Page 78 of Bleed

“That’s it?” I ask.

He shrugs. “That’s it.” Then he turns, stepping into the hallway. “Have fun tonight.”

Before I can ask him what the hell any of that is supposed to mean, he pulls the door closed behind him. The latch clicks into place, leaving me alone with a beautiful dress and a hundred unanswered questions.

Chapter

Eighteen

ELLIOTT

Decades ago, I’d have considered it an immense honor to be selected for an award from the National Science Board. Now, I’ve accumulated enough accolades that surrendering an evening to receive another feels more like an obligation than a privilege.

I’m not sure when the excitement of being recognized for my achievements gave way to indifference. Probably when I realized acknowledgement changes nothing about the work itself. A discovery remains a discovery whether it’s applauded or ignored, and awards are an exercise in vanity– one I wasn’t always immune to.

Public recognition initially proved more intoxicating than I anticipated. Invitations to exclusive events became routine; my social calendar was filled with galas, interviews, and magazine cover shoots. I was named one of the city’s most eligible– and dangerous– bachelors. After spending half a century hiding in the shadows, the attention was gratifying. Once vampires became public knowledge, I was finally able to publish under my own name rather than hiding behind shell identities, and the media promptly transformed me into an overnight sensation: the vampire who cured cancer.

I embraced it. Indulged in it. Wasted nearly a decade on parties, publicity, and women before recognizing the distraction for what it was. None of it made the work better. None of it brought me any closer to the reason I’d begun it in the first place.

Science was never about recognition.

It was about restitution.

Bettering humanity instead of harming it. Saving lives in a futile attempt to atone for all the ones I’d taken. Some equations cannot be balanced, but that doesn’t absolve me of the responsibility to keep trying.

So, I withdrew from the public eye. Refocused on my work. Came to appreciate a quieter existence.

Beatrix, however, doesn’t strike me as someone who’d make the same choice. She seems to flourish under attention, carrying herself with an easy confidence that only grows when all eyes are on her. I suspect she’ll enjoy tonight far more than I will. She certainly appeared excited when the dress arrived.

Upon waking this evening, I proceeded with my usual routine, heading directly to the surveillance room to review her day. I saw Albert deliver the garment bag to Beatrix, then watched her expression shift as she unveiled it. She seemed pleased with the gown, and it appears to have turned out even better than the designer’s original sketches.

I approved every stage of its construction. The fabric, the embroidery, the cut of the neckline and the height of the slit. I supplied her measurements myself based on her file from Bite, correcting the designer when he questioned whether she was truly as petite as they indicated.

The exchange irritated me more than it should have. Every reminder of her size inevitably leads to the same conclusion– that she’s fragile, and I’m not a man who can afford to forget it.

I stopped watching before she tried the dress on. After being so involved with its design, it only seemed right to enjoy the full reveal in person.

I’m in a new tuxedo, black on black, my glasses resting on the bridge of my nose and a diamond-encrusted watch encircling my wrist. Loathing the event itself is no excuse for appearing unkept, and I’ll undoubtedly be photographed. This time, however, it’ll be with my new source on my arm.

Her attendance serves a practical purpose. A public appearance solidifies my claim, establishing that she’s spoken for. I find a certain satisfaction in that. What I don’t like is the thought of sharing her with the public. If it were entirely up to me, I’d keep her here, all to myself.

I often fantasize about it. Locking her up, throwing away the key, and feeding directly from her veins whenever I please. Touching her without having to question whether my restraint will hold, exploring every inch of her body without having to worry about breaking it. Taking everything she has to offer without the concern of losing control.

Of course, it’s fantasy.

She’s a wild thing. She’d never be content to be kept, and I have no desire to break that part of her. Quite the opposite. It’s one of her qualities I find most… compelling. And even if she chose to stay, I couldn’t touch her the way I want to. But the fantasy persists regardless.

When I come downstairs, the main living space is empty, so I head toward Beatrix’s bedroom. Pausing outside her door, I listen carefully to the sounds from inside and quickly determine that she’s still getting ready– so rather than interrupting, I turn away and retreat back down the hall.

The wine cellar offers a welcome distraction. My fingers trail over the labels until they settle on a vintage merlot, sliding it from the top rack. I bring it into the kitchen, uncork the bottle, and pour it into the decanter. By the time I allow it to breathe, fill two glasses, and take my first sip, the familiar ritual has slowed my circular thoughts into something resembling order.

Then Beatrix emerges from the hall, and every coherent thought leaves me.

I knew precisely how the gown was intended to fit her, but I was unprepared for the reality. She’s a vision– the embroidered dahlias shimmer with every step she takes, the black fabric molding to the soft curve of her breasts before drawing in at her waist and skimming over her hips. The slit parts with each measured step, offering fleeting glimpses of bronze thigh before the fabric settles again.

My gaze follows the movement despite knowing better, and she catches me staring. Her eyes flick from the wine bottle, to the glass in my hand, then back to my face, one corner of her mouth curling upward.

“Well look who’s dipping into the stash,” she remarks, her plum painted lips settling into a knowing smirk.