Chapter Fourteen #2
I hesitate. Part of me wants to spill everything about the strange isolation out here, Claude’s moods, the situation with Ambrose.
But my problems pale in comparison to what they’re dealing with out in the real world, I’m sure.
“It’s good,” I say. “It’s great. He’s been starting to paint again, and he cooks for me… ”
“Ooh,” Sophie whispers. “Say that again but slower.”
I sigh.
“So are you two fucking yet or what?” Elaine asks.
“Elaine!” I hide my face and the damning blush. “No. It’s not like that. I told you guys about the contract.”
“Mm-hmm,” Elaine says, doubtful.
“Mm-hmm,” Sophie echoes, even more doubtful.
“Anyway…” I roll my eyes, eager to change the subject. “Tell me what’s going on with you guys.”
We spend a half hour chatting about everything and nothing, aside from one break when Elaine makes sure the coffee shop isn’t being overrun without her.
Sophie regales us with tales about her boyfriend’s horrible roommates, and Elaine reluctantly admits that she’s growing to love her parents’ cat, even though she’s long viewed it as some type of replacement for her.
By the end of it, my face hurts from smiling so much, and I hang up feeling a little less alone. Yet as soon as the call is over, the silence of the house presses in on me again.
I expect Claude to come get me sometime before dinner. A knock comes late… and I open the door to find a plate of food waiting with Claude nowhere to be seen. I frown, looking up and down the hallway, and decide it must be his way of telling me to continue staying here.
* * *
When I wake the next evening, I venture out to the kitchen.
But Claude isn’t here waiting to make me my coffee.
I wrangle with the high-tech espresso machine by myself for the first time and make myself a quick omelet.
The whole time I expect him to show up any minute complaining that I didn’t let him cook for me… but he never appears.
I wander the house restlessly, hoping at some point he’ll emerge, but the door to his bedroom remains closed.
Perhaps I should be glad to see a reprieve from our painting sessions.
They were a bit of a pain in the ass. But they were also the only scheduled part of my day, and without that, I feel even more useless and bored as I prowl the house.
Plus, I can’t fight the growing sense that something is wrong.
Even if he’s not painting today, shouldn’t he at least need to feed?
He didn’t drink from me yesterday, either.
I pause in front of the double doors leading to his room for an embarrassingly long time before working up the courage to knock. “Claude?” I call.
No response.
“Hello?” I try again. “Are you in there?”
Silence. I stare at the doors, nibbling my lower lip. Did he leave with Ambrose? Is he upset with me? I don’t know what to think.
But if he isn’t answering, then… I should at least make sure he’s alright.
I reach for the doors, and they give easily, opening to either side to reveal Claude’s bedroom.
It’s my first time setting foot in here, and I hesitate on the threshold, looking around.
It’s not what I expected. It’s luxurious, of course, huge compared to my generous bedroom.
One wall is covered in floor-to-ceiling windows, though blackout curtains are currently drawn tight over them.
The bed is expansive and plush, with white silk sheets, a fur throw, and a ludicrous amount of pillows.
A fireplace is built into the wall across from it, though it currently sits cold and unlit.
The whole room reeks of modernity and expense, all hard lines and neutral tones. It also feels oddly empty, devoid of personality, like it’s staged for a house showing. Despite Claude’s love of art, the white walls are as bare as the rest of the house.
And where is Claude himself?
For a moment I look around, squinting in the dim light coming through the open doorways behind me.
“Claude?” I ask, tentative.
There’s a faint stirring among the pile of pillows on the bed. “Leave me alone,” a muffled voice says.
I sigh, shut the doors behind me, and approach the bed. Only after some intense scrutiny do I detect a hint of dark curls and pale skin lost somewhere in the mess of blankets and pillows.
I place one fist on my hip. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Spending all night in bed?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” He stares up at the ceiling rather than at me. His face is wan, almost waxy, his dark hair in uncharacteristic disarray. “What’s the point?”
I frown and settle on the edge of the bed. It’s so soft that it sinks beneath me. “What is this?” I ask, trying to gentle my voice. I’ve seen Claude in melancholy moods, but never quite like this.
In response, Claude grabs one of the pillows and places it directly over his face.
