“You’re bleeding.” My voice is low and calm; there’s no shock or animated concern. It’s like I’m in a trance, unable to look away from the droplets sliding down Mr. Sharpe’s pale palm before dripping onto the carpet. I can almost hear it as it hits the fibers, being soaked up by the floor. 

What a waste. 

I’m salivating, licking my lips as I reach forward. I grip his arm without warning, yanking his open palm closer to me so I can get a good look at the blood. It’s beautiful. My thirst is undeniable, every part of me locked in on the blood staining his skin. 

I’m flushed and panting, longing to taste it. It draws me in—the sight, the scent—I’ve never felt more thirsty than in this moment. 

My fangs react, growing larger, longer, sharper in my mouth. I feel them prick my tongue before pushing against my lower lip. 

The pain jolts me back to life and I drop Mr. Sharpe’s hand instantly.

Why would you do that Micah? Who the hell grabs someone like that?! I think it, but I know why. There’s a reason we’re only allowed cold, bagged blood… When it’s fresh like this, it does something to us. Something monstrous and un-controllable. 

If I’d tasted him…   

I can’t think about it. I’m filled with dread, covering my mouth with my arm so he won’t see my fangs. I should have packed a face mask—really I should have one on me at all times for instances like this. I don’t know what I was thinking. 

Maybe I thought there wouldn’t be many people in close proximity or that accidents wouldn’t happen in an office space… 

Maybe I just didn’t want to admit to myself that it would affect me this way… 

Or maybe I wanted to seem normal. Human. 

But I’m not.  

I stand up, averting my gaze. I’m not brave enough to look down at where he’s still kneeling and see his expression. “S-Sorry. Blood makes me queasy!” I lie, and my voice is muffled by my arm. 

“Oh… That’s alright,” Mr. Sharpe says, though he sounds uncertain, suspicious. Did he see my fangs? 

I try to focus on what’s important, and right now, that isn’t blood. It’s the fact that Mr. Sharpe is hurt. I brace myself to look at him. He’s still wincing, his hand back on his head like he’s holding pressure. 

My eyes flick to the ladder lying on the ground at an awkward angle. It’s heavy, made of metal with lots of sharp corners. He could need stitches or have a concussion. 

I try not to let the guilt eat me alive; this happened because he was helping me…

Now, I want to help him. 

“Do you have a first aid kit?” I ask, looking around the room for a closet where it might be. I struggle to remember if there was a supply cupboard down the hall. 

“Bottom drawer of my desk,” he says, and moves like he’s about to get up. 

“Hey! What are you doing? Stay still!” I bark at him, still holding my arm over my face. 

Mr. Sharpe blinks up at me with wide eyes. “Alright,” he says; it almost looks like he’s fighting an amused smile. I’ve been such a bumbling idiot he probably didn’t think I’d have a single authoritative bone in my body. But I do… sometimes. 

He adjusts himself to sit with his legs crossed as I walk behind him and drop my arm, knowing he can’t see me. The scent of blood still claws at my throat and lungs, almost begging for me to indulge in my desire. 

I can’t. I won’t.   

Heading for the desk, I crouch down and open the bottom drawer. It’s unlocked. I smirk a little as I see it’s filled with more energy drinks and a few necessities like tissues, hand lotion, and cologne. They all look like expensive brands.

I dig out the first aid kit, grabbing the tissues before closing the drawer.

Returning to Mr. Sharpe, I kneel behind him. He’s taller than me, so I have to stay perfectly upright and lift my chin a little to see where he’s been injured. His hand is still covering the gash, but I can see slick blood seeping through his fingers and getting tacky in his hair. 

My fangs are so sharp they pierce my lips, and I eagerly lick up the drops of blood that spill from my own flesh. Somehow it tastes flavorless compared to the scent of Mr. Sharpe’s.

Distracting myself as I try to keep it together, I hand him the tissues, saying. “Here. To clean off your hand. But don’t move it yet.” 

He takes the tissues, nodding. “Thanks.”

I put the kit down and open it. It looks completely unused, apart from maybe a few bandages missing. Excitement spikes through me as I see a new, wrapped black facemask and a pair of latex gloves. I quickly rip them open and put them on, feeling like I can think a little clearer now that I’m not constantly smelling his blood; my fangs don’t retract though, and I doubt they will until there’s no sign of blood for at least a few hours. 

