“Please don’t say it,” he says.
“I want it too.”
He winces. “I told you not to.”
“But I… what I’m saying is, we could make an exception tonight…”
He’s shaking his head already. “We have a contract.”
“A contract between us.” My brow furrows. Claude suggested the clause, and I agreed, but… “If you want it, and I want it, then—”
“A valentine contract is a matter of court law. We cannot amend it without approval.”
I bite my lip. It does sound a lot more serious when he puts it that way, but still. “Nobody would know if something were to happen.”
“Iwould know,” Claude says. A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Nora, please, drop it. We can talk about it later. Not now.”
I study him across the car. His eyes are still shut tightly, his usually perfect face creased as if in concentration or pain, his hands in fists at his sides. If my arousal is an uncomfortable distraction even after my release, then his must be worse. Much worse. So I relent. “Okay.” I turn my head away stiffly. “It was a mistake anyway. We’re drunk. Let’s just forget it ever happened.”
It is a very, very long car ride home.
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 youwantto 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?”
