that?”

“Okay.” He dips his chin in a nod, then turns on a heel and strides toward the kitchen, evidently finished with our conversation.

I’m definitely not, but the view of his ass in those sweatpants as he walks away derails my irritation almost instantly.

The man clearly spends a lot of time in the home gym Albert showed me earlier. His back muscles ripple beneath his t-shirt with every step, his shoulders and arms toned to perfection. It should honestly be illegal for someone so socially dysfunctional to look so damn good.

Dr. Faulkner heads straight for the refrigerator, pulling open the sleek stainless steel door and retrieving one of the blood bags from the top shelf. Then he sidesteps to grab a glass from the cabinet, turns back around, and stops cold when he sees the trio of wine bottles sitting on the kitchen island.

His eyes cut to mine, darkening. “You uncorked my wine.”

“Yeah, so?” I scoff, folding my arms tighter across my chest. “You have, like, a hundred bottles.”

“One hundred and forty-three,” he replies flatly. “And that’s not the point.” He sets the blood bag and glass aside, reaching for the nearest bottle and lifting it to inspect the label. “This is a ‘96 Bordeaux. Did you even decant it properly?”

“De-what-now?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

His jaw tightens a fraction. “You’re supposed to let it breathe before drinking it,” he explains, his voice clipped with restraint. “You decant it to open up the flavor profile…” he trails off as he tips the bottle, frowning at the realization that there isn’t much left in it. “Though I suppose that’s irrelevant if your intention was to consume it like fruit juice.” He exhales through his nose and sets the bottle back down on the counter. “A wine like this is meant to be savored, sipped slowly. Appreciated.”

“Oh I appreciated it alright,” I snort, rolling my eyes as I flop back down onto the couch.

He glances toward me again with obvious disapproval, then reaches for the blood bag. “If you’re not going to respect the process,” he mutters while cracking the seal open, “don’t waste the vintage.”

I eye him over the back of the couch, watching as he carefully pours the blood into his glass. It feels a little rude for him to choose cold blood from a bag when I’m right here, but I’m also not feeling particularly generous at the moment, so I don’t offer an alternative.

“My bad,” I cluck. “Albert forgot to mention you’re a wine snob.”

His gaze snaps up. “Calling expertise snobbery is usually what people do when they don’t understand something,” he says coolly.