Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
ELLIOTT
The tips of my fangs press into my lower lip as I retreat upstairs, my vision tinting red around the edges. The bloodlust has always announced itself in the same way. A narrowing of focus, heightened aggression… difficulty distinguishing between impulse and reason.
Most vampires experience it.
Most vampires learn to live with it.
Unfortunately, I’ve never had the luxury of being most vampires.
Possessing the rare gift of Sapientia comes with certain advantages– enhanced cognition, accelerated learning, and a memory capable of retaining information with infuriating precision.
Those traits have served me well enough over the years.
They’ve helped me build a career, earn accolades, and convince the world I’m something more than a predator wearing a tailored suit.
None of those are the problem.
It’s the hunger.
Even now, more than a century after I was turned, it’s always lurking beneath the surface, waiting patiently for a moment of weakness. Most nights, I maintain control without issue. Tonight, however, I made the mistake of lingering in temptation longer than I should have.
My sire recognized the symptoms of Sapientia before I did.
The fast learning, the memory retention, the fixation.
At first, I considered it a blessing; a gift, even.
Knowledge became its own form of intoxication– I devoured books with the same voracity other vampires reserved for blood, consuming information faster than I could meaningfully apply it.
Languages. History. Medicine. Mathematics.
I absorbed it all, retaining details with an accuracy that bordered on absurd. The intellectual gifts were easy enough to appreciate. The accompanying hunger was not.
My initial assumption was that the bloodlust would eventually diminish. That over time, experience and discipline would blunt the worst of it. Instead, it only grew sharper, more insistent, and less forgiving.
I then came to understand that the reputation of Sapientia hadn’t been built on enhanced cognition alone.
Cases are exceedingly rare, but I’ve spent decades searching for evidence of others, combing through archived records and historical accounts in hopes of finding some insight into the phenomenon.
The results have been discouraging.
Every documented case ends the same way eventually: the hunger escalates, impulse control deteriorates, and rational thought gives way to obsession.
Then comes the violence.
Whether the condition is wholly supernatural, neurological, or some combination of the two remains unclear. The outcome, however, is remarkably consistent. The bloodlust always wins.
I have no intention of allowing it to win here.
Control is paramount– immediately removing myself from situations that could end in disaster and remaining in solitude until I regain a firm grip on my impulses.
I retreat to my bedroom, the outer lock engaging automatically as the door seals behind me. A second command activates the interior locks of my rooms, securing every exit. Then I pull out my phone and restrict my own access privileges, setting the locks to release in an hour. Long enough.
The system was originally designed as a precaution, though over the years it’s proven useful for reasons beyond its intended purpose.
If experience has taught me anything, it’s that bloodlust follows a predictable pattern.
Remove temptation, eliminate opportunity, and wait for the worst of it to pass.
The solution is inelegant, but effective.
For a time, I pace. Gradually, the tension begins to ease.
My fangs retract and the red haze recedes from the edges of my vision. The predatory instincts remain, but they settle back into the familiar cage I've spent the better part of a century constructing around them.
The physical response is manageable.
The mental component is another matter entirely.
I start for the side wall of my bedroom, where a concealed panel functions as a door to the adjacent room. A light press releases the latch, and I step through.
The room beyond is dark, save for the glow of several monitors mounted along the far wall. Sinking onto the leather sofa facing them, I pick up the remote.
Each screen displays a live video feed from somewhere within the penthouse.
The cameras were installed before I even moved in– given the sensitive nature of my research, it would be irresponsible not to monitor the property.
Most days, the footage serves little purpose beyond confirming that nobody has broken in, stolen anything, or wandered somewhere they shouldn’t while I’ve been asleep.
Lately, however, I’ve found myself reviewing it with increasing frequency.
It’s a habit I should probably examine more closely. Instead, I switch to the living room feed and watch Beatrix Hamilton.
Night after night, I find myself returning here, observing the portions of her day that don’t overlap with mine.
I’ve become familiar with her routines. The hours she spends sketching by the windows, the way she paces when she’s frustrated.
The tendency she has to fill silence with noise, whether through music, television, or sheer stubborn refusal to sit quietly with her own thoughts for more than a few minutes.
She dislikes being alone.
Or perhaps she simply dislikes quiet.
I’m still gathering data.
What began as idle curiosity has gradually evolved into something more concerning.
I know which cabinets she opens most often in the kitchen; which spot on the couch she gravitates toward when she’s tired.
I’ve watched her withdraw into herself, then fight her way back out again through force of will alone, as though stillness itself is something she refuses to surrender to.
None of this information serves any practical purpose, but that fact has done little to discourage me from collecting it.
The bathroom remains the lone exception– there are no cameras, microphones, or surveillance of any kind in her en-suite. I’ve considered changing that. The fact I’ve considered it at all is probably reason enough not to.
