Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Turns out, those BounceBack pills work exactly as advertised.
Within an hour of taking them, all symptoms of my hangover were gone, and I’m not sure whether to be thankful for the relief or pissed off about discovering how much easier life is for rich people.
Because apparently it wasn’t enough that they could buy their way out of everything else– even hangovers are solved by throwing money at them.
As if the wealth gap in this city wasn’t unfair already.
Without the headache, it’s easy to lose myself in my art.
I spend hours sitting on the floor with my sketchbook balanced across my knees, the whole world narrowing to the faint smudge of pencil dust collecting along the side of my hand and the koi fish taking shape across the page.
Scale after scale, line after line, the design evolves beneath my pencil with each draft until it’s damn near perfect.
I’m so absorbed in drawing that I completely forget where I am– which is probably why I don’t hear him come downstairs.
“Good evening, Bex,” a deep voice murmurs, far too close for comfort.
A startled yelp tears out of me and my hand slips, the tip of my pencil cutting a dark graphite streak straight across the page as my head whips sideways.
Dr. Faulkner is standing just a few feet away, dressed in a t-shirt and sweats and looking entirely too calm for someone who just shaved ten years off my lifespan.
“What’d I say about sneaking up on me?” I huff, glaring up at him.
His brow creases. “I announced myself, as you requested.”
“Sure, after appearing out of nowhere,” I scoff. “You’ve gotta stop doing that, it’s creepy as fuck.”
He regards me for a moment, then dips his chin in a nod. “Noted.”
Instead of explaining himself– or, god forbid, apologizing– he just turns and heads for the kitchen.
I glare daggers at his retreating back, then reach for my eraser and try to salvage the drawing.
Unfortunately, erasing the streak also means erasing some of the shading that took over an hour to perfect, which only annoys me further.
The fridge door opens with a soft whoosh, followed by the sound of plastic pouches hitting the granite countertop.
I peek over the top of my sketchbook, watching as Dr. Faulkner meticulously lines up two blood bags on the counter– one with a blue cap, one with red– then retrieves a tall glass from the cabinet.
He cracks both caps and pours, then gives it a lazy swirl, dark red liquid splashing against the inside of the glass.
The man makes a blood cocktail with the same energy as someone mixing a pre-workout protein shake. I watch him take a long sip, eyes half-closed, and I’m struck by how much my life has changed over the past six months.
A year ago, watching a man pour two bags of human blood into a drinking glass would’ve sent me running for the hills. Now, I’m just curious whether different blood types taste unique. Maybe O-positive is the vampire equivalent of a pumpkin spice latte.
He finishes in a few big gulps, rinsing his glass in the sink before returning to the living room. He pauses at the end of the couch with his arms folded, dark eyes scanning over me.
The pose should probably look casual, but it doesn’t. He’s too big for casual, his massive stature intimidating all on its own. It feels like he’s waiting for something, but I can’t tell if it’s a cue for me to speak or if he’s gearing up to give me some sort of lecture.
The silence quickly grows uncomfortable. I set my sketchbook aside, pushing to my feet. His gaze drifts briefly toward the drawing, then back to me.
“You went upstairs.”
My stomach drops.
For a second, I’m too stunned to respond– my brain immediately starts cycling through possibilities of how the hell he knows. Cameras, motion sensors, some other weird vampire bullshit… every theory feels equally plausible at this point.
“No I didn’t,” I blurt, the lie coming out on pure instinct.
It leaves my mouth smoothly enough, but his deadpan expression tells me he isn’t buying what I’m selling. I avert my gaze as his dark eyes drift over my face from behind the lenses of his glasses, the weight of his scrutiny making my skin prickle.
“You’re lying,” he says flatly.
My mouth drops open in outrage. “Excuse me?” I scoff, folding my arms.
I mean, he’s not wrong. But it’s not like I committed a crime; I walked up a damn staircase. That’s hardly a punishable offense.
His gaze sweeps over me again– not appreciatively, but clinically, like he’s gathering information. It’s unsettling as fuck. The man is built like he should be solving problems with brute force, yet somehow his preferred method appears to be staring people down until they confess.
“You haven’t looked at me directly since I mentioned it,” he murmurs.
I immediately force eye contact. “There. Happy?”
“Now you’re overcorrecting.”
“No I’m not,” I snap.
