Page 31 of Bleed

Heat instantly prickles beneath my skin. “Are you calling me stupid?” I snap, jerking upright.

“No,” he replies evenly, lifting the glass from the counter and swirling the blood around inside. “Just stating facts.”

I scoff, gaping at him.

Because seriously, what the fuck is this guy’s problem?

He raises the glass to his lips and drains half of it in one long swallow, his throat working as he drinks. My gaze lingers on the sharp line of his jaw and the way his mouth wraps around the rim of the glass, something twisting low in my belly. When he finishes, he licks a trace of crimson from his lower lip and turns to head for the sink, seemingly oblivious to the way I can’t stop ogling him.

“Are you ready to get to work?” he murmurs absently, rinsing his glass in the sink.

“Huh?”

He glances back at me over his shoulder. “Did Francesca neglect to mention the position as my research assistant?”

“She mentioned it,” I say slowly. “But… it’s nine at night.”

He shuts off the faucet and turns to face me fully. “I’m nocturnal.”

I just stare at him.

“I sleep during daylight hours and am active at night,” he clarifies.

“I know what nocturnal means,” I huff, stabbing my fingers through my hair.

“Then shall we?” He gestures toward the floating staircase.

Part of me wants to tell him to go to hell.

The other part desperately wants to see what’s upstairs, if only to get the full lay of the land and gawk at more fancy-ass rooms. Because if the first level of this place has a movie theater, a wine cellar, and a creepy blood room, I can only imagine what other rich-vampire-weirdo shit is lurking on the second floor.

“Fine,” I concede, shoving up from the couch.

The dramatic effect is immediately ruined by the headrush that hits me halfway to standing.

“Oh– shit.”

I sway sideways, but before I can even blink, Dr. Faulkner moves.

One second he’s across the room, and the next he’s directly in front of me, his vampire speed eating up the distance so fast my brain can barely process it. A large hand closes around my elbow, steadying me before I can topple over.

I inhale sharply, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through me.

He smells ridiculously good. Clean and masculine, like soap and sandalwood and some kind of expensive cologne. I blink up at him, momentarily dazed by how close he suddenly is.

He’s huge. Not just tall, but solid and strong, undeniably powerful. With one flick of his wrist, he could probably snap my arm like a twig, but strangely enough, I’m not scared. Even though the intensity in those dark eyes says I absolutely should be.

He studies me in silence, dark eyes fixed on my face with unnerving focus. “Your pupils are dilated,” he murmurs. “Your balance is impaired, your reaction time is delayed, and your speech patterns have become slightly less coherent.” His thumb shifts against my elbow as he tilts his head slightly, observing me like a bug under a microscope. “Are you drunk?”

“What? No!” I reply defensively, yanking my arm from his grip and taking a wobbly step backward.

He watches me closely, arching a brow. “You’re lying.”

“No I’m not, I–”

Before I can finish the sentence, he vanishes. A blur of movement cuts across the room as he zips back to the kitchen island, inspecting the wine bottles with frightening efficiency. He lifts each of them, calculating.

The first two are nearly full since I abandoned them after a couple sips.