Page 142 of Bleed

I stare at his outstretched palm. Then at Vincent’s head. Then back into Elliott’s eyes.

Well.

I suppose we’ve committed to this particular brand of insanity.

I place my hand in his, and his fingers close firmly around mine. He guides me toward the door, stepping over Vincent’s body without so much as glancing down. I’m considerably less graceful about it, the sole of my boot landing in a puddle of vampire blood as I try to skirt the carnage. I track it all the way to the door, leaving dark red footprints behind me.

“Bex.”

Ronnie’s voice stops me just before we reach it, and something in his tone makes my chest ache.

I turn to find him standing beside Devin, staring at me from across the wreckage of his shop, and a resigned sigh escapes me. “I know.”

His expression tightens, and I give him a small, wistful smile before letting my gaze drift around the room.

My stool. My station. The stupid stickers stuck along the edge of my mirror. Shelves of ink and tattoo designs covering the walls. The place where I’ve spent countless hours making art, talking shit, bitching about clients, and eating cheap takeout between appointments.

For years, this place was home…

But I guess I’ve got a new one now.

I look back at Ronnie, forcing a brittle smile. “I’ll see you around?”

His jaw clenches. “You better.”

I hold his gaze for another second, then turn away. Elliott steps through the shattered remains of the door, and I follow him out into the night.

“I’ll buy you a tattoo shop,” he murmurs.

A laugh escapes me despite everything. Of course that’s his solution.

I wipe a smear of blood from my cheek with the back of my hand. “Were you stalking me again?”

“Watching,” he corrects. “Always.”

“Whatever.”

I shake my head, though I can’t really object to him stalking me this time since he swept in and saved my ass. And Taylor’s, probably. I just know that dumb bitch would’ve come running if Vincent was holding me hostage, and then if Vincent didn’t kill me, James would’ve.

I spot the familiar shape of Elliott’s matte black McLaren GT parked down the street, starting toward it.

“Not that way,” he mutters.

I stop and look back at him, arching a brow.

“I don’t want blood on the interior.” He nods in the opposite direction, where the black SUV from his security company is parked at the curb– the same one that brought me here earlier.

“Good call,” I say, changing course.

I should probably be freaking out right now. Instead, a slightly hysterical laugh presses at the back of my throat.

Not long ago, my biggest problem was choosing which engagements to take. Now, I’m walking down the street covered in vampire blood while a Nobel Prize-winning immortal offers to buy me a tattoo shop because the one I worked at has become collateral damage in supernatural politics.

My life has officially become fucking ridiculous. Dangerous, complicated, and completely unrecognizable from the one I had a few months ago.

But as Elliott falls into step beside me, his hand brushing mine, I can’t bring myself to wish any of it back.

At least it isn’t boring.