Page 84 of Bleed

The way she looks is what catches your attention, but the way she moves is what keeps it.

She doesn’t walk so much as glide, every step graceful without looking practiced. There’s an effortless femininity to her in the way she smiles, the way she laughs, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear while she’s listening to someone speak. She doesn’t have an accent– not one I can place, anyway– but there’s the faintest lilt to her voice that softens the edges of every sentence and somehow makes everything she says sound just a little bit sexier.

Suffice to say, I understand the appeal.

Whether it’s vampire allure or just who she is, there’s something magnetic about her. She’s the kind of person who makes you feel like you’re the most interesting thing in the room simply because she’s chosen to focus her attention on you. Before long, you find yourself willing to do anything to keep it.

I can see why Elliott would be attracted to her.

Hell, I’m attracted to her.

There are plenty of things I love about men– the size of their hands, the solid weight of their bodies, the blunt, uncomplicated hunger in their eyes when they want you. But women are different. Softer, more intuitive. Men hit like lightning, while women slowly draw you in until you suddenly realize you’re already standing in the middle of the storm.

By the time we sit down for dinner, I find myself hanging on Valentina’s every word, torn between admiration and outright envy.

You’d think it’d be awkward, sitting beside the vampire who claimed me as his source while making small talk with his breathtakingly gorgeous ex-girlfriend. Instead, I’m… actually having a good time.

Which is every bit as annoying as it sounds.

Valentina has a way of making conversation feel effortless. She asks about my tattoos, seeming genuinely interested in how I got into art and listening so intently that I catch myself sharing far more personal details than I would with an average stranger. When I mention one of my worst tattoo requests from a client, she laughs so hard she nearly spits out her champagne before immediately demanding to hear another.

Then she turns the conversation toward Elliott, asking about his latest research before accusing him, with mock horror, of forcing me to slave away in his lab. He’s less than amused, which only encourages us. Before long, Valentina and I are exchanging conspiratorial glances across the table, trying– and mostly failing– not to laugh every time Elliott sighs or corrects one of our increasingly ridiculous accusations. He takes it all with long-suffering patience, though I swear I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth once or twice.

It’s… fun.

Unexpectedly so.

Until Elliott leans over and murmurs something only Valentina can hear. She smiles at him slyly, answering just as quietly.

There’s nothing remarkable about the exchange. No touching, no flirting, nothing I’d think twice about if it were anyone else. But there’s an ease between them that catches me off guard; the kind that only comes from years of shared history.

And just like that, the jealousy I felt when he first introduced me to her creeps back in.

I feel it settle low in my gut, ugly and irrational, making me painfully aware that I’m the outsider at this table. The one who still has to guess what Elliott’s expressions mean while Valentina seems able to read him without trying.

I hate how inadequate it makes me feel.

Then Valentina turns her attention back to me and asks another question about the tattoo shop, blissfully unaware of my brief spiral. Within minutes, she’s laughing at another story, and somehow I’ve forgotten all over again why I was supposed to dislike her.

The two of them barely touch their food while I demolish my filet, and the serving staff continually materializes every time one of our glasses dips below half full. By the time the dinner plates disappear and dessert arrives, I’m halfway drunk on expensive champagne and even more expensive company.

Someone steps up to the podium, tapping lightly on the microphone, and a collective hush falls over the ballroom. The president of the National Science Foundation introduces himself, launching into a speech filled with words like innovation, excellence, and scientific advancement. Everyone around me seems captivated.

Meanwhile, I’m bored out of my damn skull.

I try to listen; I really do. But by the second speaker, I’ve started quietly ranking the centerpieces by which one I’d most like to steal. By the third, I’m contemplating whether I could fit one of the crystal vases under my dress without anyone noticing.

Valentina catches me staring off into space and bites back a smile.

“You look bored,” she whispers.

I heave a quiet sigh. “I am bored.”

She smiles knowingly, shaking her head. “It’ll be over soon.”

I glance toward the man still enthusiastically droning on about grant funding and scientific collaboration.

“I don’t know,” I mutter under my breath. “I think this one has another forty-five minutes in him.”