Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
I’ve given myself a serious case of cabin fever.
The days and nights have started bleeding together in a way that’s becoming unsettling.
I sleep when I’m tired, wake up whenever I feel like it, and spend the hours in between drifting from room to room like a ghost haunting someone else’s life.
The penthouse is big enough that I never feel boxed in, but somehow that only makes it worse.
There’s too much space to wander and no one to wander with.
The funny thing is, nobody’s stopping me from leaving.
Elliott never told me I couldn’t. The elevator works just fine. If I wanted to walk out tomorrow and spend the entire day wandering the city, I could– as long as I gave Elliott’s security company a heads-up so they could tail me.
But I haven’t.
I’m still here.
Just… existing.
I tell myself it’s an adjustment period– that if I leave and get a taste of the freedom I used to thrive on, I may never come back. Mostly because I don’t want to admit the real truth.
Seeing that figure in the shadows scared me a hell of a lot more than I let on.
At least here, I know I’m safe.
More importantly, I know Taylor’s safe.
I may not give a damn about my own well-being most days, but I won’t gamble with hers.
By the time Saturday rolls around, I’m practically itching for a change of scenery. Turns out there’s only so long a person can spend soaking in the bath, flopping around in bed, and toiling away in a mad scientist’s laboratory before boredom starts chewing holes through their skull.
The only saving grace has been reconnecting with my art.
I finished the client piece days ago, and now I’ve filled half a sketchbook with drawings of veiny hands, haunted stares, and broad shoulders that definitely don’t belong to anyone I know.
Turns out, my pent-up sexual frustration hasn’t just led to me touching myself way more often than usual.
It’s also done wonders for unlocking my creativity.
Not that any of those sketches will ever see the light of day.
They’re purely a release– a way to get the forbidden images out of my head before they can evolve into something worse. Because I’m absolutely not having full-on fantasies about the elusive vampire upstairs. The one who won’t touch me, no matter how hard I try to tempt him.
It’s humiliating.
Not because I actually expect Elliott to throw me over his shoulder and drag me off to bed every time I flirt with him.
Okay, maybe a little.
But mostly because I’ve never had this problem before.
Working for Bite taught me a lot of things about myself– some of them good, some of them probably concerning. But if there’s one thing every engagement reinforced, it’s that vampires want blood. And they want me.
Maybe that’s arrogant. Maybe it’s unhealthy. Maybe Francesca would have a field day unpacking it in a Bite-funded therapy program.
I don’t really care.
I liked walking into a room and knowing I had the upper hand. I liked being wanted. Liked being the thing powerful creatures couldn’t resist.
Then Elliott came along and looked right through me.
Now, I feel less like a temptation and more like a damn houseplant– though I swear even that thing’s getting more attention from him than I am.
He’s been watering it. Rotating it on the windowsill so the leaves don’t get scorched.
Meanwhile, I’ve spent the better part of a week practically throwing myself at him and getting nothing but lectures about lab protocols in return.
Fuck, am I actually jealous of a plant right now?
This is exactly why I’m crashing Elliott’s little check-in dinner with Taylor and James tonight. Seeing my bestie will surely pull me out of this funk and remind me who I am outside of these walls.
I spent an hour getting dolled up for the occasion, my signature black liner winged thick around my eyes and my lips painted blood red.
My backless dress is criminally short, my inked thighs on full display and my heels high enough to qualify as a hazard.
I look like trouble– which is exactly what I was going for.
If I at least look like myself, maybe Taylor won’t notice how badly I’m floundering. The last thing I want is for her to feel guilty about any of this. And if dressing the part doesn’t do the trick, the wine buzz should help.
I’m on my third glass, dancing around the living room to an old rock song one of my foster parents used to play on repeat. He was a shitty father figure with an unfortunate habit of putting his hands where they didn’t belong, but his taste in music didn’t suck.
Right as the second chorus swells, the sound of a throat clearing cuts through the song.
I glance toward the staircase… and my mouth instantly runs dry.
Elliott’s standing at the top landing in a suit, one hand resting lightly on the railing.
I’ve grown so accustomed to seeing him in t-shirts and sweats that the sight of him dressed up again is genuinely arresting.