I lean around his side, asking permission this time as I say, “You should probably head to the hospital but, do you mind if I look first? Maybe I can at least stop the bleeding if the cut’s not too deep.”

“No need for the hospital, but go ahead.”

“There might be a need,” I retort.

All he says is, “We’ll see. Thanks, Micah.” 

I still shudder when he says my name, though I wish he wasn’t thanking me. “Don’t be silly. This is my fault,” I mutter, prepping an ample wad of gauze.

“It was an accident. Not your fault,” Mr. Sharpe insists. He sounds breathless. 

I want to fight him on the fact, but I’m quiet as I gently move his hand. There's no resistance from him, and he lets his arm fall to his side. 

Though the cut is small and mostly hidden by his dark hair, it’s still profusely dripping blood. 

I grit my teeth, trying to crush my urges as I quickly apply pressure to stop the bleeding. The blood soaks into the thick pad of gauze, but it doesn’t drench all the way through. “I’ll have to hold pressure for about 10 to 15 minutes. Then we’ll see if it stops. Can you set a timer on your phone or something?” I hope he doesn’t mind sitting like this for that long. 

Mr. Sharpe pulls his phone out of his pocket. I can’t really see what he’s doing, but after a few seconds he says, “Alright. Done.” He’s quieter than usual. I wouldn’t mind if he’s mad, I wouldn’t blame him, but I’m worried he’s in pain.

“Does your head hurt? Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?” I try to keep my voice professional—more professional than I’ve been for the past few days, at least. 

He groans a bit, grunting before he says, “Yeah, a little. Damn that ladder’s heavy.”

I can feel the concern on my face as my brows pinch and furrow. “You might have a concussion. We should call an ambulance—”

“I don’t need an ambulance, I’m fine. I still have some work I need to finish by morning.” He doesn’t say it gruffly but he’s stern. 

I shouldn’t push him. He’s my boss and he took the brunt of the impact for me… But I’m insistent as I respond, “Those could be signs of something serious. If you leave this untreated you could develop a hematoma, or seizures. You were hit in the head, it’s not nothing!” 

He moves to look over his shoulder at me and I have to awkwardly turn with him so I can keep pressure on his laceration. In moving, I find myself tipping forward, now leaning against his back. It makes me blush, pressing up against him like this, and I’m grateful I’m wearing a face mask to hide it. 

His dark gaze meets mine and I see him raise a brow. “You seem to know quite a bit. Do you watch those medical dramas in your spare time or something?”

My heart quickens. I don’t really want to tell him, but maybe if I do he’ll take me more seriously… “I used to be an orderly at the hospital in my hometown.”

Now both his brows are raised. He looks impressed, and it fills me with a small burst of pride before it shatters, leaving only dread. I don’t want to remember my past or when I was happy those few years… It’s painful.

“I see. You must have seen a lot working there.”

Clearing my throat, I give him a firm nod. “Yeah. I have. That’s why I think you should get this looked at by a professional. At least rule anything out… I’d hate it if something happened to you because of me…” My voice trails off with a heavy sigh. 

Mr. Sharpe sighs, too, saying, “It’s not your fault.”

“It is totally my fault!” I snap back, tilting slightly so I can meet his eyes better. Now I’m the stern one, stating, “I’m the one who got stuck on the ladder. I’m the one who slipped. I’m the one who grabbed you by the tie and yanked you down with me!”

For some reason I expect that saying all this out loud will finally anger him as he realizes I am to blame. Instead, he laughs. I can feel the rumble through his strong, muscular back. His eyes close for a second before he opens them and says, “That was pretty surprising. I really didn’t think you’d fall.”

I smile a little, feeling my heart flutter as he shoots me that dazzling grin again. I feel like a cartoon character with my heart nearly pumping out of my chest. “Yeah, well. Like you said, I don’t have the best luck.” My smile fades as I say it out loud. It’s a sad truth. 

Mr. Sharpe shifts again, folding his hands together in his lap. One of them is still covered in blood, though it’s drying; he’s clearly tried to wipe most of it away. He’s quiet for a moment before he says, “We’ll just have to change that, won’t we?”

Under my mask, my lips part in quiet surprise. I swallow hard, trying not to read into the statement. He’s just being nice, I remind myself. I have to keep reminding myself, because every time he says something remotely kind, I swoon. 

