I swallow. What choice do I have? This is my job. I signed a contract. “Fine,” I say.
Chapter Thirteen
Time ticks by. Seconds, then minutes, then at least an hour. The silence is broken only by Claude’s occasional muttering and movements. I refuse to look up and see what he’s doing, though occasionally I can see him pacing out of the corner of my eye, studying me from different angles.
I hate every second of it. The more he looks at me, the more certain I become that he’s finding new flaws. I’m trying my best not to move, like he asked, but the urge to fidget is almost impossible to resist. Every time I push my glasses up, Claude grumbles under his breath. I keep catching myself slouching, or shifting, or fighting the urge to fix my hair or clothing. I’m trying to zone out and lose myself in thought, but I feel agonizingly trapped in my own body, aware of every inch of myself in a way that makes me itch.
The way I’m sitting feels stiff and unnatural. Does it look weird? Is my hair in place? Why didn’t I checkbeforehe started this process? Now I’m locked into this pose, and my every flaw will be immortalized in a painting. Not just any painting, but Claude de Vulpe’sfirstpainting since being turned into a vampire. It’s undoubtedly going to explode into public awareness, and then everyone will be looking at me,scrutinizingme…
I suffer in silence for as long as I can handle. Then I clear my throat and glance over at Claude. He’s standing in front of his easel, paintbrush raised, a frown etched onto his perfect features.
“I could use a break,” I say, and finally scratch the itch on my lip that’s been driving me half mad.
“What?” Claude startles, eyes shifting to me and then back to his canvas. “Oh. Already?”
“…It’s been at least an hour.”
“It can’t possibly have been…” He looks down at his watch and pauses, lips pressing into a thin line. “Ah. So it has.” He runs a hand through his hair, frowning. “Very well. A break.”
I stand and stretch, groaning with relief. My back releases a satisfying crack. As comfortable as the window seat is, any one position starts to feel terrible after enough time has passed. “Did you get what you wanted?” I ask.
“Hm? Oh. Well…” Claude frowns at his canvas. “You were perfect.”
I frown. “That wasn’t an answer.”
“It’s a slow process,” he says, defensiveness creeping into his tone. “Especially when one is as rusty as I.”
“Well, let me see…” I step toward him, and he yanks the easel back so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t break in his hands.
“Not yet.”
I stop, fold my arms over my chest. “Why not?”
“It’s not finished,” he says. Still defensive. “I’m particular about people seeing my works in progress.”
I study him, skeptical. He stares back, poker-faced, one hand still gripping the corner of the canvas as though he intends to rip it in two before letting me see it. Come to think of it, that does seem like the sort of dramatic thing he would do.
I sigh, relenting. “Fine. But I do have to see it at some point, you know.”
“Of course,” he says. “When it’s done.”
* * *
I expect to resume the process after a short break, but Claude disappears on me. I spend most of the night in my room, scrolling on my laptop and anticipating a knock at the door.
Sitting. Waiting. Doing nothing. I’m not used to spending my time like this, and it grates on me. I feel so lazy and useless. But there’s nothing to be done. Eventually, the smell of food cooking draws me out to the kitchen. Claude stands at the stove over what looks like a pot of stew.
“Beef bourguignon,” he says proudly, his lilting accent coming out full force, without turning to look at me. Apparently my bare feet on the tile are enough for him to identify my presence. “Lots of iron. Good for you after giving blood. I looked it up.”
I hesitantly approach, taking a deep breath of the meat and red wine. Rich, savory, decadent. “Smells good. Can I help?”
“No, no. I forbid it. Go, sit, it will be done soon.”
He brushes off my further attempts, and I sigh and relent, heading into the dining room. I’m still dressed in the outfit I wore earlier, since I wasn’t sure if he’d be painting me again, and I feel entirely undeserving of this princess treatment.
Nobody’s ever cooked for me like this. As a child, I learned to cook myself, because my mom would sometimes get so engrossed in her paintings that she’d forget to feed herself, let alone me. It was the same with my roommates; I was always the one cooking up big meals to make sure everyone had something to eat.
After a while, it became part of my identity. I’m the one who takes care of people. Now that the opposite is true, I feel restless and uncomfortable.
