Chapter Eleven
My first glimpse of Claude’s home—my home, for the next year—takes my breath away.
I was half expecting someone as dramatic as Claude to live in some kind of abandoned, moody old mansion.
Instead the house is boxy and modern, all smooth gray walls and big, bold windows, and perched on a cliff overlooking the sea.
I get the shivers just imagining the view.
When I get out of the car, I take a deep breath of salty air and smile.
The wind tugs at my hair and clothing, carrying the sound of waves and the smell of the ocean.
The Bay Area is just about an hour from LA by plane, and it feels like a different world.
Especially since Claude’s abode is hours away from the nearest city, far from the smog and the crowds.
I walk to the edge of the driveway and gaze over the side of the cliff. Beneath the night sky, the waves are so dark, they’re nearly black.
When I turn back to the house, I see Claude waiting on the porch, watching me. He wears a white shirt with billowing sleeves and a deep V-neck, revealing a generous sliver of his pale chest.
My mouth goes suddenly dry as the reality of the situation crashes into me. This is how it’s going to be for the next year: me, this frustratingly attractive vampire, and a contract that forbids intimacy between us. How did I ever think this would be anything except outrageously awkward?
I curtsy and duck my face to hide my sudden trepidation. “Lord Claude.”
He studies me. “There’s no need for that formality. Welcome to your new home.”
For the next year, I add silently. I step forward and take his proffered arm, letting him lead me inside.
He gives me a tour of the premises, which are clean and white and angular, much like the exterior.
The walls are oddly bare, and the windows that looked pretty for the outside give me a strange feeling now that I’m here, like I’m a creature under observation.
Claude shows me the living room with its raised ceiling and square sofas, the dining room with its glass table and high-backed chairs, and my own bedroom, with a four-poster bed and crisp white sheets, and a bookshelf organized carefully by color and size.
“I hope everything is to your liking,” he says.
“It’s nice,” I say.
He glances at me sideways. “Ah,” he says. “You hate it.”
“What? No!” My face flames scarlet.
“You hate it almost as much as you hated my painting.”
“I never said—”
“You’re not a very good liar, you know. Better to just tell the truth.”
I sigh, and relent. “I guess I’m just surprised. This doesn’t seem like a place where you would live.”
“Not all vampires live in mysterious gothic mansions, you know,” he says. “Some of us have adapted to the modern world.”
“I know that! It’s just so…” I fumble, unsure how to put it into words. It’s more like a staged home than a lived-in one. The sort of place you feel like you’ll dirty just by existing. Cold, impersonal, unwelcoming. “…Clean.”
He stares at me. I stare back, feeling dumber by the moment.
“Well,” he says eventually. “I’ll give you some time to settle in. Dinner will be at three, if it would please you to join me.”
He leaves me there before I have a chance to respond. I sigh, setting down my purse and flopping onto the too-big bed.
Just a year, I tell myself as I stare up at the glaringly white ceiling. But right now, it feels like an impossibly long stretch of time.
* * *
I doze on and off—I’m still adjusting to a vampire’s nocturnal schedule after a lifetime of being an early riser.
But despite feeling like I’d rather hole myself up in my room until I can forget the embarrassment of our earlier conversation, I head out to join Claude in the dining room at three a.m., like he asked.
I pause in the doorway, struck by the sight of him sitting at the end of the long glass table. With a cluster of lit candles and the beautiful view of the sea through the window, it should be romantic, but there’s something sad about him sitting there at this big table alone.
“Is it just the two of us?” I ask, still standing in the doorway.
Claude glances up at me and frowns. “Who else would be here?”
I step into the room, shrugging. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d have staff, or…?”
“No,” he says. “It’s just me. Sorry to disappoint.”
I shake my head, tucking hair behind my ear as I take my place at the opposite end of the table, where my plate has been set. There’s a Mediterranean salad, crisp greens with bursts of ripe red tomato and crumbly feta, along with a rather generous pour of red wine. “Then who made the food?”
He blinks, as if surprised by the question. “I did.”
“You can cook?”
He blinks. “Well, it’s a salad tonight, so there wasn’t much cooking involved, but… yes.”