“Claude.” I lean over, poking him in the side. “Talk to me.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch when I dig my fingertip between his ribs, trying to prompt some kind of response.
Suppressing another sigh, I walk over to the window and throw open the curtains, letting moonlight fill the room.
I’m caught off guard by the view out the window.
It’s truly lovely; the sea glows silver beneath the moon.
“It’s beautiful out tonight,” I murmur, unable to tear my eyes away. “Come here and see it.”
After a few seconds, he still hasn’t moved. I head back to his bedside, frowning. “Did something happen with Lord Ambrose?”
“What happened,” Claude says from beneath his pillow, “is that I am a perpetual disappointment.”
“But you’ve been painting again,” I say. “Shouldn’t Ambrose be pleased?”
A bitter laugh. “Oh, yes,” he says. “My canvas is in the corner. Go see how much progress I’ve been making.”
When I hesitate, a pale hand emerges from the heap of blankets and gestures to the corner. I walk over to where his easel is sitting and turn it toward the window so I can see it in the moonlight.
The canvas is blank. Or mostly blank, at least, aside from a few swathes of paint, perhaps starting to form a background. If I look closely, I can detect a hint of the window seat I usually pose in, the stone around, the window itself. But no sign at all of me.
“I don’t understand,” I say, staring at it. Maybe I should be annoyed, after the hours I’ve spent posing all for naught, but instead there’s just a hollow ache in my chest. It feels like my failure instead of his. I’m supposed to be his muse. “You said you were feeling inspired.”
No response from Claude. I tear my eyes away from the canvas and return to the bed.
“You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to, but you should at least feed.
It’s been days.” I kneel on the edge of the bed and lean over to remove the pillow from his face.
Beneath it, his face is as blank as his canvas is, his eyes dull.
There’s a twist of anxiety in my gut. Claude can be dramatic, I’m aware of that, but seeing him like this doesn’t feel right.
“You’ll feel better with some blood in you. ”
“Nothing will make me feel better,” he murmurs, but his gaze follows my wrist as I hold it out. His lips move slightly as his fangs slide out behind them, one pointed canine catching the moonlight.
“Try it.” I shift forward on my knees, one hand braced on the bed near his side so I can hold my wrist closer to his mouth.
And suddenly I’m on my back, pinned. Claude leans over me, half of his face soft and lit by the moonlight, the other drenched in shadow. He is still expressionless, but there’s a new spark of hunger in his pale eyes.
“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to tempt a vampire who hasn’t fed in days?” he asks, slender fingers gripping the wrist I was offering.
But even after flipping me so effortlessly, his touch is gentle.
“I trust you,” I say, breathless.
He brushes his mouth against my pulse, his lower lip dragging against my skin, his fangs not quite breaking the surface. “Dangerous.”
I thought I was starting to grow used to the sensation of being bitten, even the nearness of Claude.
But it is an entirely different situation to have him on top of me and a soft bed beneath.
When his fangs pierce me, I gasp, my spine sinking into the cloudlike mattress.
Claude shifts his weight as he drinks from me in slow sips.
One knee comes to rest between my thighs, and heat floods my lower belly.
He was right. This is dangerous. The two of us in bed together, his bite smothering my thoughts in a pleasant haze.
I am all too aware that all I would have to do is shift, just slightly, for his leg to brush against the aching heat between my thighs.
I let out a tiny whimper at the thought, and Claude abruptly pulls away from my wrist. He looks down at me, his mouth red with my blood, his eyes locked on my lips.
“You…” His gaze flicks between my mouth and my eyes, and he blinks rapidly, as if trying to remember where he is.
His tongue glides over the tiny spot of blood he missed, and he shudders slightly before releasing me, shifting back.
“You should go.” He catches my wrist, one fang nicking his own lip before he presses a kiss to it. “Please,” he adds, when I hesitate.
For a moment I can only lie there, breathing, my legs like jelly. I force myself to sit up and slide off the edge of the bed, and head for the door, wobbling slightly.
“Nora?” Claude calls after me when I push open the doors.
I glance back at him, not trusting myself enough to speak.
“Thank you,” he says after a pause.
“Of course, Lord Claude,” I say, and slip through the doors. Once I shut them behind me, I lean back against them and let out a sigh that comes from somewhere deep inside.