Page 35 of Bleed

“Right?” I sigh, throwing up a hand. “Thank you.”

She laughs harder.

“Apparently he thinks I’m too fragile for his big vampire dick.” I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “Can you believe that?”

“Honestly?” Taylor muses. “A little bit. Sex with vampires is intense, and you’re like, pocket-sized. Dr. Faulkner’s all about facts and figures. He probably did the math and decided you’d die.”

I snort, instantly regretting it when my head pulses in agony. “That’s offensive,” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “But I’m too hungover to argue right now, so we’ll agree to disagree on this one.”

The worst part is, she’s probably right.

Not about me dying, but about Dr Faulkner doing the math. The man strikes me as the type to calculate something as benign as the optimal angle for sitting in a chair.

“Seriously though,” Taylor says, amusement still coloring her voice. “He actually turned you down?”

“Yep. So not only is he weird as fuck, but he’s also insane. I’m now convinced James set this whole thing up just to torture me.”

“Aw, he wouldn’t do that,” Taylor coos.

Except yeah, he totally would.

“C’mon, it can’t be that bad,” she continues placatingly. “At least he’s nice to look at.”

“He’s… objectively attractive,” I murmur.

“Mhmm.”

“Shut up.”

Taylor barks a laugh. “Well, we can discuss it on Saturday when you’re out of hangover hell.”

I frown at my reflection. “Saturday?”

“Yeah, Elliott’s coming over for his monthly check-in with me and James. I just assumed you’d come with since you’re his donor now.”

“Sure,” I agree easily, not about to turn down a chance to escape this luxury holding cell and put in some quality time with my bestie. “I’m down.”

“Try not to kill each other before then?” she teases.

“No promises,” I mutter.

We say our goodbyes and hang up, silence immediately slamming down on me. I’m quick to queue up a playlist on my phone, the pounding in my head with every beat of the music a sacrifice worth making to fill the oppressive quiet.

I strip down and turn on the shower, cranking the water as hot as my skin can tolerate and hoping I’ll somehow be able to wash off this hangover.

Almost as soon as I step inside, my fingers drift between my legs. Elliott might’ve turned me down last night, but a bitch has needs. My fingers circle my clit, my mind rudely conjuring up an image of the bastard himself. I come embarrassingly quickly, bracing a hand against the shower wall as I try and fail to swallow my moan.

Oh well. Not like he’s awake to hear it anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, I emerge with wet hair plastered to my cheeks and a vague sense of having been reborn into a slightly less terrible version of myself. The hangover’s still there, but it’s at least manageable.

I wander out into the kitchen while still towel-drying my hair, pulling open the fridge to find…

Blood.

A single row of bags with color-coded caps for type, and absolutely nothing else.

“Oh, fuck me,” I sigh, slamming the fridge closed and crossing to the kitchen island.