Chapter Twelve
My room feels too large, too decadent, too quiet.
More like a hotel room than a bedroom. Unpacking my suitcase and filling the room with my small collection of belongings—books, mostly—doesn’t help much.
I don’t have nearly enough stuff to fill all the space.
I haven’t even filled a third of the walk-in closet, even with the extra dresses that Benjamin and Lissa sent with me.
I thought it would be a relief to have this much time and space to myself.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
As a kid, my mom moved us from cramped apartment to cramped apartment, and later we lived out of her van.
Ever since I broke free from her, I’ve lived with roommates like Elaine and Sophie, sharing too-small spaces to save money.
I’ve never had an entire room to myself before.
But the house is so silent, it feels almost oppressive.
It’s strange to think that before I was here, it was just Claude by himself in this big, remote place.
There is something about it that doesn’t fit him.
Yet then again, I hardly know him; he’s already called me out for making all manner of assumptions about him, so I should probably stop doing it.
I should probably stop thinking about him so much in the first place. I’m here because I’m getting paid, and it’s not my job to figure out the enigma that is Lord Claude de Vulpe.
I dig my phone out of my purse and send Benjamin a text to let him know all is well. I was surprised to hear that a vampire had a cell phone, to which he sheepishly admitted that most vampires despise them, but Lissa insisted upon him learning to use one.
His response comes almost immediately: Happy to hear. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything. - Benjamin
Grinning at the way he signs his texts like an old man, I open up my group chat with Elaine and Sophie.
I made it to Claude’s place, I type. It’s gorgeous. I’ll have to see if I can invite you guys for a visit soon.
I stare at the screen for a while, waiting for a response, but none comes.
It gives me a pang of anxiety. They seemed happy for me when I told them I found a patron, but they both waved away my attempts to talk about paying for an apartment for them while I’m away.
Sophie’s staying with David, and Elaine with her parents, like they originally planned.
I was always the only one without any options.
I’m relieved they’ll be fine without me, of course, but it also leaves me feeling unsettled. Living together was the beginning of our friendship; what if moving out is the end of it? What if they don’t want me now that they don’t need me?
After nearly a half hour of agonizing, I finally realize they’re probably not responding because it’s the middle of the goddamn night. It’s late even for my nocturnal schedule right now.
I should be exhausted, but still, I stare up at the ceiling for a long time before I manage to fall asleep.
* * *
I’m not sure my mind will ever get used to waking at sunset, but at least my body is starting to adjust to the nocturnal cycle.
Claude didn’t specify a time to meet him, so I allow myself the luxury of a slow morning—or evening, that is.
I take a long, warm shower, drag a comb through my hair, and stare at my closet before selecting a simple white sundress.
Am I supposed to dress fancier? Do my hair and makeup?
I don’t know what’s expected of me. But the lack of caffeine is starting to make my head hurt, so I head into the house as is, resolving to find some coffee before I do anything more.
Memory takes me back to the kitchen Claude showed me last night during his tour.
It’s modern and spacious, with pale granite countertops and white cabinets.
So strange to imagine Claude in here preparing a meal for me last night; stranger still to imagine that it must’ve sat here unused for years, since only Claude was living here, with no need for meals beyond blood.
The thought gives me a pang of worry. Does he keep the kitchen stocked?
He must’ve bought some things, to be able to make my dinner last night, but would he have thought to stock up on necessities?
What about coffee? If he doesn’t drink it himself, it must’ve been years since he had to think about things like that…
My gut is in knots as I head to the fridge, already bracing myself for the familiar sight of empty shelves.
I pull open the fridge and stop short, staring. Utterly dumbfounded.
The fridge is… well stocked would be an understatement.
Full feels like an understatement. It is practically overflowing.
There are a half-dozen varieties of milk and cream, neat piles of fruit, bottles of juice and sparkling water, an absurd amount of different types of cheese.
Ripe red tomatoes and fresh green lettuce, a variety of bell peppers.
Bundles of herbs and stacks of perfectly marbled steaks, a rack of lamb, an entire rotisserie chicken. All of it neatly arranged and fresh.
At the bottom is a small drawer containing vials of red liquid, neatly labeled with a date. That’s all that he needs to sustain himself, so the rest… must be for me.
I can’t stop staring.
“Good evening.”
I startle at the voice and whirl around to see Claude leaning against the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, smiling at me.
I point at the fridge.
He looks at it, and then back at me, head tilting to one side. “Did I forget something?”
“No! Claude, this is…” I throw up my hands. “How much do you think I eat?”
He blinks. “I have no idea. And I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got everything I could think of.”
“This is way too much! I can’t possibly eat it all before it goes bad.”
He shrugs. “I’ll toss whatever you don’t use.”
“No! That’s so…” I fumble for words. “Wasteful.”
“If it’s for you, it’s not wasted.” Still smiling, he crosses the kitchen to the espresso machine, which I failed to notice before. It’s so shiny, it must be new. “How do you take your coffee?”
I sigh, massaging my temples. “I can make it myself.”
“Again you think me incapable?” He’s already taking a mug from the cabinet.
“No! I just…” I cross the kitchen and try to grab the mug from his hands. He holds it above his head, out of my reach, and looks down at me quizzically. “Claude,” I sigh, stepping back and folding my arms over my chest. “This isn’t necessary. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can,” he says, and sets the mug below the way-too-fancy machine, his long fingers darting over buttons too quickly for me to follow.
I lean back against the counter, feeling aggravated for reasons I can’t put into words.
“You don’t need to do all this,” I mumble, feeling like a petulant child but unable to shake the discomfort.
“I know,” he says. And then, again, “How do you take your coffee?”
