Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
I’m off the hook for working in the lab tonight, but it hardly matters since I’m not out enjoying my freedom from the shackles of science.
I’ve spent the last three hours holed up in my room, the warm glow from the little lamp on my nightstand providing just enough ambiance to feel cozy.
My bedroom’s now fully transformed from professionally staged sterility to actually lived in– my clothes have invaded the chair and the end of the bed, a handful of sketches are taped to the walls, and the top of the dresser is cluttered with cosmetics.
I’ve clearly become comfortable here, but the silence still presses in whenever I forget to fill it with background noise.
The only proof I’m not actually alone here is the sound of Elliott moving around.
I heard him come downstairs earlier. Heard the refrigerator open while he made his usual blood cocktail. Then I listened to him wander around doing god knows what for the better part of an hour. At one point, I’m almost positive I heard him come down the hallway toward my room.
He never knocked.
Never said anything.
And I haven’t heard his footsteps in a while, so if he was lingering outside my door before, he’s long gone now.
I flop onto my stomach across the bed, my wrist flicking as I shade in the latest drawing in my sketchbook. Art is usually cathartic for me, but tonight, it’s not scratching the itch I need it to.
Probably because I can only seem to draw him.
Right now, it’s his eyes. The furrow of his brow, the look in them as he stared James down across the dinner table.
I don’t know why I keep fixating on that moment; why my brain insists on replaying it over and over. But no matter how many times I attempt to start something new, I keep ending up here, staring down at yet another sketch of the elusive Elliott Faulkner.
Eventually, hunger outweighs the urge to sulk, and I drag myself out of bed and into the hall. I creep toward the kitchen, pausing to listen for any sign of my vampire roommate, but when I emerge into the main living space, he’s nowhere in sight.
The city sprawls beyond the wall of windows, lit up like a party I wasn’t invited to. I stare out at it for a moment, thousands of glittering lights blinking back at me tauntingly. Then I heave a sigh, pivoting for the kitchen.
I’m halfway to the fridge when a metallic clank cuts through the silence.
My entire body jerks at the sound, my hand flying to my chest as my pulse kicks. There’s another clank, and I turn toward the opposite hallway, realizing the sound is coming from the home gym.
I try my best to ignore it, continuing toward the fridge as the clanking persists. Then I hear a low grunt, and suddenly my hunger’s got nothing on my curiosity.
I drift down the hall in the direction of the sound, tiptoeing even though there’s no logical reason to sneak around. The gym door stands partially open, and I peek inside, instantly forgetting how to breathe.
Elliott’s in the midst of a set on the weight bench.
Shirtless.
Sweat glistens across broad shoulders and chest, all hard lines and brutal symmetry. Every movement pulls muscle tight beneath olive skin as he lowers a heavily loaded barbell to his chest before pressing it skyward again with infuriating ease.
I’ve always known he was built.
It’s harder to ignore when he’s half naked.
The lines of his abs are ridiculously defined, and don’t even get me started on the sharp cut of muscle that runs from his obliques down to the waistband of his athletic shorts.
I’m so busy gawking that I don’t realize the set is over until he’s setting the bar back on the rack, sitting up and swiping a towel across his face. Then his gaze lifts, dark eyes finding mine instantly.
There’s no shock in them, no flinch in his expression– just a slow narrowing of his gaze, like he expected to find me lurking here. Like he’d known I was creeping on him the entire time.
I panic, obviously.
And because I’m a champion at handling awkward situations, I turn in the wrong direction to flee, heading straight toward the dead end of the hallway.
Shit.
My only options are the home theater on my left or the wine cellar on my right, so I make the perfectly reasonable decision to pretend this was my destination all along.
Yanking open the door to the wine cellar, I grab the first bottle within reach. Then I march back down the hallway, making a point of swinging it beside me like a trophy.
Bold, considering I’ve been warned off the doctor’s wine collection multiple times already.
I don’t look toward the gym as I pass, but I swear I can feel him watching me, a smirk tugging at my lips.