His black-on-black suit is perfectly tailored, fitted enough to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders and the narrow line of his waist. No tie, and the top button on his shirt is casually undone, a glimpse of his bare chest peeking through.
His gaze drifts over me slowly, and heat unfurls low in my belly, my pulse skipping.
Goddamn.
He starts down the stairs, and I force myself to snap out of whatever spell he put me under, raising my wine glass in a mock toast.
“Hey, look who’s finally awake!”
His eyes immediately flick to my glass, his mouth turning down. “Are you incapable of following simple instructions?”
“Are you incapable of loosening the fuck up?” I fire back with a laugh.
His jaw tightens. By the time he reaches the bottom step, his expression has gone carefully blank, though the flex of his hand against the railing betrays his irritation.
“Want some?” I ask, snatching up the wine bottle from the coffee table and holding it out. “Maybe it’ll help.”
Yeah, I’m fully aware I was warned off raiding the wine cellar. And trying to bait someone who could snap my neck in an instant is probably a dumb move, even for me. But a girl can only entertain herself for so long.
He advances, closing the distance between us in a few long strides, and I have to tip my head back to maintain eye contact when he comes to a stop in front of me. Annoying that even in five-inch heels, he still towers over me by almost a foot.
The glare he levels on me is clearly meant to be intimidating, but unfortunately for him, my wine buzz has sanded down the edges of my self-preservation instincts. I tilt my head and raise the bottle between us tauntingly.
He takes it from my hand, inspecting the label. “The ’90 Brunello,” he murmurs, a muscle in his jaw jumping.
“It’s really good,” I say with a giggle, draining the last sip from my glass.
His eyes follow the movement of my throat as I swallow. Then, to my complete shock, he lifts the bottle to his own lips. I stare as he takes a long pull– because seeing prim and proper Dr. Faulkner chugging wine straight from the bottle is something I never in a million years thought I’d witness.
And why the fuck does he look so hot doing it?
My gaze lingers on the way his mouth wraps around the rim, the movement of his throat as he swallows. When he finally lowers it, the bottle’s empty. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve in a move so wildly out of character that for a second I wonder if I’ve hallucinated the whole thing.
“Let’s go,” he murmurs, setting the bottle down on the coffee table with a dull thud before turning to head for the elevator.
I watch after him for a beat, still trying to process whatever the hell that was. Then I abandon my glass and hurry after him, my heels clicking rapidly against the floor.
By the time I reach the elevator, the doors are already sliding open. Elliott steps in first, and I follow, the doors closing behind us.
Being trapped in such close quarters with him feels like standing too close to a live wire. The tension crackles beneath my skin as we descend, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks and his gaze fixed stubbornly on the elevator doors.
I don’t think I fully exhale until they slide open.
Elliott steps out into the parking garage, and I scramble to keep up, the tap of my heels against concrete echoing.
I glance around, expecting to find a black town car waiting for us. Instead, Elliott pulls a hand from his pocket and clicks a key fob, a pair of taillights flaring to life in the darkness.
I stop dead. “No fucking way.”
The matte black McLaren GT practically gleams beneath the garage lights as Elliott heads toward the driver’s side.
My jaw drops. “That’s yours?”
“Yes,” he replies curtly, reaching for the door handle. The driver’s door glides upward and he glances back at me, brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I answer breathily, eyes roaming shamelessly over the car’s sleek lines. “Just having a cargasm.”
He stares at me for a moment like he’s trying to decide whether that’s a real thing. Then he tips his head toward the passenger side and says, “Get in.”
As if I needed convincing.
“Yes, sir,” I gush, hurrying over.
Something flashes across his face. His gaze sharpens, nostrils flaring slightly as he watches me practically skip around to the passenger side. I open the door and drop into the seat with a blissful sigh.
The leather is buttery soft beneath my bare thighs. I run my hands over the seat like a creep while Elliott settles behind the wheel and starts the engine. A low purr vibrates through the cabin, and a thrill shoots straight through me.
“Ugh,” I groan, letting my head fall back against the headrest. “I think I’m in love.”
He flicks me a glance as he shifts into reverse.
“Don’t worry,” I add with a wink. “I was talking to the car.”
Something that looks suspiciously like amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth before he backs out of the parking space.