He glances sideways at me, frowning. “Really?”
“What? Is it so surprising?”
“It just doesn’t seem like you, somehow.”
“Well…” I shrug, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I don’t see why not. The job market is great, and the pay is good, so…”
“Ah,” he says. “So it’s the practical choice. Thatdoessound like you.”
“Mm-hmm.” Before all of this happened, that future was all I could think about. But now it almost hurts to imagine, because it’ll mean being done with my contract and away from here. I’ll have all the money I need for the future I’ve always planned on. All the independence I need.
And I’ll be alone, with no one to care for me, just like I’ve spent most of my life. I’ll leave Claude alone, too, all by himself in this too-big house.
“What if you could be anything?” Claude asks, pulling me from my thoughts. “If it wasn’t a matter of money or practicality.”
“Well…” I brush my hair behind my ear as the wind stirs it. “When I was younger, before I realized how poorly it paid, I wanted to be a teacher.”
“Mm.” Claude smiles. “Now, that I can imagine.MissRivers. Did you want to teach children?”
“Yeah. I, um…” I clear my throat. “I didn’t have the best mom, growing up. And I had this one English teacher who was so kind to me. She would share her lunch when my mom didn’t pack one, wait with me after school when my mom was late to pick me up…” I trail off, remembering it with a twinge in my chest. “Mrs. Castro. When I was younger, I wanted to be like her. To make a difference for kids like me.”
Claude nods along, his eyes on me the whole time, but my face heats. It feels like I’m rambling. Talking too much aboutme, when this is supposed to be about cheering him up. “What about you?” I ask, eager to change the subject. “Did you ever want to be anything other than a painter?”
Claude frowns down at the sand, thoughtful. “I guess… when painting seemed like a far-off dream, sometimes I thought I’d like to become a cook.”
The word choice throws me off until I remember that Claude’s youth was a long, long time ago.One hundred and fifty,Benjamin once told me, and it’s still hard to wrap my mind around the idea. Even so, I’m left confused. “A cook?” I say slowly. “Weren’t you… well… rich?”
Claude laughs, the sound catching me off guard. “I was a kitchen boy.”
“Awhat?”
He laughs again at my surprise. “A servant, Nora. I was a servant.”
“I…” I shake my head, baffled at the mental image. “I guess I always imagined you as… nobility, or something.”
“My deepest apologies for ruining your idea of me, but no. In life, I was no one. An orphan, a servant. I would spend my paltry wages on art supplies; it was my only escape from the drudgery of my life.” His smile fades. “When I say that Lord Ambrose made me, I don’t just mean as a vampire. I was nothing before him. He saw one of my paintings and pulled me up from the dirt. He gave me a home, an education, all the art supplies I could need… and eventually the bite, and its gift of eternal life.” He stops walking, his expression clouding. “And I… In return, I’ve—”
I stop as well, turning to him, and wrap my arms around him before I can second-guess the instinct. He startles, and then softens against me, resting his chin atop my head.
I press my face into his chest. I can’t look him in the face when I ask, “You loved him?”
Claude holds me tighter against him. “Sometimes I’m afraid I still do.”
* * *
When I’m lying in bed that night, I find myself staring at the ceiling, unable to stop thinking about Claude and his predicament. That sadness in his eyes, the resignation in his voice when he spoke about the situation, the way he looked at those paintings yesterday…
My chest aches in an echo of his sorrow. I would do anything to soothe it, if only I knew how. It hurts to imagine him alone in his own room, up tossing and turning like I am. For a moment, I’m struck by an urge to go to him, to slip through his bedroomdoor and into his bed, weave my fingers into his hair, and kiss him.
And that realization leads me to finally confront an uncomfortable truth: what I feel for Claude has gone beyond attraction. Beyond lust.
I have feelings for him, and they’re growing.
Groaning, I roll over and press my face into my pillow. Even alone in my room, my cheeks are flaming hot as I think about it. About how embarrassing it will be to admit to him, after I was the one who insisted on making our contract non-intimate.
But I’m not going to let my pride prevent me from talking to him about it. We’re only a couple of months into our contract. Maybe there’s still a way to salvage things, if I’m willing to try.
* * *