He tilts his head, cocking a dubious brow. “Your pupils dilated, and your heart rate increased by approximately eighteen percent.”
“That’s because you’re interrogating me,” I huff.
He stares at me, and I stare back, the two of us locked in a silent standoff. A tiny thread of doubt creeps in, and my thoughts start spiraling out of control.
What if he’s reading my mind right now?
What if he’s got some creepy vampire superpower that functions as a built-in lie detector?
“Okay, fine,” I admit, giving up the act. “I went upstairs. Congratulations, you solved the mystery. Add it to your scrapbook of accomplishments.”
“I don’t keep a scrapbook.”
“Of course you don’t,” I mutter.
He exhales through his nose, reaching into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulling out a small black key fob. “Come on, then,” he quips, turning toward the staircase.
I blink. “Huh?”
He glances back at me. “You wanted to see upstairs.”
“Well yeah, but… you’re just gonna show me?” I ask suspiciously.
Too easy.
Feels like a trap.
“If I don’t, you’ll just spend the next year attempting to break into every room,” he grumbles, starting to ascend.
I should be annoyed by how easily he’s pinned me down, but mostly, I’m curious as hell to see what’s behind those locked doors. And he doesn’t seem mad, just irritated. Which makes two of us.
I cross the room and begin climbing the floating staircase behind him, hoping like hell I’m not blindly marching upstairs to meet my demise. Honestly, if it turns out he’s hiding bodies up here, I wouldn’t even be surprised at this point. His cool detachment gives off major serial-killer vibes.
He doesn’t issue any threats or try to push me down the stairs when I reach the top, so I guess that’s a win. Instead, he advances down the hall, stopping at the first door on the left and tapping the key fob against a small black panel beside the frame.
There’s a soft electronic click, and my interest spikes immediately.
“Ooh, fancy.”
He ignores my comment, pushing the door open and stepping aside.
I peer in, finding that the room beyond is some kind of study. There’s a low sofa in dark leather, two sleek armchairs, and a wall of built-in bookshelves.
“This is it?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Were you expecting something else?”
Yes.
I glance around again, looking for a trap door, an ominous blood altar… anything resembling what I'd built up in my mind. I expected something dramatic, but instead it’s just books and furniture; all objectively normal stuff.
I advance a few steps inside, moving closer to the bookshelves and scanning the titles. They’re all medical texts– biochemistry, hematology, and stuff in other languages I can’t even identify.
“Light reading,” I mutter, reaching toward one of the books.
His gaze flicks to my hand. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to– the look says plenty.
I stop an inch from touching the spine. “Right,” I say, lowering my hand. “No touching the priceless vampire nerd books.”
His mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. Whether that’s amusement or annoyance, I honestly can’t tell.
“Come on,” he murmurs, beckoning me with a flick of his head.
I cast one last suspicious glance around the room before following. Nothing strange jumps out at me, and frankly, I’m a little disappointed. But there are plenty more rooms left to see.
I rejoin him in the hallway, and he moves onto the next door. There’s another fob tap, another soft click, followed by another door opening to reveal no skeletons, chains, or coffins.
Wow, this tour is turning out to be wildly underwhelming.
This room appears to function as his private office, with a large desk sitting in the center as the focal point.
The surface is completely clear except for a closed laptop, a fountain pen, and a stack of notebooks.
Along the walls hang framed certificates, patents, and awards, along with a few photographs showing Elliott shaking hands with people in suits or lab coats, all wearing the same polite, professional smiles.
My gaze snags on a framed diploma alongside a medal. “Is that a Nobel prize?” I ask, blinking.
“Yes.”
I turn to stare at him. “You have a Nobel prize.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you keep it in a locked office?” I ask incredulously.
He cocks a brow. “Where else would I keep it?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere people can see it.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” I scoff. “Aren’t you proud of it?”
“Of course,” he replies, lifting his chin. “My pride doesn’t hinge on the opinions of others.”
I roll my eyes, turning on a heel and striding back toward the hallway. “You’re so weird.”
His nostrils flare as I brush past him, his dark eyes locked on me with predatory focus. A little shiver slides down my spine, fight or flight instincts kicking, but he doesn’t pounce. He just calmly closes the office door behind us and continues down the hall.
I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
He unlocks the next door with all the fanfare of the first two, pushing it open and stepping aside to allow me entry. I advance, then stop when I realize what I’m about to walk into.