So I end up sitting at the dining table, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that is sweet with just a touch of cream, exactly how I like it. When I asked for yogurt for breakfast, thinking that was a simple option, Claude made me a parfait, layered with granola and fresh berries.
I take a bite and sigh. It’s perfect. All of this is so perfect that it sets my teeth on edge.
Nobody’s ever taken care of me like this, and it gives me an uncomfortable itch beneath my skin.
It’s like I’m being a burden, even though I know I didn’t ask for any of this.
Which makes me feel horrendously ungrateful, and undeserving, and uncomfortable.
Along with making me fear that he will expect more from me than I can possibly give.
Claude is watching me from across the table, just like he did at dinner, so I force a smile even though my throat is tight.
“Thank you,” I say. My lack of enthusiasm feels like another failure on my part. I try to shrug it off and eat as much as I can manage—which is about half of what he prepared me. “So you’re painting today? Do you want me to…?”
“Yes,” he says, even though I’m not quite sure what I was asking. “May I drink from you? For… inspiration?”
“Of course,” I say, my heart already pounding in anticipation. I set my napkin aside and walk to him, as I did last night. Again, I sit in his lap and surrender myself to the sweet sharpness of his bite.
Could I ever get used to this sensation? It seems impossible that every time should ravage my senses the same way, and yet… here I am, biting back a whimper as Claude drinks from my wrist.
My only solace is that I’m not the only one affected. As he sets me on my feet, there’s a fresh, flushed look about him, my blood lending color to his lips and cheeks. And his eyes are bright, pupils so large, he looks almost drugged.
“Yes,” he murmurs to himself. He stands, takes me by the hand, and brings me toward the back of the house. “Here, come, come. To my studio.”
I let him lead me, curiosity overtaking me as he opens a room that his earlier tour did not include.
My breath catches as I step inside. It is a smaller room but might just be the most beautiful one in the house.
Moonlight makes the white walls and tile glow.
An easel is set up in the center of the room, along with a small wooden table topped with paints and supplies.
The workstation faces the far wall, which is made entirely of glass, curtains pulled back to present a gorgeous view of the sea.
As I step toward it and look down, I can see the rocky plunge of the cliffs below, the crash of frothing waves against them.
I press my fingertips to the glass, staring downward until my knees tremble and my stomach swoops, imagining the drop.
If anything could inspire a man to paint, surely it must be this: the ferocious dark beauty of the sea, just a pane of glass away. Smiling, I look back over my shoulder at Claude. “It’s beautiful.”
“Indeed,” he agrees, looking at me instead of the view.
His brow is furrowed as though he’s trying to figure something out.
“Mmm… sit here for me, please.” He gestures to an alcove seat at a corner of the room, just below the glass wall.
I’m happy to oblige, thinking he wants me out of the way.
The white cushions are plush, and the seat has the perfect view out the window.
I pull my knees to my chest and gaze out, taken again by the moonlit cliffs outside, the dark sea beyond.
It’s quite cozy here, probably a wonderful place to read during the daytime.
Maybe even the moonlight would be enough, on a night like this.
“Oh, just like that,” Claude murmurs. “That look on your face… Lovely.”
My attention snaps back to him. He’s standing in front of his canvas, mixing paints, but when he catches me looking, he glances up and frowns.
“You’re going to have to sit still,” he admonishes.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Are you painting me?”
He blinks. “Well, yes. What did you think I was painting?”
Heat creeps into my face. “I… well… I don’t know! Your other paintings were all of places and things. Scenes, not people.” The cafe, the cathedral, the lighthouse. I’m surprised how vividly I can recall the paintings I saw at the ball, and I’m certain not one of them included a person.
“True,” he says, dipping his brush into the paint. “But as you may recall, it’s been a very long time. Seems as good a time as any to reinvent myself, no?”
“I…” I squirm in my seat, one foot tapping on the cushions, suddenly itching to be anywhere but here beneath his penetrating gaze. “I didn’t even do my makeup.”
“So? You are beautiful without it.”
He says it so casually. My face is so hot, it must be glowing red. “Surely there are better things to paint.”
He gives me an assessing look, and then shrugs. “I find myself hard-pressed to think of any.”
“But I’m just…” I gesture at myself, fumbling to think of any appropriate words. Unremarkable? Ordinary? Plain? Human?
“Just the woman who reawakened my muse?” he suggests.
“I mean, sure. Maybe there’s something different about my blood. But I figured you would drink it and paint something beautiful.”
“That is precisely what I intend to do,” he says, his eyes never leaving me.
I turn away from him, staring determinedly out the window to prevent him from seeing me blush. I’m scrambling for an argument, but I can’t seem to find one that makes sense, other than a petulant This isn’t what I wanted.
“That’s a good pose as well,” Claude murmurs.
“I’m not posing,” I snap at him. “I’m just sitting.”
“You’re a natural, then.”
“Stop it!” I turn back to him. He meets my glower with an innocent blink.
“Stop what?”
“Teasing me.” Despite my best efforts to maintain my composure, the heat in my face tells me I’ve failed. I wind my fingers together in my lap.
“Nora,” he says after a moment. “I’m not teasing.”
I continue staring down into my lap, unable to meet his gaze.
He sounds sincere, but everything within me rebels against what he’s saying.
It’s so much easier for me to accept that he’s full of shit.
That this is some sort of game. Maybe his revenge on me for insisting we maintain a professional relationship—he’ll tease me relentlessly, make me blush and stutter like a fool, just so he can laugh at me.
A beat passes.
“May I paint you now?” he asks. “I’d like to chase this feeling while I still have it.”
I swallow. What choice do I have? This is my job. I signed a contract. “Fine,” I say.