Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
ELLIOTT
She moves differently around me now.
It’s subtle, but I see it in the looseness of her posture, the slow roll of her hips when she walks, the way she lingers in doorways as though deliberately giving me time to stare. Whenever she catches me looking, she simply smirks, every inch the victorious little minx who finally got her way.
I suppose she did, in a sense.
But so did I.
My world has always been meticulously controlled, every variable accounted for and every potential threat neutralized before it can disrupt the system.
Beatrix, however, is an unpredictable element; a free radical who seems determined to destabilize everything around her.
Endlessly frustrating, and undeniably addictive.
For so long, I’ve simply watched her. Wanted her. Convinced myself I couldn’t have her, and that if I allowed myself to indulge, I’d lose control and break her.
I didn’t. She’s far stronger than she appears.
What I failed to anticipate was that having her would only make the fascination worse.
It’s been a week since she signed the addendum to our contract. In that time, we’ve spent more hours in the playroom than we have in the laboratory– a ratio I’m well aware is becoming problematic. I’ve told myself it’s a temporary shift, a phase that will naturally taper once the novelty wears off.
So far, the opposite has occurred. Every encounter leaves me sated for a few hours at most. Then the hunger returns, sharper than before.
I’ve caught her examining the bruises blooming across her thighs, the fading impressions of my fingers on her hips, the faint shadow around her throat from where my hand closed around it two nights ago. She makes no attempt to hide her satisfaction in being marked.
Neither do I.
There’s something deeply gratifying about seeing evidence of myself left behind on her skin; something primitive and possessive that I have no interest in examining too closely. But there’s still one mark she wants that I refuse to give her.
My bite.
On that point, I haven’t wavered. I may trust myself with her body now, but her blood is another matter entirely.
Sex is an appetite I can control. Bloodlust is something far more primitive, and I know better than most what happens when it overrides reason.
Which is why I’ve resolved to keep my fangs out of her, regardless of how frequently she tries to tempt me otherwise.
Tonight, fortunately, she seems content to torment me in other ways.
She’s sitting across the laboratory behind the computer, swaying her sock-clad feet beneath the stool as she enters data from the open notebook beside her. I’m working through a fresh batch of samples, though my attention keeps drifting from the task at hand to her.
If I make it through the evening without abandoning my research to carry her off to the playroom, it’ll be a miracle.
She hums to herself, stretching her arms over her head until her sweater rides up to expose a strip of bare midriff. Then she glances back over her shoulder as if she already knows she’ll find me watching, a smirk curling her lips.
“You’re staring again,” she says, voice lilting as she draws out the words.
I don’t bother denying it. “You’re naturally distracting.”
She rolls her eyes, sliding off the stool and padding across the room toward me.
She’s wearing shorts and an oversized sweater that slouches off one shoulder, exposing the ink that drifts from her neck down the curve of her collarbone.
I clock the fresh bruise on the crest of her thigh– my handprint, already fading, but still present.
The sight makes my fangs ache, a hot pulse of need sparking low in my abdomen.
“You could at least try to act like you enjoy having me here,” she teases, pausing to watch as I pipette a sample from a slender glass tube.
I glance at her over the rim of my glasses. “Who says I don’t?”
Her grin widens, teeth catching her lower lip. “You need a break,” she declares.
“I don’t need a break,” I grumble, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
She moves directly in front of me and plants her hands on her hips. “You’re getting cranky. I can see it in your eyes.”
My patience is wearing thin, but it has little to do with her. It’s the lack of progress in my research, the unanswered questions. The gnawing hunger that only abates when I’m inside her.
I remove my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose, exhaling a long, measured breath before replacing them.
“You can call it a night, if you’d like.”
Her brows lift. “You that eager to get rid of me?”
“No. You simply seem bored.”
“I am bored,” she says with a laugh. “But it’s fine. I’m finished with the data entry, so just tell me where you want me next.”
Tied to the bed in the playroom, ideally.
I dismiss the thought before it can gain traction and gesture toward the sample rack beside me. “I’m finished with these. Load them into trays and return them to the refrigerator, then bring me the remaining samples from the lower shelf.”
