Chapter Fifteen
The next evening, I wake up and make my coffee myself again. But as I’m reaching for the sugar, a hand snatches it away.
“No you don’t,” Claude says, close to my ear. “That’s my job, mon chou.”
Goose bumps ripple over me at the French endearment on his tongue. I bite back a smile, and only turn to face him when I’m sure any sign of it is gone. “I thought I’d have to drag you out of bed today.”
He leans against the counter, pouring the perfect amount of sugar into my mug without breaking eye contact. “And I thought you might join me again if I slept late.”
I roll my eyes, trying not to think of his lean body pressing me down into the mattress, and grab the cream from the fridge before he can. “Don’t make it sound like that.”
He grabs the cream from my hand and pours it. “Like what?” He looks down at me, his lashes lowered to half conceal his eyes. “Intimate?”
“Exactly.” I grab the mug of coffee and take a sip. It tastes better when he makes it for me, which I truly cannot understand. “Because that would be against our contract.”
His amusement dries up in an instant. “Quite right, of course.” He turns away before I can say anything to fix the abrupt change in mood. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“Oh, I don’t care. Whatever’s convenient.”
He stays at the stove, waiting.
I gnaw my lip. If he’s going to insist, then I suppose… “Pancakes?”
He shoots an approving look over his shoulder. “Excellent choice.”
It’s hard to ignore the flutter in my stomach as I lean against the counter and watch him cook. I know I shouldn’t get used to this treatment—this arrangement is temporary—but I suppose it can’t hurt to let him do this if he wants to. Maybe it will help get him out of the sulk he’s been in.
He already looks more himself today—one curl artfully swooping across his brow, smiling as though he hadn’t disappeared into a mountain of pillows and made me come looking for him. He hums to himself as he cooks for me, but after serving me at the dining table, he leaves me to eat alone.
When he returns again, I stare. He’s changed into a dramatic black corset vest over a ruffled white monstrosity of a shirt, a combination that looks far better than it should, exaggerating his lean silhouette into something almost uncanny.
I’m not sure how he can breathe wearing that, though of course he doesn’t have to.
He takes a seat at the other end of the table. He props one elbow up, holds his chin, and stares at me.
“What?” I ask, suspicious at his sudden good mood.
“Just admiring you.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, stop. There’s plenty of time for that when you paint later.” I try to say it casually, as if I hadn’t seen that nearly blank canvas and witnessed what appeared to be a mental breakdown in his room yesterday.
“Oh, I’m not painting today. It’s the weekend.” He pauses, lips curling. “We’re going to a party.”
“A party?” I falter, set down my utensils. “Do I have to?”
“Yes,” he says. “It’s part of your duties as a valentine.”
Leaning back in my chair, I sigh. “And here I thought my job was to get you painting again.”
He shrugs. “Consider this part of my search for inspiration.”
In the end, there is no way for me to argue. This is, technically, part of my job, and my contract details attending events as part of the expectations of my role. I suppose I should be grateful for something to do, but the thought of a party, of all things, has my stomach in knots.
“What kind of party is it?” I ask. “What should I wear?”
Claude leans forward, his eyes brightening. “I’m so glad you asked.”
He comes to my room after I’ve finished eating and peruses my closet, muttering to himself. He pulls out a flowing white cotton dress, which isn’t as bad as I was expecting. But then he adds a tight black corset that nearly matches his own.
I eye it, and then him. “Really?”
“The car will be here soon. Shall I help you dress?”
“Absolutely not.” I shoo him out the door and spend a while wrestling with the outfit. I’m frustrated by the end of it, realizing it’s impossible to do up the laces myself and he must have known that.
“Of course his had the cinches in the front,” I grumble. “Bastard…”
I fix it up as best as I can on my own, quickly do some basic makeup, and head out.
Claude hurries me straight into a waiting limousine too quickly for me to even consider asking about my laces.
The moment the door shuts behind us, the car starts moving.
Unprepared, I nearly topple off my seat, but Claude holds me steady with a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“God,” I huff, anxiously patting down my hair and smoothing my dress as his hand recedes. “What’s the rush?”
“We’re late,” Claude says.
“What? Why didn’t you warn me earlier?”
“It was a last-minute decision to attend.”
I think about his mood yesterday and almost bring myself to inquire about it. But Claude has been pointedly avoiding saying anything about it, pretending everything is normal, and I don’t want to be the one to ruin his good mood.