Back in the kitchen, I set the bottle on the kitchen island and pull open the drawer beneath it, retrieving the wine key. The sound of approaching footsteps makes the back of my neck prickle, but I tell myself not to look.
I last three whole seconds.
Elliott emerges from the hallway with a towel draped around his neck, his hair damp with sweat and deliciously mussed. He slows to a stop a few feet away and folds his arms, biceps bulging as his eyes flick from the bottle, to the wine key, to me.
“Planning to finish that entire bottle yourself?” he asks, voice flat and expression perfectly neutral.
“Are you offering to help?” I shoot back, planting a hand on my hip.
His gaze drops to the bottle again before he closes the distance between us.
For a second, I think he’s going to confiscate it and give me a lecture. Instead, he plucks the wine key from my hand and moves in to take over the task of opening the bottle.
He makes quick work of the cork, twisting it free with a practiced flick and setting it aside. Then he opens the cabinet above the fridge, retrieves a large glass decanter, and pours the entire bottle inside.
“At this rate, you’ll burn through my entire collection before the year’s up,” he mutters, swirling the wine.
“At least someone’s enjoying it,” I say, picking up the discarded cork and rolling it between my fingers. “You never drink any of this stuff.”
“Not often.” He continues watching the wine move through the decanter, the deep red liquid catching the light as it swirls.
“So why even have it?”
He pauses, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he sets the decanter on the counter. “Not everything is about instant gratification,” he murmurs, eyes still on the wine. “Sometimes the anticipation is better.”
The way he says it sends a shiver rolling down my spine. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the wine anymore, or if he ever was.
He slides the decanter toward the middle of the kitchen island and steps back, leaving me to stare at it cluelessly.
I have no idea how long wine is supposed to ‘breathe’, but I know if I don’t drink something soon, I’m going to do something idiotic.
Like ask him what else he likes to let ‘breathe’ before he puts his mouth on it.
“How long am I supposed to wait?” I ask, folding forward to lean against the counter.
“However long it takes.” His gaze dips to my cleavage spilling out from my tank top, then darts away quickly, throat bobbing with a hard swallow.
So he’s not completely immune to my feminine wiles.
I bite back a smirk, drumming my fingers against the granite. “Are you gonna have a glass with me this time, or is it another one-woman show?”
He glances at the decanter, then back at me. “Perhaps.”
I narrow my eyes. “Great, I’ll just stand here and stare at it until you decide, then.”
He doesn’t move, but his eyes stay glued to me, like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.
I fold my arms and remain stubbornly silent, lasting thirty seconds before I break.
“Is it ready yet?” I huff.
His mouth twitches with amusement. “It’s been less than a minute.”
“Maybe you should distract me while I wait, then,” I suggest.
He tips his head, considering. “How would you propose I do that?”
“You could show me what’s behind the other locked doors upstairs.”
His nostrils flare. “It’s just storage.”
“Maybe I find storage interesting,” I press, cocking a hip.
He frowns. “I doubt that.”
Then he turns without another word, beckoning me to follow with a flick of his chin. I hesitate before trailing after him, leaving the wine behind on the counter.
He heads into the living room and snatches the remote off the coffee table, switching the TV on. The screen blinks to life with some stupid home shopping network program, the volume low enough that the voices just blend into the background hum.
I blink. “What are you doing?”
“You requested a distraction.”
“Oh.” Right.
“What do you like to watch?” he asks, sinking onto one end of the long leather couch.
“Anything, really,” I say, and it’s true. I watch TV the same way I drink wine– fast, and usually just to keep my mind from spiraling out of control.
He flips through a handful of channels, finally settling on a cooking competition show. Contestants rush around plating some elaborate dessert while the judges hover nearby like vultures waiting for someone to fail.
I hesitate a second, then move in and take a seat on the opposite end of the couch, pulling my knees up and hugging them to my chest. The sofa’s so big there’s at least five feet of space between us, which somehow makes the tension worse.
“Is it weird to watch this when you don’t actually eat?” I ask, flicking him a sideways glance.
He shrugs. “The idea of eating is often better than the act itself.”
I roll my eyes, groaning. “Do you always talk in riddles?”