Currently she’s in the living room, still occupying the same corner of the couch where I left her. One slim bronze leg is tucked beneath her, a half-empty wine glass dangling loosely from her fingers as the television drones on in the background.
I watch her take another drink, then my gaze drifts lower, tracing the familiar patterns of ink winding across her skin.
I’ve long since memorized them. The floral piece on her thigh, the script along her ribs…
the small constellation hidden behind her ear that only becomes visible when she tucks her hair back.
A completely useless collection of information.
I retain it anyway.
With the press of a button, the camera zooms closer, zeroing in on her face. Her brow is furrowed, her jaw tight. She appears annoyed– likely with me.
I find myself studying her expression longer than necessary, watching as she takes another sip of wine. When she lowers the glass, her tongue darts out to lick her plush lips, and something stirs deep within me.
The first time I saw Beatrix Hamilton was at a donor gala months ago. That night, I paid little attention to the fact that my gaze kept returning to her. Hundreds of people had attended that event, so statistically speaking, my attention had to land somewhere.
Then I saw her again. And again. Eventually, coincidence became difficult to argue, and having her here has only compounded the issue.
I never behaved this way with my previous donors.
Every live-in arrangement I entered was purely for appearances sake, since nobody ever questions the feeding habits of a vampire with an exclusive donor.
The donors were intelligent, discreet, and capable of assisting in the laboratory, making it a matter of convenience and efficiency.
The arrangement benefited both parties, and beyond that, I gave very little thought to what they did with their time. Most maintained a healthy distance. They were wary of me, as they should have been.
Beatrix, however, seems entirely incapable of respecting boundaries.
She inserts herself into matters that don’t concern her, asks questions she’d be better off not knowing the answers to, and wanders into rooms she has no business entering. Even when I’m attempting to focus on something else entirely, she somehow manages to occupy a portion of my attention.
The situation is becoming increasingly difficult to justify. While there are obvious solutions, I’ve yet to implement any of them.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I remove my glasses and set them aside. I can see perfectly well without them.
The lenses aren’t prescription; they serve an entirely different purpose.
They create distance– a barrier, however superficial, between myself and everyone else.
People see the glasses and draw conclusions.
They see someone intelligent, professional, and controlled.
Optics matter, and I’ve found that a man in glasses appears far less threatening than what he actually is.
On the screen, Beatrix leans forward to set her wine glass on the coffee table, my attention following automatically.
I catalog every detail– from the curve of her spine, to the shifting patterns of ink on her skin, to the absentminded way she stretches, her shirt riding up as she lifts her arms overhead.
I know I should look away.
Instead, I continue watching.
She’s so small. Something I find myself noticing with increasing frequency. Dainty hands, tiny wrists. A frame that appears deceptively delicate despite the stubbornness she carries around like armor.
Breakable.
The thought arrives uninvited, and I dislike it immediately.
She shifts again, settling deeper into the couch, and I mirror the movement without realizing it until several seconds later.
An unsettling habit. One of many.
I tell myself observation is harmless; that distance remains a sufficient safeguard. The logic becomes less convincing with each passing day.
My gaze lingers on the screen too long. Long enough for familiar tension to settle low in my abdomen, and long enough for me to recognize exactly where this line of thought is headed.
I slip a hand beneath the waistband of my shorts, fingers curling around my thickening cock. I wonder what she’s thinking right now, whether she’s still replaying our conversation downstairs. Whether she realizes how often she occupies my thoughts when she isn’t present.
Then my mind wanders further. I pump my cock in my fist as I allow myself to imagine what it’d be like to actually touch her, to taste her. To have her spread out beneath me, warm and panting and compliant.
My hand moves faster, fangs descending as I imagine how it’d feel to finally sink my teeth into her neck, split her open on my cock, drown in ecstasy as I take what I need from her…
A groan rattles from my throat as I reach my climax, warmth spilling over my knuckles. I linger in the fantasy for a moment longer as I catch my breath, then scrub the image from my mind, forcing myself back to the present.
This is how it always ends. I’ll clean up and tell myself I got the poison out, but I know it’s a lie. I’m still achingly hard, still unsatisfied. Still tortured by the insatiable hunger.
Downstairs, Beatrix shifts on the couch and reaches for her wine again. I watch her for another moment before switching off the monitor. The room plunges into darkness, and silence follows.
For decades, I’ve relied on the same principles. Discipline, routine, and control. Every safeguard in this penthouse exists for a reason, each one carefully constructed to compensate for weaknesses I cannot afford to indulge in. The system has worked remarkably well, until now.
I lean back against the sofa, staring into the dark and listening to the quiet hum of the electronics around me. The physical symptoms have subsided. My fangs have retracted, the bloodlust contained. The same can’t be said for my thoughts.
A sensible man would end this arrangement before it progressed any further. He’d acknowledge the risk, remove the variable, and move on.
Instead, I find myself doing what I’ve always done when confronted with a problem I don’t understand.
I keep studying it.