We sit in silence until the timer goes off. Carefully, I peel back the gauze to see the cut’s stopped bleeding. It’s a relief, and my arms relax—stiff and sore from holding them in position for so long. I wish I could collapse onto his back and close my eyes, but I just slouch, deliberately stopping myself from touching him. 

“How is it?” Mr. Sharpe asks. He sounds unconcerned, but I feel like he should be. 

I visually examine the cut now that it’s a little clearer. “It’s stopped bleeding, but probably still needs stitches. And I still think you should go to the ER and get a concussion ruled out. I understand you’re worried about your work, but your health should come first. You’re more important. Sir.” I add the ‘sir’ quickly, trying to make sure my words and tone still sound professional. 

Mr. Sharpe’s still seated as he turns to face me. His gaze flick to my mask before flashing up to meet my eyes again. “You know, when I hear you call me Mr. Sharpe, it sounds like you think I’m superior to you. And I’m not.”

I scoff a little, pulling off the latex gloves so the gauze is trapped inside it when I pull it inside out. I place them beside me, leaving the mask on as I run my tongue over my fangs. They’re still protruding and I’m still thirsty, but I’m not enraptured by the blood right now. It’s his voice that has me spellbound. 

“You’re the CEO of a major company. How are you not my superior?” I keep his gaze, not looking away this time. 

I can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, looking at my mask again. 

Can he see my fangs? I worry.

It doesn’t seem like it as he murmurs, “I just don’t see myself like that. I know these are your working hours, but they’re after hours for me. I hear myself being called ‘Mr. Sharpe’ all day long.” He holds my gaze, looking at me intently as he adds, even softer, “Please, just call me Vincent.”

I wonder if he can see my pulse jump in my throat. We’re almost as close as we were when he fell on top of me, and I have to stop myself from leaning in closer. I still think it’s unfair how handsome and charming he is. It feels dangerous to be so attracted to him…

“If I agree to call you Vincent, will you go get your head checked out?” I ask, wondering if it’s inappropriate of me to use that as leverage. 

He laughs a little, wincing like it hurts his head. Still, he smiles at me. “I’ll go get my head checked out anyway, since you’re worried. But I’d still like it if you called me my name.”

“I’ll think about it.” I break his gaze, pushing myself up to stand. Gathering the materials I used and the bloody tissues, I discard them in his empty garbage bin. He’s still sitting, watching me as I tidy up and replace the first aid kit and tissue pack in the bottom drawer of his desk. 

Outstretching my hand to him, I say, “Let’s see if you can stand.”

He takes my hand with his bloody palm, pressing his weight onto me. I have to fight to hold him up, but he stands. He looks a little unsteady on his feet and puts a hand to his head. His eyes are closed and his brow is creased. 

I move my hands to his sides; it’s a silly act because there’s no way I’m strong enough to catch him if he topples, but it makes me feel like maybe I’d have a chance. I can feel the firm ridges of his muscles under his shirt and sternly force myself not to give in to temptation. I can’t let my hands wander, not even a little. 

“We should call an ambulance. You can’t drive like this,” I urge. 

He shakes his head, stubbornly saying, “That’s too much fuss. I’ll call a cab—”

“You could pass out in the cab! Then what?” I’m feeling slightly frantic at the idea, and my nerves make me ramble as I say, “What about that driver of yours? Nigel? Or Sam?”

Vincent shakes his head again, leaning into me slightly as he says, “I sent Nigel home and Sam can’t drive…”

I suck in a sharp breath, cursing myself internally. “I don’t have a car, but if yours is here, and you trust me… I’ll drive you.”

“You behind the wheel, huh?” Vincent smirks, opening his dark eyes to glance at me. “Maybe I should take my luck with the cab.” He gives me a wink to let me know he’s teasing, but I wonder if there’s some truth behind it. I probably wouldn’t trust me after the blatant displays of clumsiness I’ve made—not to mention I’m a total stranger. 

I frown at him, unamused as I snap back with, “It’s that or the ambulance.”

He stares at me for a moment with a tender gaze and I wish I could tell what he’s thinking. Maybe he does have a concussion and isn’t thinking clearly, who knows what he could be imagining. 

Then, he says three little words that make my heart skip a beat…

“Take my keys.”