“You…” Ambrose takes a step in my direction.
A blink, and Claude is in front of him, his back to me and his chin lifted as he stands between me and his sire.
I stay behind him, heart pounding, unable to fight the surge of fear in front of a dangerous predator. “Your quarrel is with me, sire,” he says, his voice soft and measured.
Ambrose’s eyes narrow. “You think I have forgotten?” He gestures, again, to the paint-smeared room. “You still haven’t answered. Is this meant to mock me?”
“No, sire,” Claude says. He brings his hands behind his back again, and gestures with one of them toward the door, urging me to go.
I plant my feet in stubborn refusal. The mess of the studio, which has so enraged Ambrose, is my fault. I don’t know if I can do anything to help the situation, but the least I can do is be here for Claude so he doesn’t have to face it alone.
“And yet that is exactly what you do,” Ambrose says, coming to a stop a couple of inches in front of Claude. “Do you know how they laugh at you? At me, for bringing you into the court? Do you realize I have not been allowed to create another fledgling because ofyou?”
Claude is quiet for a moment.
“Speak,” Ambrose snaps.
“I am aware, sire,” Claude says. “I am sorry for it.”
“Not sorry enough.” Ambrose steps closer. Close enough that I can see him over Claude’s shoulder. He looks right at me, and fear shivers down my spine. I have to resist the urge to step back or flee the room. “I would never have allowed you to take a valentine if I thought you would give in to such trifling desires,” he says. “Have you broken your contract, Claude?”
“No,” Claude says.
“Speak truly.”
“That is the truth.”
Ambrose’s hand darts out, quick as a viper, to grab Claude by the chin. He forces his head up, exposing his throat, and hisses around his fangs, “Tell me the full truth.”
“I have not broken the contract,” Claude chokes out. The words sound like they’re being pulled from him, rather than him speaking of his own volition.
A command. I press one hand to my mouth, trembling under the weight of the tension in the room. Part of me thinks Claude would not want me to witness this, but how could I possibly leave him?
Ambrose’s gaze slides to me again, his lips pursing in disappointment. “Hm.” As I suspected—hewantsClaude to break it. Wants the excuse.
“Please stop this, Lord Ambrose,” I say, my voice quivering. It grates on me to address him so respectfully, but I know the consequences of doing otherwise. “Lord Claude hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Claude’s eyes flash to me in clear warning, but Ambrose is still laser-focused on him instead of me, his fingers digging grooves in Claude’s face.
“Nothing wrong?” he repeats, face twisted in a snarl. “Is that what you think, Claude? You think you don’t deserve this? Asif you haven’t made a mockery of me and the Vulpe Court for years, haven’t wasted the gift that I bestowed upon you?”
He shoves Claude back against the wall with a hard thump that makes me wince.
“You pathetic, uselesswasteof my blood and my time—”
My fear is so great that stepping forward feels like fighting against a strong current, but I do it anyway, forcing my shoulders back and my head high. “How dare you speak to him like that,” I say.
Ambrose pauses. His head turns slowly toward me, his mouth curved into a small, dangerous smile that doesn’t reach his dark eyes. “How dare I?” he repeats. “How dare you speak to meat all, little valentine?”
“Don’t,” Claude grits out, though I’m not sure which of us he’s speaking to. As Ambrose turns fully in my direction, Claude raises a hand to grab at his sire’s sleeve. But Ambrose’s hand moves faster, reaching out to close around Claude’s fingers—those long, gentle artist’s fingers—and twists them sideways with a swift, cruelcrack.
I cry out. So does Claude, though he tries to muffle the sound.
“Silence,” Ambrose orders, and Claude’s mouth clicks shut. His eyes burn, shifting frantically from Ambrose to me as his sire releases his broken hand and steps toward me.
“Lord Claude is a better man than you will ever be,” I say, refusing to back down. Having his attention on me is terrifying, like a snake’s head swinging in my direction, but it means his focus is off Claude. Still, as he takes a step toward me, I take an automatic step back. “He deserves better than you,” I whisper.
Ambrose smiles, slow and dangerous. “I made him,” he says. “Idecide what he deserves.”
