Chapter 31
Chapter
Thirty-One
ELLIOTT
The wine pours from the bottle in a thin stream of garnet, catching the pendant lights above the kitchen island as it splashes against the curved glass of the decanter. I rotate my wrist slowly as I empty it, careful not to disturb the sediment collected at the bottom.
A 1971 Romanée-Conti.
I’ve had it for more than half a century.
There have been occasions over the years when I considered opening it. Awards, scientific breakthroughs, the Nobel. Each time, I decided against it. The bottle felt too rare, too valuable, too difficult to replace for an accomplishment that ultimately felt trivial.
Tonight feels different.
For the first time, I woke beside my bonded.
Beatrix is down the hall, relaxing in the bath– or she was until approximately twenty minutes ago, when I heard the water drain and her bare feet begin their restless pacing across her bedroom floor.
A smile threatens the corner of my mouth as I set the empty bottle aside.
I can think of no better occasion to finally enjoy it.
The door to her bedroom swings open, and Beatrix emerges from the hall a few seconds later, finger-combing her short dark hair away from her face.
She’s wearing a loose t-shirt that falls halfway down her thighs, her legs bare beneath it, skin still slightly flushed from the bath.
There’s a distinct vitality to her movements– she practically vibrates with energy as she struts toward me.
“How was the bath?” I ask.
“Good,” she breathes, fingers still raking absently through the damp ends of her hair.
“Did it relax you?”
“A little.” She stops at the opposite end of the kitchen island, rocking onto the balls of her feet, then back onto her heels. “I don’t know. I just have this weird energy.”
My chin dips in a nod. “Completely normal.”
“Huh?” Her brows draw in, eyes narrowing.
“Your body is adjusting to the bond,” I explain. “You’ve undergone a substantial physiological change in a very short period of time. It may take some time for your system to reach equilibrium.”
“Great,” she snorts, bending over the island and propping her elbows against the granite.
The position causes the hem of her shirt to ride dangerously high over the backs of her inked thighs. I make a concerted effort to keep my attention on the wine, ultimately failing.
Beatrix presses her thighs together, shifting her weight slightly. “If it doesn’t level out soon, I doubt I’ll ever be able to sleep again,” she mumbles, staring into the decanter.
“If necessary, I’m more than willing to exhaust you every night.”
She looks up at me, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Promise?”
I give her a loaded look that conveys my dedication to the task, and she laughs, pushing upright and rounding the island.
She’s a few steps from me when she notices her sketchbook lying open on the counter. She abruptly slams to a stop, head whipping toward me.
“You didn’t look at that, did you?” she asks, her tone thick with accusation.
“I did.”
She stares at me, mouth dropping open as though I’ve just admitted to some egregious moral failing. “Eli!”
I frown. “What?”
She snatches up the sketchbook and snaps it closed against her chest. “This is private.”
My brow furrows. “Then why did you leave it there?”
“Because I didn’t think you’d go snooping through it,” she scoffs.
“Why don’t you want your art to be seen?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Your work is extraordinary, you should be showing it off.”
“Says the guy who keeps his Nobel Prize shut away in an upstairs office,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “And besides, I do show it off. All the time. My tattoos are literally walking around on people’s bodies.” She hugs the sketchbook tighter against herself. “But the stuff in here is different.”
“How?” I ask, not following.
“Because it’s just…” Her nose scrunches as she searches for the words. “These sketches are straight from my brain. I draw whatever I’m thinking about, whatever I’m feeling. It’s personal.”
Ah.
My gaze drops to the book clutched against her chest. “What didn’t you want me to see?”
A flush creeps into her cheeks. She says nothing, but she doesn’t need to– I already know precisely which pieces she’s referencing.
There were dozens of drawings inside that book. Some unfinished, little more than loose lines and shadows, while others were rendered in meticulous detail. Studies of hands, eyes, mouths, and faces.
My hands. My eyes. My mouth. My face.
One particularly detailed sketch of me in the lab was so precise I could identify the exact evening she must’ve drawn it from memory.
Satisfaction settles warmly in my chest.
“You scolded me for watching you,” I point out, unable to keep the smugness from my voice, "but it appears you’ve been doing the same thing.”
She gasps dramatically. “This is not the same.”
“Isn’t it?” I tilt my head, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“Not even a little,” she insists.
My brows lift. “You’ve apparently studied my hands extensively enough to reproduce the veins across my knuckles.”
