Chapter Sixteen
Ieat breakfast alone, moonlight making the silverware shine. I fully intend to talk to Claude about last night, and the matter of our contract, but I wait and wait, and he doesn’t show up. When I venture to his bedroom to make sure he isn’t having another one of his moods, I find it empty.
My stomach twists. He left without me. Without even telling me, after what happened last night.
It’s irksome that he’s avoiding me, but even worse to imagine where he might be.
Maybe he wants a chance to drink from pretty men and women without me there to ruin his fun.
Would he have accepted Viktoria and Jonah’s offer without me there? I wonder.
I know I shouldn’t care. We both know—and agreed upon—the contract. There’s nothing to prevent him from getting on with others, especially since he can’t do anything with me. But… it annoys me that he’d leave me here alone. Like he put me up on a shelf to go play without me.
I spend the night drifting through the house, scrolling on my phone in bed, sending texts that don’t receive responses.
The next evening Claude drags himself in for breakfast, looking rumpled and bedraggled in a dramatic cotton terry robe. He drapes himself over his seat at the head of the table with a groan and pushes messy curls out of his eyes.
“I need blood today,” he says, looking over at me as he drags a hand down his face. “Please.”
I glower at him. “You’re hungover.”
His lips quirk. “Am I so obvious?”
I grimace, and stab one of my eggs hard enough that my fork scrapes the plate. “Well, you can wait until after I’ve eaten.”
“Of course.” He leans further back, head lolling, one arm flung across his face as if even the dim lighting in here is too bright.
I want, so badly, to ask where he’s been. But I can’t find a way to phrase it that doesn’t sound desperate. It’s none of my business, after all. Our relationship is defined in writing, and I have no claim to his time beyond my duties.
“Are you going to paint tonight?” I ask instead.
He lets out a muffled groan. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“Claude.” I set down my utensils. “Do you want to paint again?”
His arm falls away from his face, and he blinks at me as if startled. “What? Of course I do.” His gaze drops, brow furrowing. “I am quite useless otherwise.”
“That’s not true.” I hesitate, struggling to find the words. “I just mean… It doesn’t seem like it’s making you happy.”
“I would be happy if I were actually painting.”
“Then why don’t you just do it?”
He grimaces, massages the bridge of his nose. “God,” he mutters. “Everyone tells me that. As if it’s so simple. You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me,” I say. “I want to understand.”
Claude groans, dragging his hand down his face.
“Fine,” he says. Then he sits silently for a moment, expression one of consternation.
“When I was a human,” he says, “I felt… so many things when I painted. Joy. Freedom. Fear, that I would never have enough time to put everything I wished to on the canvas, and those images would be lost with me.” He pauses, his face a storm cloud.
“Then… Lord Ambrose gave me that time. He gave me endless time to pursue the thing I loved most. It is the best gift I could have ever imagined. And yet… when I tried again to put paint to canvas… all those things I once felt were gone. All that was left was a sense of pressure. Enormous pressure. Because the thing that I once did out of love, I was now supposed to do because it was expected of me. No matter what I do now, people will judge it, and judge me, and weigh it against my previous work… and it feels like no matter what I do, it will not be enough to please them, nor earn the gift I was given. So why try?”
I study his face as he stares down at the table. I expected his explanation to be ridiculous, dramatic. And maybe it is, but I can tell how much it weighs on him. I don’t understand art, but I do understand how heavy other peoples’ expectations can be.
“It’s a lie that I never painted after I was turned, you know,” he says, when the silence lingers. “I did try, in the early days. I painted a few landscapes.”
“What happened to them?” I ask.
“Lord Ambrose tore them apart. He said they weren’t as good as my previous work. That I had to do better so I wouldn’t embarrass him.” His lips twitch in a bitter half smile. “Well, that’s what happened to two of them, at least. I ripped up the third myself. And then… Then I stopped painting.”
“But you love to paint,” I say. “You shouldn’t do it for Lord Ambrose, or anyone else. You should do it for yourself.”
He looks away. “I don’t know if I remember how anymore,” he says.
* * *
The next evening, he’s gone again. And again, and again, until a full week has passed without a single painting session.
The sound of the doorbell startles me one night. I shuffle there with my coffee, open the door, and nearly drop my mug.
“L-Lord Ambrose,” I say. After a moment of pure, frozen panic, Benjamin’s etiquette lessons take hold of me and I dip into a curtsy. “What… what an unexpected pleasure. I’m sorry to say that Lord Claude isn’t here to welcome you himself—”
“Oh, I knew he wouldn’t be,” Ambrose says.
“He’s my fledgling. I always know where he is.
” Sometimes I forget about that unseen link between them, a bond that I don’t—and can’t—truly understand.
But at least I remember enough from Benjamin’s lessons to know that Claude, too, knows of Ambrose’s whereabouts, which means, I hope, he’ll come home.
Quickly, I hope, because Ambrose studies me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“Why don’t you go make yourself presentable? I’ll wait in the sitting room.”
“I-I…” I swallow back anger and a prickle of fear. “Yes, of course. Come in.” There’s nothing else to say.
It feels ridiculous to doll myself up for a man who just showed up on my doorstep, but of course Lord Ambrose is the old-fashioned type and basically ordered me to do so.
So I apply my makeup and put on a decent dress as quickly as possible before heading to meet him in the living room.
I stop in the hallway outside, take a couple of deep breaths, and roll my shoulders back before entering the room at an unhurried pace.
Ambrose’s piercing gaze is on the doorway, waiting, even before I enter.
Of course he must have heard me approach, must have heard me pause outside to gather myself.
A slight smirk tells me he finds my anxiety amusing.
