Chapter Seventeen
It’s very late, just a couple of hours from dawn, when a knock comes at the door.
Claude comes in after I call out, and is at my side faster than I can process, his hands skimming my shoulders as he looks at me.
Studying my neck, my wrists. At least he’s not looking at the bruise on my cheek, disguised by makeup…
but it gives me a flicker of anxiety to realize he’s looking for bite marks.
Does he think Ambrose would bite me? Would he have, if Claude didn’t show up when he did?
“Claude.” I reach out and place a hand on his chest, gently pushing him back. I’ve already decided to pretend that everything is normal until I have a better read on the situation. I don’t want to escalate something that I still don’t understand. “Claude, I’m fine.”
His eyes are troubled as he looks at me. “I should never have left you here alone.”
“Why not?” I ask, silently begging for him to tell me more about what’s going on.
He opens his mouth, shuts it, shakes his head. “What did he want from you?”
“He asked me to show him your work.”
I’m watching him for a reaction, but all I see is a sudden stillness, his shoulders braced as if in anticipation of a blow. “And did you?”
“Of course not.”
He relaxes, but at the same time his brow furrows. “You should have. You should agree with whatever Ambrose wants, especially when I’m not here.”
“It wasn’t mine to show,” I say. “Your paintings are yours, Claude. It should be your choice to share them.”
We stare at each other. I wait for him to break, to be honest with me about whatever is going on… but I’m distracted by the shadowed, wan look of him.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, my eyebrows drawing together.
He hesitates. “It’s been a while.” He catches my expression, and his head tilts. “Why are you surprised? You know I haven’t been here.”
“Oh…” I know he hasn’t fed from me, but he’s been at all of these parties without me. “I assumed you would be drinking from others.”
“I haven’t been.”
“But… why?”
“Because it upset you when I did.”
I stare at him, taken aback. He seems earnest, which perplexes me more. “You…” I start, but then stop, unsure what I even want to say to him. After a moment, I sigh and hold out my wrist.
He takes it with two fingers, peers at me as his fangs slide out. “Are you sure you’re alright? You’re being surprisingly agreeable.”
“Drink before I change my mind.”
He lowers himself onto the bed beside me and bends over my wrist, looking up at me as he bites down.
He drinks from me in slow sips while I try not to squirm.
I keep thinking I’ll get used to this sensation, but every time it is as fresh as if it’s the first time, lighting a lovely burn of pleasure beneath my skin.
When he’s done, Claude seals his bite marks with a bloodied kiss and then, to my surprise, lays his head against my shoulder.
I hesitate before reaching up to touch the back of his head.
This affection feels odd—intimate, to use the forbidden word—but Claude seems so vulnerable right now that I can’t bring myself to push him away.
His hair is even softer than I expected, his curls like silk between my fingers.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “After your sire’s last visit, you seemed, well… despondent.”
Claude is silent for so long, I don’t think he’s going to answer. “I thought I had grown used to his disappointment,” he says, finally. “But perhaps such a thing isn’t possible.”
“Mm. I… kind of understand how that feels. My mom could never quite shake her disappointment in me, either.”
“What about you could possibly disappoint her?”
I smile, trying to fight down bitterness. “Oh, everything, really. I was just never quite what she wanted me to be. Much too plain and practical. She couldn’t muster much enthusiasm in any of the things that interested me.”
“She’s an idiot, then.” Claude leans into my touch, and I realize I’ve begun stroking his hair without realizing it.
“I could say the same of Ambrose,” I say. “Why do you care so much what he thinks?”
His shoulders lift toward his ears. “He is my sire,” he says. “He pulled me from obscurity, gave me the gift of eternal life with certain expectations. I haven’t held up my side of the bargain.”
“Your art, you mean?” Claude burrows his face further into my neck instead of answering. “Your art is beautiful, Claude, but that’s not the only thing about you that matters.”
“It is, though,” he says. “Art is what I lived for. It’s what I died for. It has always been my passion and my purpose. I am empty without it.”
“Well, I would like you even if you weren’t an artist,” I say. “In fact, I’d like you more. I’ve always found artists aggravating.”
“I almost forgot that your first words to me were an insult to my work. You must be relieved that I quit.”
“So relieved,” I tease. “Though you’re still full of tragically artistic sensibilities, I’m afraid.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you are intensely broody. Prone to dramatic mood swings and posing theatrically in front of windows.”
“I do not pose.” I can feel his smile against my neck, a hint of fangs making me shiver.
“Liar. Nobody stands like you do unless they’re expecting to be looked at.”
“Well, clearly the expectation would be a correct one, since you were looking.”
“Only to note how ridiculous you were.”
He laughs, a rare sound, softer than I expected it to be, sending a ripple of warmth through my chest. He pulls away from my shoulder and he looks at me.
For a moment he is so close, looking down at me, and I hold my breath, certain he’s about to kiss me.
But instead he stands, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Goodnight, Nora,” he says. “I appreciate your company.”
Company? Is that what he calls this? The sudden formality feels like an insult. But I swallow back the bitterness. He’s only giving me what I asked for, after all. A lack of intimacy.
“Goodnight, Claude.”
When he’s gone, I fall asleep remembering the softness of his hair, the press of his face against my neck, the sound of his laugh.
It’s almost enough to make me forget the way my cheek still throbs where Ambrose hit me.