Epilogue
The moment I step into the apartment, the scent of freshly baked bread and garlic envelop me like a warm hug. I sigh happily as I shrug off my coat, tension from the long day already melting from my shoulders.
I follow the smell to the kitchen. It’s not a long trek—our apartment is pretty small, a single bedroom with a tiny patio out back.
I was worried that it wouldn’t be enough for my gorgeous, glamorous vampire boyfriend, but he’s taken to it surprisingly well…
as evidenced by the fact that he’s currently waiting in our cramped kitchen, wearing an apron that says “king of the kitchen.”
I grin, leaning against the doorway to watch him stir the bubbling tomato sauce. “Hi, baby.”
“Welcome home, mon chou.” He sets aside the wooden spoon to come kiss me. “How was your day?”
I sigh, leaning into him and breathing in his familiar scent. Beneath the apron, the collar of his shirt is stained with paint. “Good. Yours?”
“Better now that you’re here.”
“Cheesy.”
“I’m French, I don’t consider that an insult.” He kisses me again, this one deeper and slower. I let myself fall into it, running a hand through his silky curls, until I’m a little breathless.
Then I pull away, biting my lip. “You’re going to burn dinner,” I say. “Again.”
“And it would be worth it. Again.”
The wicked look on his face reminds me of a dozen times I’ve been bent over this counter, or spread out on the table, or pinned down on the floor. He chases my lips, steals one last kiss before I laugh and playfully push him away.
“Elaine and Sophie say hello,” I tell him, leaning against the counter.
“You should invite them over for dinner again,” Claude says. “I’m sure Sophie is getting closer to making it through the evening without fainting from my presence.”
I laugh. “I hope so. It’s getting a little ridiculous.” My smile fades after a few moments, though. “And… my mom called again.”
He looks sideways at me. “Oh?”
I bite my lip and nod. “I finally blocked her. It wasn’t doing me any good, seeing her name pop up every few months.”
He pulls me against him and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Good. I’m proud of you.”
Dinner is quiet and delicious as always.
Claude is finally getting better at cooking normal portions, too.
When we’re done eating—and him drinking—I clean the dishes.
Of all the adjustments to our new life together, I think letting me help around the apartment has been the hardest. Even now he fidgets as he watches me, twirling rings around his fingers like he’s physically suppressing the urge to come do it himself.
But as I’ve told him a million times, sometimes I want a chance to take care of him, too.
Maybe the discomfort of that isn’t the only thing making him restless tonight, though, because when I’m finished, he clears his throat and takes my hand, giving me a serious look.
“I want to show you something,” he says.
“Okay…” I follow him into the bedroom, and pause as I see the paintings crowding the room. Even now, Claude has been hesitant to show me his work; he usually has his art put away by the time I come home, and I’ve always respected his privacy.
But now, it’s all laid out for me to see. A dozen different paintings I haven’t seen before—all of them of me.
A lump grows in my throat as I look from piece to piece.
Me curled up in a chair reading, me lying in bed with my face slack in sleep, me in the shower with droplets of water cascading down my face.
Some of them are suggestive. A few are downright lewd.
But most just capture me in moments of day-to-day life, relaxed and unassuming.
The portraits are realistic. They have the same flaws I see in myself: the chip in my front tooth, the uneven squint in my eyes when I smile, the same imperfect face and body I see every day. Yet it isn’t like looking in the mirror. I look different in Claude’s hand, from Claude’s eyes. I look…
“Beautiful,” I whisper.
Claude’s arms encircle me from behind, his chin resting atop my head. “Yes,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“This is amazing, Claude.” I lean back against him, still unable to take my eyes off the portraits. “What are you going to do with them?”
“Well, that’s up to you,” he says. “I have toyed with the idea of doing an exhibition, after I help Lady Elizabeth organize her next one. But are you alright with me sharing them with the world?”
“I…” I turn over the idea in my head, imagining it. A gallery full of pictures of me. Once, I would’ve shied away from the idea immediately, afraid of what it might mean. But now…
I point. “That one is definitely not seeing the light of day.”
Claude’s laugh vibrates against my back. “Oh, no. That one’s for me.”
“But the rest…” I bite my lip, surprised at my own daring, and how the idea of these portraits in a gallery makes my chest fills with warmth. “The rest you could share.”
Claude spins me around and lifts my chin with a finger, searching my eyes. “Really?”
I smile. “Really.”
His smile grows. “Mon coeur,” he murmurs. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” More than I ever would’ve thought possible.
“Now…” He slowly lowers himself to his knees in front of me, looking up with a familiar mischievous grin. “Time for dessert?”
And now, as every time before, Claude makes love like he makes art: his touch careful and incisive, his beauty almost painful to behold.