Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
I’m nothing if not resourceful, so of course I found a way to pass the time while waiting for Dr. Faulkner to crawl out of his coffin.
First, I took a bath in the giant tub. Then I flopped around in the ridiculously comfy bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think too hard about the fact I’m now living with a vampire.
After that, I remembered Albert’s tour included an entire room dedicated to housing the doctor’s wine collection, so naturally I took the liberty of sampling a few bottles.
The first one I opened tasted awful.
The second was a little better.
The third was just right, and I’ve drained almost the entire thing by myself.
It took me a solid half hour to figure out the TV remote, but now I’ve got some trashy reality show blaring at full volume, the echo of the contestants’ voices filling the massive living room. Between the wine and the background noise, I’ve almost tricked my brain into forgetting I’m alone here.
Or maybe I’m just drunk.
Either way, I’m a hell of a lot more relaxed than I was when Albert left, so I’m taking it as a win.
I poached a couple throw blankets from the lounge and built myself a nice little nest on the couch. I’m cocooned beneath them, warm and content and halfway to passing out, when the distinct sensation of being watched prickles across the back of my neck.
I turn my head, nearly jumping out of my skin when I find a whole ass man standing directly behind me.
“Jesus fuck!” I shriek, launching myself off the couch and clapping a hand against my chest. “Where the hell did you come from?”
Dr. Faulkner tilts his head, blinking at me from behind the lenses of his black-framed glasses. “Upstairs,” he replies simply.
“No, I mean… I know, but…” I sputter, my heart pounding beneath my palm. “You can’t just sneak up on someone like that!”
One dark brow arches. His gaze drifts over me slowly, assessing me in a way that almost feels clinical.
I fold my arms as I await his response, my skin prickling as his dark eyes comb over every inch of exposed skin– a lot, since I threw on a tiny pair of lounge shorts and a cropped tank top after my bath– but he doesn’t say a word. He just… stares.
And I might stare back a little.
Because holy hell, I forgot how good Elliott Faulkner looks up close.
He’s even taller than I remember. Six and a half feet, give or take, making me feel puny by comparison.
The white t-shirt he’s wearing stretches taut over his thick shoulders and broad chest, clinging to his toned physique, and his gray sweatpants are riding so low on his hips it borders on indecent.
Seeing him in a tailored suit at the gala was one thing, but seeing him like this is disarming.
Casual. Barefoot. His chestnut hair is still mussed from sleep, his glasses sitting slightly askew on the bridge of his nose like he shoved them on in a hurry before creeping downstairs to prowl up on me.
Shit, I think I might suddenly have a thing for hot nerds with slutty glasses.
Except he still hasn’t explained himself, and this weird staring contest is getting real awkward, real fast.
“Well?” I scoff, cocking a hip.
His gaze snaps up to lock with mine. “Did you ask a question?”
“I…” I trail off, frowning as I try to remember what the hell even left my mouth after he snuck up and scared the crap out of me. The wine definitely isn’t helping my mental recall. “No,” I finally admit. “But most people apologize when they almost give someone a damn heart attack.”
His eyes drift down to my chest– not in a pervy way, but hyper-focused. Like he’s tracking the rapid rise and fall of my breathing beneath my threadbare tank top.
“Your pulse is elevated,” he murmurs, “but you don’t appear to be experiencing shortness of breath or other symptoms consistent with myocardial infarction.” His gaze sharpens behind the lenses of his glasses. “Do you have chest pain or discomfort? Nausea? Dizziness?”
I stare at him. “No,” I say flatly. “I didn’t mean a literal heart attack, I…” I huff out a breath and wave a hand. “You know what I mean.”
He tilts his head again, dark eyes fixed on me with unnerving intensity. “You’re upset.”
“No, I’m annoyed,” I fire back defensively. “Can you just, like, not sneak up on me like that?”
“Okay.” He dips his chin in a nod, then turns on a heel and strides toward the kitchen, evidently finished with our conversation.
I’m definitely not, but the view of his ass in those sweatpants as he walks away derails my irritation almost instantly.
The man clearly spends a lot of time in the home gym Albert showed me earlier. His back muscles ripple beneath his t-shirt with every step, his shoulders and arms toned to perfection. It should honestly be illegal for someone so socially dysfunctional to look so damn good.
Dr. Faulkner heads straight for the refrigerator, pulling open the sleek stainless steel door and retrieving one of the blood bags from the top shelf.
