Page 35 of Thirst
“How was Paris? You enjoyed yourself?”
I hugged her back, letting myself lean into her for a moment. Her scent, lavender and fresh soap, wrapped around me.
“Yes, of course,” I said, the words I wanted to say crowding my throat.
That the gallery had been packed. That the crowd of world-weary vampires had lined up to buy my paintings like they were newly unearthed Rembrandts.
Perla had encouraged my painting from the time she’d taken over management of the lair. I’d been a lonely thirteen-year-old aching for someone to talk to about art, and she’d listened to me ramble on for hours about everything from oils to natural-hair paintbrushes. Then she’d helped me set up a studio, working it so my father believed it was his own idea, something that would improve my worth in the vampire world. Not because I’d become an artist, but because I could talk like one.
In a syndicate full of ancient, cultured predators, being able to toss around talk of technique, provenance, and artistic lineage—superficially, of course—made me useful. Someone who could smile and nod and glide through the circles my father wanted access to.
Art wasn’t just art; it was social currency, a way to play the charming, well-bred accessory his associates expected.
So yeah, I wanted to tell Perla what a triumph my art show had been. But I couldn’t do that to her, couldn’t put her in the position of having to choose between keeping my secret or lying to my father.
I gave her a last, hard squeeze and let the words die on my tongue.
She released me and stepped back. “Did you go out with your friends?”
“Friends?” I flashed on Cain, on his knees in the washroom.
The pleasure he’d given me. And then later on the hotel balcony when I’d returned the favor. The pure need on his face…
Stop it. It’s over. Done.
“What?” A knowing smile lifted my friend’s lips. She was a former thrall, after all, and one who’d enjoyed her work.
I mustered a shrug and changed the subject. “Bien sûr, I enjoyed myself. I mean, Paris… The shopping was fabulous and the art show was wonderful. I even bought a painting.”
The oil painting of Cain and the tiger was being shipped back to me under the ruse that I’d purchased it.
“But no men?”
Twice now, Perla had covered for me when I’d slipped out to meet Cain. Not that I’d told her outright, but I could tell she’d guessed—and that she approved, was silently cheering me on.
At my grimace, her perfectly plucked brows climbed. “So there was a man.”
My shoulders slumped. “Was. It’s over.”
“Then he is an ass.”
“No, I’m the ass for thinking he wanted me for myself.” I rolled my lips into my mouth, trying to swallow the pain.
“I’m sorry. But he can—” She made a graphic gesture that drew a reluctant laugh from me. “That’s better.” She patted my back. “I’ll unpack, yes?”
I trailed her into the bedroom, the familiar palette wrapping around me like Perla’s hug. Purple and black, walls soaked in shadow, the kind that felt protective rather than oppressive. The ebony headboard was my own design, etched with a crescent moon and a sprinkling of shooting stars.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “I can do it later.”
“It’s no trouble.” She was already in the walk-in closet. She swung a suitcase onto a wide shelf and opened it. “What about the famous Haunt? You met her?”
I sent my friend a sharp look, opening myself to her emotions just to be sure, but all I sensed was natural curiosity. The Haunt had become something of an obsession in the vampire world, especially after Brien Leclerc—Cain’s primus—had bought three of my early works.
I shook my head. “No. She didn’t show.”
“Too bad.”
She sorted my clothes into small plastic laundry baskets—whites in one, colors in the other. When she reached the fishnet dress, she held it up, letting it dangle like a question. “This is new.”
