Page 37 of Thirst
“You’ll have some wine.” He snapped his fingers and Yvette hurried to the inlaid ebony sideboard.
She handed the wine to me with her eyes lowered. I frowned, a small, inward pinch. I didn’t know her well—she lived with my father along with the other thralls, shuttled between his lairs like luggage—but for the first time it struck me that she wasn’t just cautious around him. She was afraid. Not uneasy or wary. Afraid.
I thought of what Cain had said about my father, about how deep his involvement in the blood-slave ring ran, as deep as Fleur or Lemaire.
An acrid taste filled my mouth.
Nazaire jerked his chin, and Yvette retreated to the other end of the parlor.
He touched his wineglass to mine. “Santé.”
“Santé,” I murmured.
He regarded me through heavy-lidded eyes as I sipped my wine. “How was your trip?”
“The usual—shopping, clubbing, a few art galleries.”
His nod oozed condescension. “You and your little hobby.”
“Mm.” My hand tightened on the glass. I wanted so badly to tell him that my “little hobby” had packed the gallery with collectors eager to buy my work.
The last time I’d shown my father a painting, I’d just turned eighteen. I’d still been chasing his approval, hoping he might see something in me worth loving.
He’d barely glanced at the canvas before patting my arm. “You’re improving,” he’d said, the way someone might praise a child for coloring inside the lines. “Maybe, when you get better, I’ll hang one of your paintings in my parlor.”
The message beneath it—that my art was a waste of time, that I was a waste of time—hit with surgical precision.
I didn’t paint for weeks.
And I never showed him anything again.
Nine years later, I was grateful he had so little interest in my work. I’d never have been able to hide my secret life as The Haunt otherwise.
He raked a look over my black leather jacket and cropped pants. “Did you buy anything?”
“A couple of dresses.”
He made an impatient sound. “I meant at the galleries.”
“A painting, that’s all.”
“I hear this artist—The Haunt—is getting well-known. I’m surprised you could afford her work. Rodrigo said the paintings went for fifty, sixty thousand euros each.”
So this was about money. He’d heard I’d bought a painting and wondered how I’d been able to afford it.
“Oui?” I served up an innocent smile. “I really wanted that one, and you’re so generous with me.” With Nazaire, it never hurt to stroke his ego. “I had money left over from last year’s allowance, and I added some of this year’s to it.”
“I see.” He still hadn’t taken his gaze from my face. “How frugal of you.”
A warning tiptoed up my spine like a line of ants. I put my half-finished wine on the sideboard and busied myself rearranging the five red tulips in a glass vase.
“Not so frugal,” I said, my tone carefully light. “You should’ve seen what I spent at the shops.”
“Hm.” His shoulders eased a fraction. “Bien, I didn’t call you here to talk about money. I’ve a job for you, mon lapin.”
My rabbit. A pet name dressed up as affection, but really just another reminder of who held the leash.
I came close to snapping a tulip stem.
