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 fromme,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.
“Areyouokay?” 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 notpose.” 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.”