“You know what I mean,” I say. “You can’t taste food, so how can you prepare it?”
He quirks a brow. “Still perfectly capable of following a recipe, I assure you.”
I flush, feeling foolish. “I… guess I didn’t think of that.”
He stares at me, one corner of his mouth curling. “You’re surprised at my ability to perform basic tasks and maintain a clean house,” he says. “These assumptions are interesting.”
I stab a forkful of salad to save myself from speaking further, since I seem to only be able to blurt out the wrong things.
It’s good—fresh and vibrant, with a pleasant sharpness from the vinaigrette.
Claude is watching me across the table, so I smile after I swallow my first mouthful. “It’s good. Thank you.”
His eyebrows rise. “A compliment? How novel.”
I roll my eyes and take another bite. “I wasn’t aware compliments were part of my job description.” After a third bite—and the peculiar sensation of being watched as I eat—I frown at him. “You aren’t eating.”
He wets his lips, and a hint of fang catches the light. “I’ll eat after you do.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right.” I take a gulp of wine to hide my flush. I can’t help but remember the way he cradled me as he bit me at the ball, and the heat rushing to every part of my body. But surely I’ll get used to the sensation if I’m doing it every night. I have to. Right?
The room is quiet as I eat. The whole house is quiet, almost stiflingly so.
I didn’t imagine that it would be just the two of us in this big house.
And before I came, it was just him. Maybe it should sound pleasant, after my lifetime of cramped spaces and nosy roommates, but instead it sounds… lonely.
I’m not the dramatic artsy type like he is, though. He probably loves brooding in solitude on the porch, looking out at the ocean. He probably prefers it this way. I wonder if I’ll start to get on his nerves, after a while.
When I finish eating, I dab at my lips with my napkin, set it aside, and then sit there, unsure what to do with myself. Claude is still watching me across the table, his expression impossible to read.
After a moment, he gestures with two fingers and says, “Come here.”
I raise my eyebrows pointedly.
His lips twitch faintly upward. “Please.”
Good enough, I suppose. I push up from my chair and slowly cross the length of the table. The room feels somehow quieter than before, each click of my heels on the tile echoing faintly. Claude’s eyes never leave me. When I reach his chair, he pushes back from the table and holds out his hand.
My face warms. Does he expect me to sit on his lap again? It feels different when it’s just the two of us alone in this house.
But we do have a contract. And I did nearly swoon when he bit me at the ball. I suppose it would be awkward to do it standing, so maybe this is the best option.
Claude is still looking up at me, smiling and expectant. After a moment, I place my hand in his and sit sideways across his knees. It’s surprisingly comfortable, especially with his arm supporting my lower back.
But it brings us close together. Very close. If I turned my face to the side, our lips would be centimeters apart. So I don’t. I pointedly keep my gaze turned away as he lifts my wrist to his mouth.
Again, his bite is as gentle as a kiss. And again, it sends heat rushing through every part of my body.
My eyelids flutter shut; I feel the rush of blood beneath my skin, the pulse of my heart, each beat making the heat inside of me deeper, brighter, hotter.
My breath quickens, and then slows as I melt into Claude’s arms. I thought my memory of the ball had exaggerated the power of his bite, but it feels so good.
Too good. An intoxicating rush that leaves me aching.
I open my eyes as he pulls away. He bites his own lip and kisses the puncture marks on my wrist, sealing them with his blood. “Thank you,” he murmurs, looking at me with half-lidded eyes.
It would be so easy to lean in and kiss him. I imagine his lips parting for mine, the faintest brush of fangs, his cool fingers against my heated skin…
Then I shake it off and force myself to stand, using the edge of the table to steady myself until my legs feel strong enough to hold me.
“What now?” I ask, trying to sound brusque. As impossible as it seems, this is going to be every night for the next year. I have to find a way to distance myself.
Claude leans back in his chair and shrugs. He looks exactly as casual as I am trying— and failing—to pretend to be. “You look exhausted, so take the rest of the night to get yourself settled.” His head lolls back against the cushioned chair, sated and lazy. “Meet me here tomorrow evening.”
“And then what?”
His blue eyes are bright as they meet mine. “And then I’ll paint.”