Then he sidesteps to grab a glass from the cabinet, turns back around, and stops cold when he sees the trio of wine bottles sitting on the kitchen island.
His eyes cut to mine, darkening. “You uncorked my wine.”
“Yeah, so?” I scoff, folding my arms tighter across my chest. “You have, like, a hundred bottles.”
“One hundred and forty-three,” he replies flatly. “And that’s not the point.” He sets the blood bag and glass aside, reaching for the nearest bottle and lifting it to inspect the label. “This is a ‘96 Bordeaux. Did you even decant it properly?”
“De-what-now?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
His jaw tightens a fraction. “You’re supposed to let it breathe before drinking it,” he explains, his voice clipped with restraint.
“You decant it to open up the flavor profile…” he trails off as he tips the bottle, frowning at the realization that there isn’t much left in it.
“Though I suppose that’s irrelevant if your intention was to consume it like fruit juice.
” He exhales through his nose and sets the bottle back down on the counter.
“A wine like this is meant to be savored, sipped slowly. Appreciated.”
“Oh I appreciated it alright,” I snort, rolling my eyes as I flop back down onto the couch.
He glances toward me again with obvious disapproval, then reaches for the blood bag. “If you’re not going to respect the process,” he mutters while cracking the seal open, “don’t waste the vintage.”
I eye him over the back of the couch, watching as he carefully pours the blood into his glass. It feels a little rude for him to choose cold blood from a bag when I’m right here, but I’m also not feeling particularly generous at the moment, so I don’t offer an alternative.
“My bad,” I cluck. “Albert forgot to mention you’re a wine snob.”
His gaze snaps up. “Calling expertise snobbery is usually what people do when they don’t understand something,” he says coolly.
Heat instantly prickles beneath my skin. “Are you calling me stupid?” I snap, jerking upright.
“No,” he replies evenly, lifting the glass from the counter and swirling the blood around inside. “Just stating facts.”
I scoff, gaping at him.
Because seriously, what the fuck is this guy’s problem?
He raises the glass to his lips and drains half of it in one long swallow, his throat working as he drinks.
My gaze lingers on the sharp line of his jaw and the way his mouth wraps around the rim of the glass, something twisting low in my belly.
When he finishes, he licks a trace of crimson from his lower lip and turns to head for the sink, seemingly oblivious to the way I can’t stop ogling him.
“Are you ready to get to work?” he murmurs absently, rinsing his glass in the sink.
“Huh?”
He glances back at me over his shoulder. “Did Francesca neglect to mention the position as my research assistant?”
“She mentioned it,” I say slowly. “But… it’s nine at night.”
He shuts off the faucet and turns to face me fully. “I’m nocturnal.”
I just stare at him.
“I sleep during daylight hours and am active at night,” he clarifies.
“I know what nocturnal means,” I huff, stabbing my fingers through my hair.
“Then shall we?” He gestures toward the floating staircase.
Part of me wants to tell him to go to hell.
The other part desperately wants to see what’s upstairs, if only to get the full lay of the land and gawk at more fancy-ass rooms. Because if the first level of this place has a movie theater, a wine cellar, and a creepy blood room, I can only imagine what other rich-vampire-weirdo shit is lurking on the second floor.
“Fine,” I concede, shoving up from the couch.
The dramatic effect is immediately ruined by the headrush that hits me halfway to standing.
“Oh– shit.”
I sway sideways, but before I can even blink, Dr. Faulkner moves.
One second he’s across the room, and the next he’s directly in front of me, his vampire speed eating up the distance so fast my brain can barely process it. A large hand closes around my elbow, steadying me before I can topple over.
I inhale sharply, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through me.
He smells ridiculously good. Clean and masculine, like soap and sandalwood and some kind of expensive cologne. I blink up at him, momentarily dazed by how close he suddenly is.
He’s huge. Not just tall, but solid and strong, undeniably powerful. With one flick of his wrist, he could probably snap my arm like a twig, but strangely enough, I’m not scared. Even though the intensity in those dark eyes says I absolutely should be.
He studies me in silence, dark eyes fixed on my face with unnerving focus.
“Your pupils are dilated,” he murmurs. “Your balance is impaired, your reaction time is delayed, and your speech patterns have become slightly less coherent.” His thumb shifts against my elbow as he tilts his head slightly, observing me like a bug under a microscope. “Are you drunk?”
“What? No!” I reply defensively, yanking my arm from his grip and taking a wobbly step backward.
He watches me closely, arching a brow. “You’re lying.”
“No I’m not, I–”