Chapter 10 #2
Gratitude squeezed my chest. I met her eyes. “Thank you,” I said, hoping she’d hear everything I wasn’t saying.
Her face softened, and I knew she understood—that I wasn’t just thanking her for steak frites, but for standing by me when it gained her nothing and could cost her everything.
“Of course. Now go.” She shooed me away with a flick of her pearly nails.
I headed for the shower, already feeling the weight of Nazaire’s presence pressing in from the walls. The performance would start soon, and I needed to be flawless.
After, I dressed in a silky pink camisole and cropped black pants.
In the living room, Perla had left a covered dinner plate on the coffee table.
I sprawled on the couch, the plate balanced on my lap, feet propped on the distressed oak table.
I was midway through my steak frites when I received a text from my father’s PA, summoning me to his apartment.
Abandoning my meal, I pulled on a fitted leather jacket, the buttery black hide molding to my torso like armor, then stepped into low boots and hurried through the lair’s twisting corridors.
Nazaire was alone in his parlor except for Yvette, the thrall who doubled as his PA.
Both were dressed for the evening, my father in a tailored suit, his black hair gleaming like a raven’s wing.
Yvette wore a short crimson dress and heels, her dark brown hair loose around her shoulders, her softness—round breasts and full lips—a foil for his hard, polished lines.
“Bonsoir, my dear.” Nazaire watched me cross the parlor, the barest smile on his lips—all I ever got from him.
“Good evening, Father.” I kissed each of his cool cheeks in turn.
“You’ll have some wine.” He snapped his fingers and Yvette hurried to the inlaid ebony sideboard.
She handed the wine to me with her eyes lowered.
I frowned, a small, inward pinch. I didn’t know her well—she lived with my father along with the other thralls, shuttled between his lairs like luggage—but for the first time it struck me that she wasn’t just cautious around him.
She was afraid. Not uneasy or wary. Afraid.
I thought of what Cain had said about my father, about how deep his involvement in the blood-slave ring ran, as deep as Fleur or Lemaire.
An acrid taste filled my mouth.
Nazaire jerked his chin, and Yvette retreated to the other end of the parlor.
He touched his wineglass to mine. “Santé.”
“Santé,” I murmured.
He regarded me through heavy-lidded eyes as I sipped my wine. “How was your trip?”
“The usual—shopping, clubbing, a few art galleries.”
His nod oozed condescension. “You and your little hobby.”
“Mm.” My hand tightened on the glass. I wanted so badly to tell him that my “little hobby” had packed the gallery with collectors eager to buy my work.
The last time I’d shown my father a painting, I’d just turned eighteen. I’d still been chasing his approval, hoping he might see something in me worth loving.
He’d barely glanced at the canvas before patting my arm. “You’re improving,” he’d said, the way someone might praise a child for coloring inside the lines. “Maybe, when you get better, I’ll hang one of your paintings in my parlor.”
The message beneath it—that my art was a waste of time, that I was a waste of time—hit with surgical precision.
I didn’t paint for weeks.
And I never showed him anything again.
Nine years later, I was grateful he had so little interest in my work. I’d never have been able to hide my secret life as The Haunt otherwise.
He raked a look over my black leather jacket and cropped pants. “Did you buy anything?”
“A couple of dresses.”
He made an impatient sound. “I meant at the galleries.”
“A painting, that’s all.”
“I hear this artist—The Haunt—is getting well-known. I’m surprised you could afford her work. Rodrigo said the paintings went for fifty, sixty thousand euros each.”
So this was about money. He’d heard I’d bought a painting and wondered how I’d been able to afford it.
“Oui?” I served up an innocent smile. “I really wanted that one, and you’re so generous with me.” With Nazaire, it never hurt to stroke his ego. “I had money left over from last year’s allowance, and I added some of this year’s to it.”
“I see.” He still hadn’t taken his gaze from my face. “How frugal of you.”
A warning tiptoed up my spine like a line of ants. I put my half-finished wine on the sideboard and busied myself rearranging the five red tulips in a glass vase.
“Not so frugal,” I said, my tone carefully light. “You should’ve seen what I spent at the shops.”
“Hm.” His shoulders eased a fraction. “Bien, I didn’t call you here to talk about money. I’ve a job for you, mon lapin.”
My rabbit. A pet name dressed up as affection, but really just another reminder of who held the leash.
I came close to snapping a tulip stem.
I am not your damn ‘rabbit.’
As a child, I’d have done anything to win Nazaire’s approval. I’d begged to learn martial arts and knifework like the other syndicate spawn. I wasn’t as fast as a vampire, but I’d trained hard, putting in extra hours, determined to prove I was as good as any spawn in Quebec.
My father might not love me, but at least he’d respect me.
But I was done trying. I no longer wanted his respect. I just wanted out.