His brow furrows. “I don’t think so.”
I stare at him, his gaze lingering on me a moment longer before returning to the TV. The air between us suddenly feels charged, like a fuse waiting for a spark.
My attention wanders toward the kitchen where the decanter is still resting on the island. Then back to Elliott. Then the TV. I repeat the loop a few times before he finally sighs, pushing up from the couch and heading toward the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To get the wine you keep staring at.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks and I turn away to hide my blush, a smile tugging at my mouth as I hear the sound of glasses clinking, then the slow pour of liquid.
A minute later, Elliott returns with two oversized wine glasses. He offers me one, the stem almost comically delicate between his large fingers.
“Finally time?” I ask as I take it.
He settles back onto the couch and raises his own glass. “It could’ve used longer,” he says, swirling the wine. “But patience isn’t your strong suit.”
I’m not sure whether or not I should be offended by that. He doesn’t sound judgmental, just observant, like he’s stating a fact. Which… I guess he is.
We sit there for a while, watching TV and sipping wine in companionable silence. Every now and then, I catch him watching me out of the corner of his eye, his expression locked down tight.
I finish my glass embarrassingly fast, then get up to head for the kitchen to refill it.
“You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach,” he murmurs from the couch.
“Who says I’ve got an empty stomach?” I scoff, grabbing the decanter and pouring myself another glass.
“You haven’t eaten dinner.”
I pause, wondering how the hell he knows that. Then I huff a laugh, turning back toward him. “What, are you stalking me now or something?”
Something strange flashes across his face, gone almost as quickly as it appears. “Am I wrong?” he counters.
I wave him off, walking back over to the couch and taking a seat, a little closer this time. As I raise my glass to my lips for a sip, I glance over and realize he’s barely touched his own.
“Aren’t you thirsty?” I ask, nodding toward it.
He exhales slowly, leaning forward to set the glass on the coffee table. “Not for wine.”
My pulse stutters.
Oh.
A wicked idea takes shape, and I set my glass down beside his, sweeping my hair away from my neck. “Maybe this, then?” I ask as I lean toward him, exposing the line of my throat.
Elliott goes still, his eyes immediately zeroing in on my pulse point. “Don’t tempt me, little mortal,” he grits out.
I laugh and shift closer, bridging the distance between us until there’s barely a foot of space left. “Why not?” I taunt, tipping my head back against the cushion and gazing up at him through my lashes.
His dark gaze drags slowly along the line of my throat, lingering on my pulse point before drifting lower down my body. Heat unfurls low in my belly as his eyes rake over me, the muscles in his arms tensing, veins standing out like he’s bracing himself against some internal force.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he murmurs, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a thick swallow.
The corner of my mouth ticks up in a smirk. “Oh, I think I do.”
The second the words leave my mouth, his gaze snaps back to mine, and the look in his eyes steals my breath.
Not anger.
Not annoyance.
Hunger.
His lips part, fangs extending with a soft pop, and for one reckless second, I’m certain this is it. That he’s about to give in, sink his teeth into my throat, and finally give me the shot of vampire venom I’ve been craving for weeks.
Instead, he abruptly turns away, surging to his feet.
I sit up, mouth dropping open, but I can’t even get a word out before he’s moving toward the staircase so fast he’s just a blur at the edge of my vision.
“What the hell?” I choke, twisting around on the couch as he shoots up the stairs in a blur of vampire speed. “Elliott!”
In the next blink, he’s gone, leaving nothing behind but the dull hum of the TV and the frantic pounding of my own heartbeat. A door slams upstairs and I sink back against the couch cushions, mortification and annoyance twisting together in my gut until I’m almost physically nauseous.
What the hell was that?
If he wasn’t interested, he could’ve just said so. Instead, he looked at me like…
I squeeze my eyes shut.
No.
I know what I saw.
The worst part isn’t even that he took off– it’s that for one stupid second, I really thought he was going to finally do it. That he actually wanted to bite me half as badly as I wanted him to.
And now I can’t stop wondering what would’ve happened if he’d stayed.