Page 63 of Bleed

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.

Chapter

Fifteen

BEX

It feels good to be back at the tattoo shop. Walking through the front door earlier tonight felt like stepping back into my old life, and I hadn’t even realized how much I’d missed it.

Not the constant worrying about whether I’d have enough money to make rent or feed myself, of course. I definitely don’t miss that. But the buzz of tattoo machines, the sharp smell of disinfectant and fresh ink, and the familiar rhythm of taking orders from Ronnie and bickering with Devin all settle over me like muscle memory.

Within minutes of slipping behind my station, it almost feels like I never left. Ronnie doesn’t even ask where I’ve been, just tells me when my first client is due to come in and leaves me to set up. As far as he’s concerned, my ‘personal drama’ is responsible for my reduced hours lately, and he’s never been the type to pry for details. It’s one of the things I’ve always appreciated about him– if I want to talk, he’ll listen, and if I don’t, he minds his own damn business.

Devin knows the truth, but he also signed an NDA when he became a Bite donor, which means we both have to dance around the parts of our lives we can’t talk about. He keeps it vague when he asks how I’ve been, and before long we’re back to doing what we do best– trading gossip, complaining about tattoo clients, and talking shit until it feels less like catching up and more like no time has passed at all.

It’s easy to slip back into the rhythm of this place. The penthouse has started to feel familiar in its own way, but it’s so polished and pristine, every room so damn quiet that it feels like a museum. Here, there’s always music playing somewhere in the background, ink stains on the counters, and laughter drifting between stations. The shop feels like it has a life of its own.