Claude props up his chin with one hand and smiles at me across the table. Still, he looks exhausted, his eyes shadowed and his usual charm dimmed.
“Back to watching me eat, I see,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
“I missed it,” he says. His head tilts slowly, his eyes never leaving me. “I missed you.”
I set down my fork. “I missed you too.”
Yet him being back here is almost painful. The way our eyes lock across the table only serve as a reminder that we can’t touch, can’t be together in the way we want to. Looking at him is like pressing on a fresh bruise, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away.
“Why are you here?” I ask again. “Do you need blood?”
He must have been getting it elsewhere over the last couple of months. And I know, Iknowhe wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, but even the thought of him casually drinking from someone else’s wrist makes me hot with jealousy. It’s not fair—he needs blood to live—but I am jealous of whatever skin has felt his fangs, his bloody kiss.
“I would like to drink from you,” he says. “And I would like to try to paint, again.”
I blink, surprised. “I thought you had given up on that.”
He rubs a hand across his face and sighs. “If I could just bring myself to paintsomething,” he says. “Ambrose would be pleased. Maybe pleased enough to let me alter the contract, and then… none of this would be necessary.”
Somehow, I doubt that’s the case. Ambrose seems like a man who will always find something to be disappointed about. He’d find some reason to be dissatisfied, some reason to continue to keep Claude under his thumb, and it would only make Claude feel worse.
But I bite my tongue. I don’t think it will be helpful to say that. And anyway, I can’t resist the excuse to spend time together. “Let’s try it, then.”
* * *
We take our usual places: Claude at the easel, me posed at the window seat. We’ve been here so many times before, but today my pulse races and my gut twists. As much as I doubted him earlier, it’s difficult not to seize the dangerous hope he offered. Maybe hewillpaint, and maybe Ambrosewillbe pleased, and maybe he will let us change the contract…
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
The last thing I want to do is put further pressure on Claude. There’s already so much on his shoulders, I fear his spine will break beneath the weight. So I stare out the window, trying to lose myself in my thoughts.
Yet I can’t help but steal the occasional glance at him in the silence. And now that I know to look for it, I can tell he’s not really painting at all. Instead, he just stares at the canvas, brush in hand, like he’s trying to work out the answer to a complex problem.
After an hour of silence stretches out, Claude sighs and says, “That’s enough for today.”
“Did you—” I turn toward him, but he’s already leaving, the tense line of his shoulders providing enough of an answer to my question.
Chapter Thirty-One
To his credit, Claude doesn’t give up easily. He is still here the next evening, and the next. He cooks for me again, talks with me at dinner, drinks my blood and tries to paint.
It’s almost like it was at the beginning of our time together, except that everything between us has changed.
And every time, as I study Claude from my seat at the window, I can’t help but wonder at how miserable he looks. He gazes at his easel with an expression of despondence, his blue eyes stormy and his shoulders slumped. He claims painting makes him happy, but all it seems to do is bring about these dour moods.
I know it’s not really about the painting. It’s about the situation with his sire, and the Vulpe Court, and all of the expectations weighing on him… but still. How can he ever expect to get anything done when he’s so obviously in pain?
And more than that, it hurts to watch. I don’t want to see him like this. I want him to be happy, whether that means creating something beautiful or walking away from art forever.
But I’m not sure how to put all of that into words, and I’m not sure if he’s ready to hear it either. So instead, when it becomes too much for me to bear, I settle for some good old-fashioned teasing in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Must you always take yourself so seriously?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.
“Someone has to do it,” he says, barely paying attention to me.
“I guess so, because I don’t.”
“Certainly not.”
