Page 45 of Bleed

His gloved hand flexes against the counter, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow. “Contact should be purposeful, not accidental,” he murmurs. “Controlled.”

Something about the way he says it sends a shiver rolling down my spine.

I think about the way he moves, the way he always keeps a measured distance. The way even something as simple as a glass of blood is consumed with ritual and control. And suddenly, I’m imagining what might happen if he did touch me on purpose. Those big hands gripping my hips, pulling me closer…

I shiver again.

He notices.

“You should stop doing that,” he mutters, his gaze dropping back to the notebook in front of him.

“Doing what?” I scoff.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking of,” he says, turning a page in his notebook, “I’d advise against it.”

I snort a laugh, not admitting to anything, but not exactly denying it, either.

“And why’s that?” I ask, lifting my chin.

For a moment, the only sound in the lab is the soft hum of machinery.

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

His eyes remain fixed on the page.

“Because,” he murmurs, “you seem to have a habit of mistaking warnings for challenges.”

I blink at him, suddenly at a loss for words. Which rarely ever happens.

The thing is, he’s not wrong. I’ve spent my entire life testing limits, crossing lines, and pushing against locked doors just to see what was on the other side. I can’t help it. It’s just who I am.

But as my gaze drifts over him, I find myself wondering exactly what it is Elliott Faulkner keeps warning me away from. And why every conversation we have only seems to leave me with more questions than when we started.

Chapter

Eleven

I’ve given myself a serious case of cabin fever.

The days and nights have started bleeding together in a way that’s becoming unsettling. I sleep when I’m tired, wake up whenever I feel like it, and spend the hours in between drifting from room to room like a ghost haunting someone else’s life. The penthouse is big enough that I never feel boxed in, but somehow that only makes it worse. There’s too much space to wander and no one to wander with.

The funny thing is, nobody’s stopping me from leaving.

Elliott never told me I couldn’t. The elevator works just fine. If I wanted to walk out tomorrow and spend the entire day wandering the city, I could– as long as I gave Elliott’s security company a heads-up so they could tail me.

But I haven’t.

I’m still here.

Just… existing.

I tell myself it’s an adjustment period– that if I leave and get a taste of the freedom I used to thrive on, I may never come back. Mostly because I don’t want to admit the real truth.

Seeing that figure in the shadows scared me a hell of a lot more than I let on.

At least here, I know I’m safe.

More importantly, I know Taylor’s safe.