Page 62 of Bleed

The system was originally designed as a precaution, though over the years it’s proven useful for reasons beyond its intended purpose. If experience has taught me anything, it’s that bloodlust follows a predictable pattern. Remove temptation, eliminate opportunity, and wait for the worst of it to pass. The solution is inelegant, but effective.

For a time, I pace. Gradually, the tension begins to ease.

My fangs retract and the red haze recedes from the edges of my vision. The predatory instincts remain, but they settle back into the familiar cage I've spent the better part of a century constructing around them.

The physical response is manageable.

The mental component is another matter entirely.

I start for the side wall of my bedroom, where a concealed panel functions as a door to the adjacent room. A light press releases the latch, and I step through.

The room beyond is dark, save for the glow of several monitors mounted along the far wall. Sinking onto the leather sofa facing them, I pick up the remote.

Each screen displays a live video feed from somewhere within the penthouse. The cameras were installed before I even moved in– given the sensitive nature of my research, it would be irresponsible not to monitor the property. Most days, the footage serves little purpose beyond confirming that nobody has broken in, stolen anything, or wandered somewhere they shouldn’t while I’ve been asleep. Lately, however, I’ve found myself reviewing it with increasing frequency.

It’s a habit I should probably examine more closely. Instead, I switch to the living room feed and watch Beatrix Hamilton.

Night after night, I find myself returning here, observing the portions of her day that don’t overlap with mine. I’ve become familiar with her routines. The hours she spends sketching by the windows, the way she paces when she’s frustrated. The tendency she has to fill silence with noise, whether through music, television, or sheer stubborn refusal to sit quietly with her own thoughts for more than a few minutes.

She dislikes being alone.

Or perhaps she simply dislikes quiet.

I’m still gathering data.

What began as idle curiosity has gradually evolved into something more concerning. I know which cabinets she opens most often in the kitchen; which spot on the couch she gravitates toward when she’s tired. I’ve watched her withdraw into herself, then fight her way back out again through force of will alone, as though stillness itself is something she refuses to surrender to.

None of this information serves any practical purpose, but that fact has done little to discourage me from collecting it.

The bathroom remains the lone exception– there are no cameras, microphones, or surveillance of any kind in her en-suite. I’ve considered changing that. The fact I’ve considered it at all is probably reason enough not to.

Currently she’s in the living room, still occupying the same corner of the couch where I left her. One slim bronze leg is tucked beneath her, a half-empty wine glass dangling loosely from her fingers as the television drones on in the background.

I watch her take another drink, then my gaze drifts lower, tracing the familiar patterns of ink winding across her skin. I’ve long since memorized them. The floral piece on her thigh, the script along her ribs… the small constellation hidden behind her ear that only becomes visible when she tucks her hair back.

A completely useless collection of information.

I retain it anyway.

With the press of a button, the camera zooms closer, zeroing in on her face. Her brow is furrowed, her jaw tight. She appears annoyed– likely with me.

I find myself studying her expression longer than necessary, watching as she takes another sip of wine. When she lowers the glass, her tongue darts out to lick her plush lips, and something stirs deep within me.

The first time I saw Beatrix Hamilton was at a donor gala months ago. That night, I paid little attention to the fact that my gaze kept returning to her. Hundreds of people had attended that event, so statistically speaking, my attention had to land somewhere.

Then I saw her again. And again. Eventually, coincidence became difficult to argue, and having her here has only compounded the issue.

I never behaved this way with my previous donors. Every live-in arrangement I entered was purely for appearances sake, since nobody ever questions the feeding habits of a vampire with an exclusive donor. The donors were intelligent, discreet, and capable of assisting in the laboratory, making it a matter of convenience and efficiency.

The arrangement benefited both parties, and beyond that, I gave very little thought to what they did with their time. Most maintained a healthy distance. They were wary of me, as they should have been.

Beatrix, however, seems entirely incapable of respecting boundaries.

She inserts herself into matters that don’t concern her, asks questions she’d be better off not knowing the answers to, and wanders into rooms she has no business entering. Even when I’m attempting to focus on something else entirely, she somehow manages to occupy a portion of my attention.

The situation is becoming increasingly difficult to justify. While there are obvious solutions, I’ve yet to implement any of them.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I remove my glasses and set them aside. I can see perfectly well without them.