“That’s…” She shifts the sketchbook against her chest, adorably flustered. “An artistic observation.”
“I see.” My gaze drops to the book, then lifts to meet hers again. “And the four separate drawings of my mouth?”
Her cheeks turn an even deeper shade of pink, knuckles whitening around the edges of the binding.
I almost laugh.
Instead, I reach for the decanter, deciding I’ve tormented her enough for the moment.
“Have some wine.”
Her eyes narrow, clearly recognizing the diversion for what it is, but she doesn’t protest. She just glances at the decanter and sighs wistfully.
“Well, I won’t turn that down.”
Setting the sketchbook down on the edge of the counter– closed, this time– she drifts toward me as I start pouring two glasses.
“Is this the good stuff?” she asks.
“It’s a 1971 Romanée-Conti.”
She squints at it as I pour, clearly not understanding the magnitude of that statement.
“Very rare,” I add, handing her a glass.
“Oh.” She brightens, fingers wrapping around the stem. “So it is the good stuff.”
“Yes.”
Someday, I’ll teach her to appreciate wine properly.
Not because there’s anything particularly wrong with the way she enjoys it now, but because I find myself wanting to share the experience with her.
To show her the regions, the vineyards. The subtle differences between vintages she currently dismisses as my bougie vampire shit, as she so eloquently puts it.
Perhaps we’ll travel. Select the bottles ourselves from France, Italy, Spain, Argentina. Visit the vineyards together and restock the cellar she’s spent the last month systematically pillaging.
Beatrix takes another sip and wanders toward the living room, completely oblivious to the future I’ve begun construction for us in my head.
My gaze instantly drops to her ass. The shirt she’s wearing barely covers it, shifting with the easy sway of her hips as she walks away. Heat gathers lower in my abdomen, my cock stirring at the thought of being buried deep inside her last night.
She abruptly stops, her shoulders stiffening before she whips around so quickly that a damp strand of hair sticks to her cheek.
“Were you just checking me out?”
“Yes.” I’m not sure why she’s surprised by that, considering how often I do it.
She stares at me in bewilderment. “Elliott, I felt it,” she breathes, pressing a hand to her belly. “Out of nowhere, I just got hit with this wave of being turned on.”
Understanding dawns, the corner of my mouth twitching. “Also normal.”
“Wait, what?” She blinks. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” I confirm, the equation slotting together in my own mind. “Taylor and James reported the same phenomenon. Bonded pairs experience some degree of emotional transference.”
Beatrix blinks at me a few more times before her brow slowly furrows. “Well, that feels unfair.”
I pick up my wine glass, rounding the island toward her. “Why’s that?”
“Because I’m an emotional bitch and you barely have emotions.”
My mouth pulls into a frown, steps slowing to a stop.
“It seems like you’d be the only one reaping the benefits in that scenario,” she continues, apparently oblivious to the way she just insulted me.
“I assure you, I have emotions just like anyone else,” I mutter.
She clucks her tongue. “Uh huh.”
“I simply don’t display them as openly as most.”
She arches a dubious brow. “Sure.”
My frown deepens. “I suppose you’ll just have to wait and see.”
Her eyes narrow with suspicion before she turns and continues into the living room.
I follow, deciding not to dwell on her apparent belief that I’m completely soulless.
She claims one end of the sofa, and I sit beside her, but evidently not close enough. She immediately scoots across the cushion until her hip is pressed against mine, turns sideways, and throws both legs over my lap.
Apparently, personal space is no longer something I’m permitted to have.
Stranger still, I don’t want it.
“So.” She drags a pillow behind her back to prop herself up, balancing her wine glass against her stomach. “What else can I expect with this bond?”
I take a sip from my own glass as I consider the question.
Much of what was once known about blood bonds has been lost. Vampires have existed for millennia, but reliable documentation is remarkably scarce, particularly regarding the bonds that became increasingly rare as our population grew more detached from humans.
Ancient texts contradict one another. Accounts have been exaggerated, mistranslated, or gradually reduced to mythology.
Until James and Taylor, I didn’t even believe in them myself.
Now I’m part of one.
The scientist in me finds the prospect of studying the phenomenon exhilarating. The rest of me is still struggling to comprehend that Beatrix will remain at my side long enough for us to discover the answers together. No relationship I’ve had has ever promised that kind of permanency.