“Is it a Vulpe party?” I ask instead.
For a moment I swear Claude winces, but a second later it’s covered by an affected wrinkling of his nose, like he finds the idea distasteful. “No, and count yourself lucky. Camelia parties are far more entertaining.”
“Camelia,” I murmur to myself, remembering Benjamin’s explanation and the glimpses I got of glamorous vampires at the Valentine’s Day Ball.
The court of beauty with their rose-and-dagger icon.
Part of me worries I’ll never fit in with such a crowd, but then again, I’m unlikely to ever be in the spotlight when surrounded by such peacocking.
“Lady Viktoria de Camelia is hosting. She’s a friend of mine.”
My eyes widen. I know that name, that face, just like everyone knows her and her famous valentine, Jonah.
Claude’s look turns sly. “Ahh. Not going to be starstruck, are we? I didn’t take you for a fan.”
“I’m not a fan,” I protest. “Everyone knows who they are. They’re so luxurious and… and beautiful.”
Claude’s eyes narrow as he notes the color rising in my cheeks. “And I am not?”
I huff a laugh, look away.
“Well, don’t go saying that kind of thing in front of them,” he says. “You’ll only stroke their already insufferable egos.” A pause. “Feel free to compliment me, though.”
I studiously inspect my nails.
“Very well,” Claude says, his tone further stiffening. “May I drink from you, at least?”
I look up at him, sighing. “Now? After we dress for the party?”
He presses a hand to his heart, mock-wounded. “Nora! When have I ever spilled a drop? Even my bedsheets were spotless, and I was in a wretched state last night.”
I grit my teeth and will myself not to flush at the reminder. “Yeah, fine.” I hold out my wrist. Instead of biting in to drink directly from me, he grabs a wineglass from a nearby shelf and carefully holds it under my wrist after he bites me.
It stings more than usual, but he’s careful as always, and seals the puncture wounds with a quick kiss.
Then he produces a bottle of sweet red wine and pours a generous portion into the glass before drinking.
His eyes close with a hum of pleasure. Only when he opens them again and glances at me does he hold out the wine bottle in offering.
“I just had breakfast,” I say. And then, belatedly, “This is your breakfast.”
“We’re going to a party,” he says. When I still stare, he shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
I watch, arms folded across my chest, as he makes his way through one bottle of wine, and a second, tapping the bottle against the rim of his glass to make sure he gets every last drop.
He always tops off his drink without fully draining it, ensuring that each glass contains my blood.
Each one must be progressively less blood and more wine, but it seems it’s still enough for him to drink it comfortably…
a fact he must have gleaned from doing this many, many times before, I gather.
As he opens a third bottle, he glances at the dregs in his cup before glancing at me over the rim. “May I have a little more?”
I sigh. “Are you sure you should be drinking this much before we even arrive?”
He gives me a surprisingly sharp-edged look, the corners of his mouth curling down. “If I wanted to be babysat, I would’ve invited Lord Ambrose.”
I fix him with a dead-eyed stare. “Excuse me?”
He holds my gaze for only a second before dropping his eyes. “Sorry,” he says. He lowers his wine glass and rakes his free hand through his curls. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just on edge. It’s been a while since I’ve been to one of these events.”
There’s an ember of resentment burning in my stomach—doesn’t he realize I’m nervous, too?—but after a moment I relent and offer my wrist. He presses a kiss that feels like an apology to my skin before he drains my blood into his cup again, and then seals the wound with another, bloodier kiss.
After he pours himself another large glass, I grab the bottle from his hand and take a swig directly from the neck of it.
“Best to follow the party expert’s lead, I guess,” I mutter.
Claude grins, his lips red with blood and wine, and clinks his glass against my bottle before we both drink again.
* * *
As the car pulls up to our destination a half hour later, I’m grateful for the wine taking the edge off my nerves. I only drank about a half bottle, but I’m not much of a drinker, especially just after breakfast. My mind is pleasantly hazy.
“Oh, shoot,” I say, craning my neck in an attempt to see my own back. “I forgot about the laces.”
“Oh, here.” Claude pulls me so I’m nearly on his lap.
I try not to squirm. “You better not mess them up because you’re drunk.”
“Fear not,” he murmurs, close to my ear. “I’m very good with my hands.”