She doesn’t argue, setting work transferring the tubes while I redirect my attention to the analyzer.
The process has become excruciatingly monotonous. Draw, deposit, analyze, record. Again and again, with little variation beyond minor fluctuations in the data and the persistent absence of the result I’m looking for.
Beatrix returns with the new trays as I finish the last sample from the current batch and reach the end of my control sample. I record the result, then open the small refrigerator beneath my workbench to retrieve two tubes I keep stored separately from the others.
“What are you doing now?” she asks.
“Preparing the control,” I murmur.
As distracting as she is, I force myself to focus.
This research is too important to neglect.
Questions are already being asked about James and Taylor, which means I’m on a deadline. When the truth about their bond is eventually discovered, speculation will spread quickly. I intend to have answers before that happens.
If Taylor is the only human capable of forming this kind of bond, then what happened between her and James is an anomaly– one that will invite considerable envy from other vampires.
The goal is to identify others like her, thereby turning Taylor and James’ bond into a beacon of hope rather than a threat to the order of things.
The first batch of samples yielded nothing. I’m hoping the second proves more useful. Before testing them, however, I need to confirm that my control remains reactive.
I take the preserved samples of James and Taylor’s blood from before their bond was sealed and place them on the workbench. There isn’t much left. What remains is irreplaceable, which makes me reluctant to use even a few drops, but without a reliable control, the rest of the data is meaningless.
I draw a small amount from each vial and combine them in a clean tube. The reaction is immediate– light blooms through the blood, a warm phosphorescent glow emanating from the mixture and reflecting faintly off the stainless steel beneath it.
Beatrix’s eyes widen, the effect exaggerated by the dark liner beneath her lashes.
“Ooh,” she breathes, leaning closer. “Is that supposed to happen?”
“Only under very specific circumstances,” I reply. “It’s an emergent property caused by the interaction of certain proteins in human blood with enzymes unique to–”
I stop, realizing she’s staring at me blankly, not processing any of the information I’m throwing at her.
“In English?” she asks.
“James and Taylor’s blood is uniquely compatible. When combined, it reacts.”
Her attention returns to the tube, the blood inside still glowing. She leans closer, her dark hair falling over her eyes as she braces one hand against the bench. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s dangerous,” I correct.
The glow persists for several seconds before gradually fading, the blood returning to its ordinary dark red color.
She glances up at me, brows drawing in. “Why’d it stop?”
“Because these samples were collected before their bond was sealed. The compatibility was already there, but the bond itself was not.” I set the tube aside. “Their blood behaves differently now.”
“Different how?”
“The reaction is always present.”
Her brows shoot up.
I return Taylor’s sample to the rack. There’s precious little of it remaining, and once it’s gone, I have no means of obtaining more blood from her in its original state. A problem for another day– one that’s rapidly approaching.
“So what does that have to do with all these?” she asks, gesturing toward the trays of samples she just carried over.
“I found something unusual in Taylor’s blood. A biological marker I’ve never encountered in another human.”
“The thing that makes her bond with James?”
“Potentially,” I murmur. “At minimum, I believe it’s what makes a bond possible in the first place.”
Understanding slowly dawns across her face. “So you’re looking for it in other people.”
“Exactly.”
She folds her arms, leaning back against the counter. “Why?”
“To determine whether this phenomena is unique to Taylor and James, or whether it can be replicated.”
“But why?” she presses.
I pause, glancing over at her.
The answer seems self-evident. Knowledge has never required a practical justification as far as I’m concerned. There’s an unanswered question in front of me, and I intend to answer it.
Beatrix, however, is unlikely to find that reasoning satisfactory.
“If the same marker exists in other humans, then Taylor may not be the only person capable of forming a blood bond with a vampire.”
Her brow furrows as she processes that. “So you’re basically testing humans for a secret bonded-to-a-vampire gene?”
My mouth tightens. “That’s an offensively simplistic description.”
“But accurate?”
I hesitate, then mumble, “Essentially.”
I return James’ sample to the undercounter refrigerator, keeping Taylor’s on the bench now that I’ve confirmed the control is still reactive.