Stupid of me not to think of that, but I plaster on a smile and try to act unbothered.
“Pardon me,” I say, curtsying again. “I wasn’t expecting company. Can I get you something?”
Despite my efforts to be presentable, as he put it, Ambrose still radiates disapproval as he eyes my sundress. “Is this how you dress for him? It’s no wonder Claude isn’t painting.”
I stare. Anger chips through my icy fear. “Pardon,” I say carefully, “but I’m not sure what my appearance has to do with Lord Claude’s art.”
“You’re a fool, then,” Ambrose says, as easily as breathing.
I’m bristling. Did this man show up just to insult me? I’m eager to strike back at him, but I know my tongue is going to get me in trouble if I’m not careful, and I remember the strength in his grip when we first met at the ball. “Is there something I can help you with, Lord Ambrose?”
“There very well may be.” Ambrose stands, smoothing down the front of his jacket. “I had hoped to check on the progress of Claude’s work. Since you’re here, perhaps you can show me.”
I waver. I know very well that Claude hasn’t worked since the last time Ambrose was here. But telling Ambrose that, let alone showing him, feels like a betrayal. Claude can be aggravating at times, but I have no desire to see him in a state like he was after Ambrose’s last visit.
“If you wait for him to return, I’m sure he could show you himself,” I say, ignoring the fact that we both know Ambrose showed up here knowing he wouldn’t be home.
Ambrose steps closer to me. Goose bumps break out all over me; it takes all of my willpower to hold my ground.
“I am asking you to show me,” he says, his voice soft and dangerous.
Ambrose is not the kind of man who someone like me can say no to.
But every fiber of my being rebels at the thought.
Claude is my patron. I owe him my loyalty.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t believe I can do that.
I…” I force a wobbly, sheepish smile. “I’m afraid I don’t even know where he keeps his works in progress. He is… private about it.”
Ambrose’s fingers dart out to grab my chin, and force my face up so he can look me in the eyes. I gasp even as I try to suppress it; he’s so fast, so strong, his fingers digging in hard enough to hurt.
“You expect me to believe that’s true?” he asks, eyes piercing mine. The rest of his body language is casual, almost bored, even as he grips me so hard I can feel bruises forming beneath his fingertips. “You’re his one and only valentine. Yet he doesn’t keep you in his confidence?”
I try to swallow my fear, knowing he will only enjoy it, but I can’t keep my heart from racing. “We do not have a usual arrangement, as you likely know, my lord.”
“I had wondered about that,” he says. Still holding me in place, still staring into my face as though he can read it. “I felt quite a disturbance through our bond a few nights ago. And then I heard rumors of all of these parties he’s been attending…”
A few nights ago. The Camelia party. I try to think of something, anything else, to keep the color out of my face. “As you can see, I am not in attendance at these parties,” I say. Not quite a lie. “Perhaps someone else was responsible for whatever… disturbance… you might have noticed.”
Ambrose studies me for a moment longer, and then releases my chin. I step back, resisting the urge to touch my face or flee.
“All for the best, I suppose,” he says, sounding almost disappointed, though I can’t imagine why. “Wouldn’t want Claude to go breaking his contract with you.”
So he knows about that. He knows an awful lot, I’m gathering, though I can’t fathom why Claude’s private life could possibly matter so much to him. But again, I feel the urge to defend Claude. “He hasn’t,” I say. “He won’t. Claude is very respect—”
One minute I’m upright, and the next I’m on the floor, head spinning. It happened so fast, it takes me a moment to process the shocking pain, the crack of his hand across my face. He just slapped me.
I raise a shaking hand to touch the stinging skin, where I’m sure a red mark is forming. I taste copper from where my teeth cut into my cheek.
“It’s Lord Claude to you,” Ambrose says.
I slowly raise my eyes to him. He’s standing casually, hands now in his pockets, head cocked to one side as he regards me. He doesn’t even look angry, just blank, as if this is a commonplace interaction.
My legs are wobbly, but I force myself to stand.
I refuse to grovel on the floor in front of this man.
“My apologies,” I say. My smile is sickly sweet.
I can still taste blood on the back of my tongue, but manners are the only armor I have.
“As I was saying, Lord Claude is a perfect gentleman. I have no concerns about our contract.”
Ambrose looks away. For a moment I think I’ve just begun to bore him, but then the door bursts open, and Claude is here.
He’s dressed in a tight black shirt with a ludicrously plunging neckline, his eyes are smudged with eyeliner, and his hair is in disarray.
He looks first at Ambrose, and then at me.
Instinct drives me to turn away, just slightly, to hide the mark on my face. “Welcome home, Lord Claude,” I say, stiff and formal. “Should I wait in my room while you’re with your visitor?”
A long pause. I can feel the weight of Claude’s eyes on me, but I don’t dare look at him out of fear of what my expression will betray.
“Yes, very well,” he says finally. “I’ll come and find you when Ambrose and I are finished speaking.”
I dip into a curtsy and flee the room as quickly as I can.
Down the hallway, gulping down my emotions.
Once I’m in my room, I shut the door behind me, lean back against it, and finally let loose the sob that’s been growing in my chest since Ambrose hit me.
I clap a hand over my mouth and sink down to the floor, shaking all over as the fear finally sinks into me.
The way he hurt me was so casual. So effortless. And over such a small reason. He reacted so quickly, it was like he was just waiting for an excuse to punish me. But why? Does he hate me, or was he using me as a way to get to Claude?
I remember Benjamin’s warning that I didn’t want to get into the middle of a situation between a sire and his fledgling, and I wish I had taken it more seriously. Because if push came to shove… Ambrose has power over Claude. Would my patron even be able to defend me, if he knew?