Page 67 of Bleed

Ronnie wasn’t wrong. Vincent didn’t stumble into the shop by accident, he found me.

The realization settles like a lead weight. I close my eyes, forcing myself to take one slow breath after another. Even so, the ride home feels endless.

By the time the SUV pulls into the underground parking garage, I’m emotionally wrung out. The elevator carries me up to the penthouse in silence, and when the doors slide open, I enter to find Elliott standing in the kitchen, mixing one of his meticulously measured blood cocktails.

He glances up at the sound of my footsteps, his dark eyes finding mine immediately. They sweep over my face with the same quiet, clinical attention he gives to samples in his lab. Then his brow furrows.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I reply automatically, dropping my purse onto the kitchen island.

He lifts his glass, studying me over the rim. “You’re lying.”

I frown back at him.

I hate how he does that. Most people take things at face value, but Elliott Faulkner watches too closely. He notices the tension in my shoulders, the way I keep rubbing my hands over my arms, the fact I won’t quite meet his eyes. Whether it’s vampire instincts or whatever scientific bullshit his brain uses to dissect everything around him, I have no idea, but somehow he always manages to see straight through me.

Normally, I’d tell him to mind his own damn business.

Tonight, I’m too exhausted to bother.

I let out a slow breath. “Got a visit at the shop tonight from my vampire stalker.”

Elliott freezes with the glass halfway to his lips.

“Stalker?” he repeats, slowly lowering the glass back down to the counter.

“Yeah,” I huff. “The one who cornered me about Taylor and James. This whole source thing was supposed to fix it, but apparently he’s still following me, showing up at my fucking job.”

Something unreadable flickers across Elliott’s face before disappearing behind that infuriating composure of his. “What happened?”

I shrug, trying to play it off like less of a big deal than it felt. “He walked in as if he belonged there. Said he’d been passing by and saw me through the window.” I roll my eyes. “Bullshit, obviously.”

Elliott’s hands flatten on the counter and he leans forward, eyes darkening. “Do you know his name?”

“Vincent something,” I mutter, shaking my head. “He was a Bite client. Lives in Midtown.”

He absorbs that in silence, his gaze drifting for a fraction of a second as though he’s assembling pieces only he can see.

“I told him you claimed me,” I add, realizing I probably should’ve led with that. “That I’m your source now.”

This time, the pause lasts just a little longer. When his eyes meet mine again, they’re impossible to read.

“I see,” he says quietly, reaching for his glass again. "Perhaps you should remain closer to the penthouse for the time being."

I bark out a humorless laugh. “Well, that won't be a problem. Pretty sure I just got fired.”

One dark brow lifts as he takes a long sip from his glass. Waiting, patient as ever, as though he already knows there’s more I’ll say if he’s quiet long enough.

Normally, he’d be right, but tonight, I don’t have anything left to give.

I wave a dismissive hand, grabbing my purse from the island. “I’m just gonna take a long, hot bath and try to forget this night ever happened.”

Something in Elliott’s composure slips. His throat works around a swallow as he lowers the glass, the tip of his tongue catching a stray drop of blood from his lower lip. His gaze flicks over me, pupils widening, then he looks away so abruptly it’s almost jarring, lifting the glass for another drink.

“Good talk,” I snort, rolling my eyes as I turn toward the hallway.

I barely make it two steps before his voice stops me.