I still trained a few hours a day, but not to make my father proud.
Now it was about survival. He kept me around for one reason—I was useful.
The moment that changed, I’d be handed off like a party favor to one of his men or traded to an ally in another syndicate.
Already, at least two men had expressed interest. Being the daughter of a high-ranking enforcer came with its own twisted currency.
Releasing the poor, blameless flower, I turned back to Nazaire. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
He acknowledged that with a dip of his chin. My consent had never been in question; we both knew that.
“You know that asshole princeling.”
“You mean the Maritime primus?” I asked warily.
“Who else? Anyway, I’m in contact with a human who lives on that accursed island.”
“Lilith Island.” Goosebumps popped up on my arms.
Impatience flickered across his face. “Yes. You’ll meet this man and assess his offer, then report back to me. Yvette.” He snapped his fingers, and the PA hurried back to his side.
“I’m texting her the name and address right now, Enforcer.”
My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen. I didn’t recognize the name, but the meeting was in Nova Scotia. Maritime Syndicate territory.
“Are you certain about—?” I caught myself. Nazaire hated having his decisions questioned.
But he hadn’t been on that nameless island when Brien, Cain and the other Maritime Syndicate members had arrived. They’d been out for blood. I’d only survived by concealing myself in the shadows, my energy draining away the longer I spent there until by the time they left, I was weak and shivering.
And then they’d come back—a half-dozen of them. To hunt me.
I had no juice left to return the shadows. So I’d dragged myself into an abandoned fox den, clawing at the earth with bloodied fingers as I sealed the entrance behind me with dirt and raw panic. I’d nearly suffocated before they gave up and left.
At first light, I fought my way out of the burrow, stripped to my underwear and started swimming.
An hours-long journey through the icy North Atlantic, to an uninhabited island nearby where I’d stashed a few supplies—a handful of freeze-dried pouch meals, a change of clothes, a sleeping bag, a radio.
I’d hunkered down in a cave, on edge and listening for footsteps, the whisper of a blade in the dark.
Only after two nights had passed did I dare risk radioing for a boat to take me back to the mainland.
My father’s expression shifted—not much, just a slight tightening at the corners of his eyes—but it was enough to make my skin ice. “You have something to say?”
I swallowed and returned my phone to my pocket. “No, sir.”
“That’s what I thought,” was the silky response.
I ground my back teeth together. He was so sure I wouldn’t dare question him. That, paired with the queasy feeling in my gut over what had happened the last time I was in the Maritimes, made me lurch into speech.
“Actually, I do. Lilith Island is their territory.”
His face darkened. “And?”
My throat cinched, my instinct to back down, soothe, apologize.
But I was done being a rabbit in a predator’s world. I wanted to be something with fangs and claws and a killer instinct.
“You weren’t there that night. They played with Pascal like he was a—a—toy. I didn’t see what happened to Lemaire, but I know he didn’t last long.”
“And where were you, mon lapin?”
Heat crawled up my cheeks. There it was—the insinuation that I’d cowered in some hidey-hole rather than help Pascal and Lemaire.
“Following orders,” I told him evenly. “I stayed hidden so I could rig their boat to explode.”
He crossed the Turkish carpet to me, slow and deliberate. “But those Maritime bastards all survived, didn’t they? And meanwhile, Pascal and Lemaire are in their final graves, while you—a dhampir—lived. Interesting, no?”
The unfairness of his accusation stole my breath, especially after I’d turned down Cain’s offer of sanctuary—because I wasn’t a blood-rat. Because loyalty still meant something to me and I refused to sell him out to those “Maritime bastards.”
“If you’re saying I double-crossed you,” I said, chest burning, “then you’re wrong. You’re my sire. I take my orders from you and Primus Dussault. No one else.”
His hand lifted. I tensed, bracing myself for the slap. It never came. Instead, his eyelids dipped—slow, savoring—before his fingertips traced down my cheek with a softness that felt more insulting than a strike.
“So passionate,” he said. “And you want to please me, don’t you?”
My throat worked. There was only one right answer. “Yes, of course.”
“Then you’ll meet this man for me—assess his offer. If it goes well, perhaps I’ll reward you. A little bonus. Enough for another weekend in Paris, yes?”
“Thank you,” I said, the words tasting like ash.
“Good. The meeting is set for Thursday night. Tomorrow, there’s a party, an above-ground one, with humans. Wear one of your new dresses. Régis asked that you attend, and you’ll want to look your best. He’s looking for a new companion.”
I forced a nod. “As you wish.”
A companion?
Fear knotted in my chest. I wouldn’t even be a thrall with a contract. I’d be the primus’s property. A blood slave, in other words, dressed up in silk and jewels.
I hesitated, then risked a last question. “This man I’m meeting… May I ask what he’s offering you?”
My father’s mouth curved. “One of Brien’s lieutenants.”