I bite my lip, watching him. There’s an ache in my chest despite my attempts at lightheartedness. How can I help him? How can I make him happy, even for a tiny moment? I’d do anything for a chance to make him smile, but I’ve never been very good at that.
I think of my roommates, and take a deep breath to steady myself. Then I slowly cross the room toward him. I wait until he looks up at me and then I dip my fingers into his paint and smear it across his face.
He gapes, looking taken aback. “Wha— Nora!”
A smile slowly creeps over my face. “Yes?”
“I—” He sputters, so shocked, he seems like he’s not sure if he should be affronted. I’m shocked at myself, too, but there’s a fizzing, giddy feeling beneath it, bubbling up in my veins. I feel unlike myself, and it’s exhilarating. When’s the last time I let myself be playful like this? “I was going to—”
“What, paint?” My daring growing, I dab some on the tip of his nose. “Does this not count as painting?” When he doesn’t move, I drag my finger down over his cheekbone, leaving a smear of sky-blue. “Perhaps I’m an artist myself.”
He stares at me for a moment. “You…” he says. “You ridiculous little…” Then he laughs, drops his paintbrush, and slaps an entire hand onto the palette, gathering a generous dollop of paint. I shriek and run, not nearly fast enough, and he soon catches me around the waist and palms my entire face.
“Socold!” I sputter.
“You have no one to blame but yourself,” he says, grinning as he removes his still-dripping hand.
I rub my face against his, and he yelps in protest. He nearly drops me, but I cling to him, and soon we’re both a mess on the floor, wrestling and smearing paint all over each other. Finally he pins my wrists beside my head. I lie beneath him, breathless and smiling.
“You look ridiculous,” I inform him. Though even with paint smudged all over his face and shirt, he still looks more handsome than he has any right to be.
“You insult your own artwork, mademoiselle,” he says gravely.
I laugh. As the sound dies away, he’s still staring at me, his face just inches away from mine, and the brief joy dies away, leaving a familiar hollow in my chest. “I miss you, Claude,” I admit.
His expression turns somber. He releases my wrists, but stays with his arms braced on either side of my head, holding himself over me. Close enough to kiss, though I know he won’t, no matter how badly we both ache for it.
“I’ve missed you more than you know,mon coeur,” he says. “But I have been…” He pauses, lifting his head and looking toward the door. He whispers a curse in French and pushes himself up from the floor.
“What?” I look toward the door, but try as I might, I can’t hear or see anything amiss.
Claude grabs me and lifts me to my feet. “Go,” he says, urging me toward the door. “Go clean up in your bathroom.”
“What? What’s going on?”
He ignores my questions, propelling me out the door with his hands on my hips. With a huff, I shake him off and stride into my bedroom. I’m not sure what has him acting this way, but the lookon his face, his sense of urgency, leave me frightened enough to obey.
I scrub myself off as quickly as I can in the shower. As I’m getting re-dressed in paint-free clothes, I freeze at the sound of shouting echoing through the house. A familiar, cruel voice.
Ambrose is here.
My hands shake as I remember the crack of his hand across my face, his horrible smile. My sense of self-preservation urges me to stay here. But… there’s a hot rush of anger through the fear. Claude and I finally had agoodnight, a night where I succeeded at making him smile for the first time in ages, and of course Ambrose has to show up and ruin everything.
I shake my head and force myself to continue buttoning up my dress despite my trembling fingers. I need to make sure Claude is okay. I don’t know what happens between them, but I know that every visit from his sire leaves Claude despondent, and I know that the man is at least partially responsible for the precipitous situation we’ve found ourselves in. Maybe I can find a way to defuse the tension, or at least shoulder some of the burden of his presence.
So I quickly do my hair and makeup, square my shoulders, and stride toward the sound of the shouting even as my instincts cry for me to cower away instead.
I find them in the studio. Claude managed to clean his face off before his sire arrived, but he’s still wearing his paint-stained shirt, and the room bears evidence of the playful mess we made.
Claude stands stiffly in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, and his expression blank in a way that frightens me. It’s like he’s gone somewhere far away, deep within his own head, leaving behind a shell.
Ambrose stands barely a foot away, one finger jabbing into Claude’s chest, his features twisted in an expression of fury that renders him almost animalistic.
“What is this?” Ambrose is as cold as a snake as he jabs him again, his other hand gesturing wildly to the room around them. “Is this your idea of a joke, Claude? You wish to make a mockery of the very purpose I turned you for?”
Claude’s eyes drift past his sire and then fix on me and widen. He shakes his head, but it’s enough to make Ambrose turn to me, his snarl turning into a sneer at the sight of me.
I bob in a curtsy. “Good evening, Lord Ambrose,” I say, coldly polite despite my heart pounding in my ears. “We weren’t expecting you. Can I get you anything?”
